Chapter Fourteen
The Night's Concord
Lawan's willingness to take them to the Night's Concord hinged on one condition. A nonnegotiable one.
"Hakon stays here," she told them. "I'm not taking him anywhere."
"Fair." Kyle had no reason to argue — or to keep Hakon around, especially not after the dude had come down with a hangover so severe, he'd have a better chance at moonlighting as a Biter groupie than being of any use beyond the Fish Eye's safe heights.
Plus, Kyle didn't trust him. It didn't matter how much Hakon seemed keen on bending himself into a pretzel just to prove he'd switched allegiance. He'd worked for the Church up until a few days ago. He'd sold them out. Far as Kyle was concerned, Hakon remained an unknown who made the good folk at the Fish Eye mad and who might or might not swap sides as frequently as Kyle swapped his tightly-whities. (By Pre-Fall standards, anyway.)
"What is this concord anyway?" Aiden—his hand still lying right atop the slingshot— began to idly scratch at the table's surface.
Never run out of nervous ticks, do you, kid?
Leaning forward, Lawan's lips curved up in a conspiratorial smile. There was no malice in it, of course. No mockery. Nah, this was the smile of a child excited to show someone their snail collection and who couldn't stand the thought of spoiling the fun that came with marveling at all those swirly shells.
"You'll have to see it," she said.
Aiden narrowed his eyes.
She clapped her hands together. "I'll go fetch my gear. We'll be out until tomorrow morning, so bring whatever you think you'll need, but pack light." The chair scraped over the floor as she got up and her eyes cut to Kyle. "Then meet me at Shaphan's in half an hour. Don't be late."
"Got it."
Kyle watched her go, unease worming around in his gut.
Yeah. He didn't trust Hakon.
But what about her?
Could he trust any-fucking-one?
"Are you sure about this?" Aiden asked, putting words to Kyle's inner monologue as it chastised him for not giving this as much thought he probably should have. He should have probably just asked her to draw him a map.
Shrugging, Kyle turned his eyes down, to where Aiden was stubbornly looking down at the table. Scr-scr-scr his fingers went on the wood. Was he nervous? Was he restless? Bored? All of the above?
"About going out? Or about our guide? The answer is no."
Aiden's fingers tightened into a loose fist, curling atop of the slingshot. He finally looked up. "What if she turns us in? Leads us straight to the Peacekeepers or the Church?"
"Iiiii don't think she will," Kyle said, even as he reached down and drew the slingshot out from under Aiden's hand. "That'd get in the way of what she's trying to do."
"What, you think Frank telling her to behave makes a difference?"
"No." He tapped the slingshot against the top of Aiden's head. The kid flinched ever so slightly. "Frank's got nothing to do with it. She wants to impress you."
Was she, really? Honestly, Kyle had no idea. He didn't know Lawan, so maybe he was talking out of his ass and he'd misread her eagerness to get to know the new kid in town. But Kyle had an inkling. A tickle in his old, weary bones; bones which'd seen a lot, been around the block a lot, and were pretty confident about the tickles they endured.
More importantly though was the look on Aiden's face, that tightly rolled ball of disbelief, confusion, and a side of annoyance. The latter he directed at Kyle.
"And just why would she want to do that, huh?"
"Because birds of a feather—," Kyle started, glancing at Aiden's arms.
Aiden huffed. His hand drifted to the punctures that'd never healed over right. "Flock together. I get it. You think because we were both messed up by Waltz she's..." He fumbled for words, the whole thing emphasized by how he gave those scars a nervous scratch. "Like I'm with you—"
Kyle's head tilted sideways. His brow rocked up. And since he'd been blessed with being about the most expressive man to walk the Earth, neither of those gestures went by unnoticed.
"What— no," Aiden stammered (very sternly). "I'm not— no, I'm not trying to impress you. Hell no. I mean— it's—" He took a deep breath. "What I'm saying is that I'm beginning to figure out that it's easier to be around people who know. People who—" His expression sorting itself into a slightly flushed scowl, Aiden looked like he had plenty more to say, but ended up deciding he'd said way too much already. He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. "You know what? Forget it."
"Already forgotten," Kyle lied.
"Great. Thanks." A pause followed and Aiden spent it straightening out his clothes. "So what do you think this Conclave is?"
"No idea," he lied (again), having all kinds of colorful ideas about what sort of freak show a post-Fall cult might put together. Especially with Aitor's 'She feeds people to the infected' still knocking around in his head. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."
Gearing up for something more than chomping at the bit of desperation was a change Kyle had sorely needed. It fooled him into thinking he was making progress. That he had forward momentum again. Momentum which'd carry him all the way home.
(Home being Fi.)
He'd travel light, just as Lawan said he should. He'd bring his new apocalypse vintage satchel. Pack the key, one inhibitor, a half-empty Antizin inhaler, and his sunny disposition. The machete? Yeah that came along too, but he'd quit counting that one. It'd turned into a fashion statement at this point, snug at his hip and ready to slice and dice.
Food?
Eh, he'd eaten. At some point.
Water? Okay, one bottle of precious liquid got to come along.
His actual gear—along with Fi's pack—he left with Shaphan, trading it all for a card with three golden people on it who were busy shouting at the sky. True Conviction, the top of the card read. Bleh— Kyle wished for a little of that right now, rather than the disquieting twinge that'd made itself at home in his chest. Leaving her things here didn't sit right with him.
"If you get into those packs," he said and jabbed the stupid card at Shaphan, glowering, "I'll know."
"Easy there, tall fella." Shaphan flashed him a bright smile. "I run an honest business. Most honest one you might find in all of Villedor."
"He does," commented Lawan. She came prancing from the Fish Eye, all springy legs and attitude wrapped in lightly padded gear. Her crossbow loomed over her shoulder, drawing Kyle's eye for no other reason than an inch of envy.
He missed his toys, okay?
"And anyone who's stupid enough to break in knows Frank will send me after them." She brandished a machete at them; a bowie blade, worn out by use and with a tape-wrapped handle. "It's one hell of an incentive to play nice."
"Is that what you do for Frank?" Kyle asked. "Beat up thieves?"
"And rapists. And murderers. Bullies, too, and traitors. I track them, I find them, and then I make them cry."
"Right." Kyle shuffled aside, giving Aiden space to reluctantly push his own stuff through the gap. "So why's Hakon still breathing?"
She scowled. "Do you know what he did?"
Kyle shook his head. "Aside from how he worked for Waltz and Co? No. Haven't gotten around to asking him just yet." And wondering if maybe I should hear it from someone on the other side of the fence first.
"He got my family killed," she said, her voice flat.
Both Kyle and Aiden stared at her. Uh… Okay, that was awkward. Should he maybe—like—hog tie the dude for her?
"She means the Nightrunners," Shaphan said as he grabbed for Aiden's gear (who's hand immediately tightened around the pack's strap, not having any of it). "Frank and his men took her in when she was, what, nine?"
Lawan shrugged.
"Hakon was one of them," Shaphan continued. He proceeded to show great patience with Aiden clinging to the gear.
"Hakon was a Nightrunner?" One of those, to quote, 'do-gooders with more heart than sense'?
"Absolutely and he was good at it. But then Frank wanted to take back the VNC tower—" Shaphan lifted a hand to point at Villedor's tallest eyesore. The VNC logo clung to it, its letters dark. "They had it all planned out. How they were getting in. How they'd go up. And how they'd secure it. But for it to work they'd have needed everyone and that's the day Hakon decides he quits."
"He didn't just quit," Lawan spat. "He convinced enough of them that it'd be suicide and they all walked. So when Frank went up there with the rest of them, he lost them. All of them. The Nightrunners were done after than and most of my family are still up in that fucking tower, dead or worse. Hakon? Hakon is a fucking coward and a traitor."
"But he's still alive," Kyle said.
"Yeah," she snapped back. "Because Frank is a sentimental asshole who won't let me put him down."
Kyle held back his tongue (at great cost to him). He'd been so damn close to asking her why Frank had gone through with it in the end; why he'd risked his men when he'd known he'd need all of them for the plan to have any chance at all.
None of your business, bud, he reminded himself. You weren't there.
"I get it now," he said instead and reached over to pluck Aiden's hand off his gear. "And you're getting this back. Let the man do his job, alright?"
"I haven't put this away in years," Aiden said, a certain quality of mope in his voice. Understandably, of course, what with how a Pilgrim's life liked to depend on you and you alone and whatever shit you managed to carry on your back. Not on the strange concept of other people, let alone on a small playing card. Aiden squinted at the card Shaphan gave him and then slid it into his front pants pocket. His hand stayed there. Hovering.
"What'll you do if it turns out Hakon turned a new leaf?" Kyle caught himself asking.
"He hasn't," she insisted. "He fucked up when you two got away and now he's pissing himself over how he let Waltz and the Lady down, so he's using you to stay clear of them. It's that simple."
Hm.
Simple.
Was anything, ever?
Lawan leaned forward and rapped a knuckle against Shaphan's plexiglass window before he could vanish into the back. "Nearly forgot. You've got a busy day incoming. The PK lifted the blockade an hour ago and I wouldn't be surprised if the guild'll send a few Carriers over before nightfall to pick up all the mail you've been stashing."
"Thanks," Shaphan said. "I'll get them ready." Then he vanished with their gear, leaving Aiden to nervously roll up and down on the balls of his feet. His hand stayed hovering by the pocket.
"The blockade over to Old Villedor?" Kyle asked, one part happy about being able to change the topic and one part apprehensive.
"Yeah. That's the one." Lawan motioned for them to follow.
Something bitter grew at the back of Kyle's throat, but rather than pretend it wasn't there and moving on with his life, he tackled its source: a piece of unfinished business he'd left dangling over yonder after he'd gone chasing after Waltz. "What happened to the Bazaar?"
"Carl's people?" She regarded him, puzzled. "Nothing."
"The Peacekeepers didn't steamroll them?"
"Why would they— wait. Yeah, I remember Frank mentioning they thought the Bazaar knocked off Lucas and how the PK were gearing up to hit them hard unless they turned over the killer. But, no. They didn't. Something about a water tower and a truce they put together?"
"Shit, it worked?" Aiden sounded about as surprised as Kyle felt.
And just like that, Lawan's attitude changed. She'd gone from T2 Sarah Conner to an ordinary, excited 20-something in a wink. Hell, she even added an exaggerated bounce to her step, pivoted with a swing of her arms, and flashed them a coy smile. "Oh, yeah, I heard a gang of Pilgrims had a hand in that. How'd you pull it off?"
Kyle's otherwise overactive mouth clamped shut. It was sealed by gratitude over how Aitor had kept his word (to do what he could to keep those bodies warm), and by his mind wandering back to the proof Aitor had insisted he'd need. The director's notes to Jack's and Joe's operation of casual terrorism back in Old Villedor were currently hidden in Fi's journal. He'd still need to get them to Aitor, wouldn't he? And when he did, was Aitor going to actually help?
And when was this here Kyle Crane going to get any answers to his five-hundred-and-so pressing questions?
Aiden filled the silence left by Kyle's uncooperative thoughts. He launched into a detailed retelling of everything that'd happened back in Old Villedor, starting with how the Bazaar had nearly hanged him, a story he'd wear thin as a paper towel one of these days.
Almost everything, anyway. He failed to mention the seizures.
Kyle half-listened to the whole thing. He'd lived it, after all. Mostly, he focused on where Lawan took them; how she led them from the Fish Eye by means of a makeshift bridge getting dropped from one of its lower levels to a neighboring high rise; how she got them through it, following a pathway of secured hallways and rooms until they reached daylight again; and how Central Villedor was a real bitch to navigate.
There were lots of stairs. Creaky, swaying bridges. Pulley elevators (which they didn't use, on account of them being meant for cargo and emergencies), ladders with rungs missing. Biters to navigate around, because if you could avoid a confrontation, you did, since you never knew which one might otherwise be your last.
And all the while, the early autumn sun mistook itself for high-summer, baking them. Kyle quickly missed the chill from a few days ago.
. . .
You know what? He missed Fi from a few days ago and that'd been a thought he shouldn't have allowed himself. In its wake came anger, guilt, and the physical pain that liked to squeeze his chest.
Miserable, Kyle kicked at a loose clump of plaster in his path. It impacted across the street, squarely hitting the weather worn face of a billboard dude lounging in what used to be a red convertible. The billboard had been painted with colors that didn't fade as easily, but that hadn't kept the lichen from growing on it, or the water from damaging it. It was all kinda green now. And swampy.
Aiden cast a glance over his shoulder.
The kid had been up front with Lawan the entire trip so far, tied up in an endless stream of questions. The second he'd finished telling her about their antics back in Old Villedor, she'd switched to asking him about his life as a Pilgrim. How long had he been out there? What was it like in the last few years? Where all had he been? What sort of gruesome shit had he seen, and did he miss the outland territories already?
Aiden's answers had been vague. A bit clipped, even, depending on the subject. But he'd entertained her.
He'd gone on his first Pilgrim's job five years ago. He'd been all over (at which point she insisted on details). Gruesome shit? He'd rather not say.
And did he miss it? Kind of.
But you know what Aiden failed to mention? His sister, and Kyle wondered if maybe he wasn't the only one avoiding the subject of a particular loved one.
Anyway—
"We're in Church territory now," Lawan said after nearly an hour into them following a path that switched back and forth, first leading away from the Cathedral and eventually approaching it from a different direction altogether.
Straight lines?
Pscht.
They'd just walked through the leftovers of what had been an outpost a few long and hard years ago, with ruined lean-tos, scraps of tents, tools, and the skeletal remains of a windmill having come down from one roof over. The roof they presently stood on hadn't yet collapsed entirely, but there was a nasty, jagged hole in the middle. The windmill's top poked through it.
Now they stood in the shadow of that same windmill's bones as they hung off the taller roof. A ladder was tucked under the wreckage, leading all the way to the top. A tenacious breeze tried to move the last remaining blade. It largely failed, managing only to nudge it left and then right, leading to a constant, annoying creak of metal and wood fighting to remain inert.
Lawan grabbed the ladder. "And Church territory means little to no maintained highways up here and lots of Hounds in the area. We'll have to move quietly." She hoisted herself up.
Aiden followed her and Kyle threw a question after her while he waited for his turn.
"They stick to the street level?" (Which'd make question five-hundred-and-so-one.)
"Mostly, yeah. The Hounds don't fear Biters and the Church's little people tend not to leave their holds."
Right. Kyle remembered the unhinged eyes behind dirty hockey masks and all that unnatural strength that'd come with their gnarly, deformed skin and those tell-tale black veins. "So, what— every Church goon out in the streets is juiced up? They don't have any garden-variety assholes out here?"
"Nope," she said at length and vanished over the edge.
Kyle began to climb. "Nope, they aren't juiced up or nope they all are," he muttered to himself, trading scowls with the wall as he went from rung to rung. Which went a bit like this. Right arm, grab, all good. Left arm, grab, youch. Right arm, yeah, we fine. Left arm, fuck a duck on an ice cream truck.
And, yes, he might have said that last bit out loud. Aiden choked for a second and then his foot got in the way, forcing Kyle to bat at it so the kid would keep moving. Then—without as much as a warning—Kyle's nerves lit up like the 4th of July. A messy and excruciatingly painful event.
His biomarker screamed.
The seizure hit Kyle so damn quick, he barely had the time to shove his good arm through the ladder. But he did. Manage. Just in time for a disorientating explosion of colors to come shuttling across his vision and his innards to rearrange themselves. He folded together like a clenched fist. His head snapped into the ladder. His knee jerked into the wall. And God have some fucking mercy did his left arm not like this one bit or what?
"Crane?" he heard, off in the distance, where life was still lived in some manner of comfort. "You okay? Shit— Lawan! Wait!"
"What? Are you fucking kidding me? Great."
There was an unnecessarily loud rattling coming from above him. Scratch that, everything got too fucking loud; the screech of wood and metal as the windmill blade shuddered; the scream of a stupid bird up in a stupid tree; and the too loud thundering of a heart hammering in his chest, driving a rush of blood into his ears.
No biggie.
He'd cope.
All he'd have to do was ride it out—
Except this one didn't stop at a lightshow and didn't want to settle for pain. No, this seizure brought with it the eerie din of static that liked to warble at Kyle whenever he toed the line or when he tore through his hooked chains and flung himself hellward.
But this static was different. It was louder. It had structure and a flavor to it he'd never tasted before; almost as if he'd nearly managed to find the single, taunting frequency lurking only one more twist of the dial away, yet stayed always out of reach.
It took a hot minute (a sweltering, melting him from the inside hot minute) before Kyle regained a sense of himself that didn't start and end with agony and funky colors, and that was when he noticed Aiden hanging on the ladder right across from him. The kid had a firm grip on Kyle's satchel, holding him in place. If he hadn't, Kyle figured he'd have gone for a dive.
"I'm good," Kyle croaked, getting ahead of the inevitable question. "I'm great." His biomarker hiccuped itself into silence again.
"Yeah?" A badly concealed flinch of fear sat in Aiden's eyes. Fear which Kyle mistook for concern, only for Aiden to add: "Have you looked in the mirror lately? You don't look good."
No, not concern then. Just plain out fright over seeing a reflection of himself. A herald of where Aiden was headed the second his Inhibitor ran out. Kyle got his mouth to wobble into the vague outline of a smile (which might or might not have made things worse). "No. Really. I'm fine. I'm used to these."
"Used to?" Lawan asked from up top.
Aiden grimaced and his eyes cut to her. They widened. "Put that thing down!" he snapped.
Oh. Sweet. Lawan was pointing her crossbow at him, wasn't she? Kyle tilted his neck back. Yep. A sharp bolt stared at him, aimed at an angle that'd either test the thickness of his skull or go straight down into his chest.
It took a lot of effort not to snarl at her. Or to, ya know, find out how quickly he could get up there to rearrange her bones. After all, she'd have to reload once she missed the first shot. And there was no doubt in his mind that she would.
She'd miss by an impossible mile and there'd be nothing— Kyle set his jaw.
There was a distinct taste to his anger; one of blood between his teeth and the barbed bite of his chains. Worse, he could hear the static pulsing from the back of his mind.
An echo. Wanting shape.
Whatever this was supposed to be, it freaked him the fuck out.
Focus.
Focus.
"You heard his marker go off, yeah?" The crossbow didn't budge. "That wasn't just a warning. He was in the red. They don't come back from the red."
"And you're going to have to take our word for it that this doesn't mean he's about to turn," said Aiden as he pulled himself up a few rungs and leaned into her line of fire. The gesture humbled Kyle — and made the sharp bolt sway off to the side. "He's lived with this longer than I've been alive for. If he says he's fine, he's fine."
. . .
Oh, you little—
"You said what?" Lawan's crossbow lowered. More out of disbelief than anything. A bit like how Kyle couldn't believe his ears.
He coughed up a mirthless chuckle. "Discretion, meet Aiden. I heard you two've been estranged."
"Yeah, well, she knows most everything already, it'd just have been a matter of time before she figured out the rest."
"Figured out what?"
"How he's a relic from all the way back to Harran. He got bitten back then."
"Ha— Harran? Are you fucking with me?"
"He's not," Kyle grumped. All in all, none of this was a big deal. Villedor's perception of what passed for the line between the Infected and your average healthy human was, no doubt, a blurry mess. Aitor's reaction when Kyle had cracked his cell open had told him that much. And Frank not challenging his bullshit when Kyle had carefully narrated his way around what'd happened back in Old Villedor (and why he and Aiden and their traitorous plus one deserved to stay) had only reinforced it.
But that didn't mean it wasn't hella awkward bringing it up. Even if, ya know. Feathers. Birds. Evil Science. Flocking.
Be all that as it may, he had to be careful, since Waltz might've had one thing right: the Fish Eye may not be as tolerant of freaks as his Church was. And Kyle needed the Fish Eye. For now.
"But he is thinking about helping the punk down the ladder if he gets called a relic one more time," Kyle said after he'd made peace with what'd just happened. With how he'd have to explain himself now (carefully). With how he'd seized. With how he might have laughed in the face of an uncomplicated life back when he'd been a twenty-something and now kinda wanted to go back in time and swat young!Kyle over the back of his head for his hubris.
Aiden began to climb again. Up by the ledge, Lawan stared at Kyle, her disbelief and suspicion worn openly.
What he couldn't make peace with—what kept his heart rate up even if it should have chilled the fuck out by now—was the freaky static he'd heard in his head.
It'd sounded an awful lot like whispers, hadn't it?
Yeah.
Whispers.
What the fuck was up with that?
Lawan hadn't been kidding when she'd mentioned a lack of highways. Get it? High up? Ways?
Boo.
There really weren't a lot of good pathways for them to follow. Nothing secured and maintained, at any rate, meaning a lot of slowly working their way through, more than across. And everything they did, they did in almost perfect silence. Kyle didn't even have to answer any questions. Yet.
Yay.
But Lawan had stopped ignoring him. Before the ladder, she'd largely pretended he was a puff of annoying smoke which floated into her space on occasion where it needed to be quickly waved away. After the seizure, she kept throwing sharp glances at him, even if he was (swear to God) at his best behavior. He was so well behaved, in fact, he didn't even tease Aiden about his spatial awareness being halfway down some backed up toilet, considering he'd not seen the two Biters lurching at him from a shaded threshold in one of those buildings they had to go through.
Nah. Kyle just tripped the first one, grabbed the second by the remains of a tech-bro vest, and then held it there until Lawan put it out of its misery with a single strike from her machete.
They avoided two patrols, each five Hounds strong. One passed by in an alley below, not even two seconds after Lawan had cleared the gap above them, landing in the building across after a long leap. Kyle and Aiden waited them out before they followed her. The second patrol was more of a lookout, really. They'd secured a blown out floor in a stocky office high rise, repurposing its furniture to build barricades. Office chairs were arranged near the gaping holes where windows used to be, and that was where those clowns sat, watching the streets below for any interlopers.
So Kyle and Co interloped around them, careful not to step onto any glass or loose plaster on the way.
Then came the main attraction.
And it was just as bad as Kyle had feared.
They'd climbed a set of dirty stairs, walked a maze of office rooms occupied by a handful of hunched over, listless Biters and a lot of dusty air, and eventually dead-ended at a locked door. Not to worry though. Lawan had brought a key.
"I set this place up a few years ago," she whispered. "After you."
They filed inside. It was a small recreational area, kitchen included, and surprisingly intact.
"Check the upper left drawer next to the fridge, second cupboard. There's a UV rod up there. Should be, anyway. If it's gone we'll need to head back."
Kyle (remaining at his best behavior) did as she said. He found the light. It was a fat, battery powered thing. Perfect for off-site camping. He'd hate it, wouldn't he?
"Try it," she said while she stalked up to the window. A dinner table was pushed up against it.
Kyle switched on the rod, glared at the light the second it came alive, and turned it back off before he had to fight the urge to hiss at it and crawl into the fridge. Yeah. He'd hate it.
"Aiden," Lawan said. She'd grabbed one side of the dinner table. "Help me out here?"
"Sure."
While Aiden and her carried the table across the room with a sideways shuffle, Kyle wandered over to the window and peered outside.
A pit opened in his stomach.
Below, a Biter occupied courtyard opened up between a purposeful arrangement of four buildings. It might have been set up for comfort back in the day, meant as a space where desk jockeys got a bit of sunlight during their lunch break. There'd have been carefully planted flower beds to set the mood. Some tended to trash cans. A few neatly trimmed trees. And a fountain in the middle; one of those flat ones where the water squirted out of holes in the ground. Hey, they might have even had coffee and crêpe carts.
Today, the flower beds were gnarly shrubs; the trashcans effigies of dismay, their drums filled with honest to God bones; and the fountain had been covered up by a stage.
Ramps led up to a platform welded together from mismatched metal plates. Each corner had a bulky pillar rising from it, all currently wrapped in blue plastic tarp. Cables ran out from under the tarp, then vanished under the stage, only to come back out on one side in thick bundles that led off into the nearest building.
Kyle's eyes flicked left and right. Floodlights hung off the outside walls. They were pointed at the platform. Straight at three additional pillars spaced evenly out in its middle.
No. Not pillars.
Stakes.
They were fucking stakes, with chains laid at their bases, dark with blood.
The pit in Kyle's stomach filled with anger.
Behind him, the table was put down with a soft thud. "Why?" Aiden asked. "I mean why set this place up? To spy on the Church?"
"No. For whenever they catch one of my friends and bring them here."
"And so you can kill them," Kyle concluded, his eyes cutting back to her. The table hadn't been set up for sitting at and contemplating your life's choices over some tepid water out of a plastic bottle. It'd been a sniper's perch. Perfectly aligned for her to lie on and point the crossbow into the middle of the courtyard. "Before the Infected do."
Kyle had trouble looking away afterwards. Like the courtyard pulled at him, needed him to see every fucked up detail he'd glossed over at his first scan of the place. Like how the building closest to the stage had three floors' worth of walls demolished, making room for a tiered set of balconies. With chairs. And couches. So you could sit comfortably as you watched the show.
Then the sun began to sink and the Hounds arrived. He counted fourteen.
They didn't kill the Biters in the courtyard. Instead, they worked around them, avoiding them, pushing them, but leaving them all alive. Some of the Hounds swept the platform with brooms. Others pulled the tarp from the pillars, revealing sets of speakers, and others yet were busy tidying up the balconies, moving chairs around and swiping surfaces.
Lastly, they pushed an empty cage into the courtyard. It went up the ramp, where they positioned it next to the rightmost stake.
Soon after, Villedor's evening bells began to ring. They called out from a distance, carrying into an otherwise quiet neighborhood. Apparently the Church did not believe in ringing in the night.
The flood lights came on, followed by a row of UV bulbs arranged inside the balconies. Not a single ray of UV touched the courtyard.
"Most of the people the Church brings here are their own," Lawan said, her voice quiet. "It's only when someone goes out of their way to cause trouble for them that they catch an outsider for one of the Concords. Like, let's say, someone tries to sneak around their strongholds or manages to kill their Hounds." She paused. For effect, no doubt. "Their own folks volunteer."
"Volun—" Aiden choked on the word. "Who wants to get fed to Biters?"
"It's not the Biters," Kyle muttered.
"No, it's not." She looked at him. "You catch on quick," she said, an edge of something akin to approval in her tone. First time for everything, huh?
"I've butted heads with a few cults. They all start to blend together eventually with their whole virus worshiping bullshit and apex revere."
"I'll bet you a good bottle back at the Fish Eye that this one will stand out."
Kyle didn't want to take the bet. He clamped his teeth together and watched as the balconies began to fill up with spectators. Civilians, he figured. Or what passed for them in the Church's flock. They didn't wear any freaky hockey masks or those half-face ones the Hands with Waltz had worn, but they did all fit some weird fashion standard of neat clothes in black and grey.
They took their seats.
The sun continued to sink. Once it reached that certain threshold, every Biter that'd returned to the courtyard turned and faced west. Their chins turned up and their eyes locked onto the dying light. Or where the light might have been. Some stared blankly at concrete and glass.
And while Kyle watched a ritual unfold that he'd long ago given up on explaining, the static crawled back into his head.
First, Kyle hoped (shit, he might've even prayed a little) he was working up a stress headache, helped along by too many skipped meals. He got lightheaded. Dizzy. By the time the static became so prominent he couldn't ignore it anymore, he'd had to lean against the wall to steady himself.
What the fuck…
This was… new. And Kyle did not like novel things happening in his head.
"You good?" Aiden asked.
"'course," Kyle lied. After all, you didn't let the kids see you were about to lose it. No, Sir. You slapped on your poker face and then you faked your way through it until you'd figured out what new, quirky flavor of crap you had to deal with.
The Biters in the courtyard started to move. Initially, they turned towards the building on the right, drawn by the same movement that caught Kyle's eye.
People.
A small group stepped from the office building's front door.
At their helm strode a woman wearing a long, flattering white dress. She might have been a bride marching for the altar, one who carried herself with grace, her long black hair falling freely against her back, her shoulders straight— and without an ounce of fear for the Biters coming her way.
The bride-aesthetic fell apart at the woman's knees, where the white was cut off and replaced by a soot colored fabric, textured by patterns of blood-red lines. A stretch of the dark dress dragged across the dirt as she walked.
She wore a slim, white mask, and bore a split horn attached to the right side of her head. It looked a bit like a deer's antler, if you squinted, but Kyle figured it wasn't deer at all. Neither was it some messed up decoration. It'd grown out of her.
The marbled skin on the left side of her face—mirrored away from the single horn—told the rest of the story. Thick veins and blacked bruises fell from her cheeks, down her throat, and continued over her slim shoulders all the way to her fingers.
The right half of her was otherwise immaculate. If you ignored the horn.
"The Lady Séraphine," Lawan said.
Kyle had just enough time to wonder why he still bothered being surprised these days, when the static in his head swelled to a defined, sharp noise. Where it'd been nonsense before, it now had a purpose. Yeah, it was still one or two twists away from connecting with whatever station he failed to tune in to, but there was a rhythm to it now. A sing-song quality that nearly made sense.
The Biters stopped their forward momentum.
And then they got out of the way.
They parted around the woman, much as they parted around everyone who followed her; two Hands (same ones who'd shown up with Waltz), a pair of Hounds, and three folks in their Sunday best and matching, bleached hoods over their bowed heads.
Kyle heard Aiden suck in a sharp breath.
Kyle, on the other hand, barely dared to suck in air.
The Lady Séraphine kept walking. She led the procession up the platform, where she turned to face the darkness pooling into the alleys around her. The Hounds began to tie the sharply dressed men they'd brought along to the stakes. The clink of the chains echoed from the buildings.
Then. Silence.
Everywhere except in his head, at any rate.
"Forsaken!" the Lady Séraphine suddenly called. Her voice might have carried fine on its own, but the speakers certainly helped. Her arms raised in prayer. "Prisoners of light! Firstborn of a twilit future! We offer you our blood. Our flesh. We seek to quell your endless hunger. To come together, to unite, with you, the firstborn of a twilit future. Prisoners of light, your shackles broken by our grace! Forsaken, no more!"
She thrust her arms aside. And with that singular motion came a shove at the back of Kyle's mind. It wasn't painful. It wasn't much at all. It was just there and it terrified him, because, yeah. He remembered Theo's story. He remembered how he'd talked of his brother's thoughts; buzzing like the inside of a beehive.
Back then, Kyle couldn't really imagine it. It was hard to really put words to something you'd never experienced; something so absolutely bonkers nothing you said could do it justice. And even now, Kyle struggled for the right words, desperate to find something he could compare it to. Something solid. Something grounded. Ordinary.
What he eventually came up with didn't make it any less horrifying.
It was like an intrusive thought. A thought which wanted to compel you to take a long step off a ledge. Or to stick your finger under the knife while you're chopping carrots. Or your entire hand into a blender.
It was all of that, but overwhelmingly vivid and carried on an audible compulsion that didn't as much speak as it put a picture into his head of what was expected.
Leave.
This bitch down there? She was in his head. In. His. Own. God. Damn. Head.
Thankfully, Kyle had experience with intrusive thoughts and so he did as he always did when they came knocking: he hung on the singular marble he still had left and pretended the uninvited guest in his head was a set of perpetually unwashed dishes in a sink.
And while he ignored the pressure falling out of the static, the one which compelled him to leave, the Biters in the courtyard listened to it. They turned around in almost perfect unison and shuffled their rotting asses for the alleyways, while the Lady Séraphine and her circus of freaks abandoned the three tied up souls.
Drums began to rumble from the speakers.
Badummm— Badummm— Badummm— they went. Throaty, deep. Enough to give the window Kyle stared through a light tremble.
By the time the Lady Séraphine reappeared up in the viewing area a minute later, taking up room front and center, the first Volatile came slinking out from between the buildings. It was short and stocky, didn't have a single patch of armor to its runty name, and moved with a cautious sideways lurch, its head always on the swivel. Almost like it was scoping out the place and didn't trust the well-dressed meat.
Kyle couldn't hear it. The drums were too loud. But he could imagine the noise it'd be making: clicks, chitters, and those tilted mewls, all the kinds of noises he associate with a Volatile's curiosity.
Yeah. Volatiles were a curious bunch.
It didn't climb the stage, but paused at the bottom. There, its head wove left and right, its the fingers scraped the dirt, and then Kyle could hear it. The Volatile threw its head back and there it was, the stuttering hunting call that told you someone was about to have a real shit time.
Someone in this case being three people tied to stakes.
Up until now, the sharply dressed men hadn't moved. Now they did. They shirked away from the noise, their hooded heads twitching.
The drums fell silent.
Kyle took a step— somewhere. Forward. Sideways. It was a pointless motion, driven by him wanting to help. Needing to help. He couldn't just stand here. He couldn't just watch.
But he did.
Stand there.
Watch.
He watched another two Volatiles show up. And then another three. He watched as one of them took the first leap up the platform; the biggest one of the motherfuckers, its shoulders and back thickly armored and stubby horns riding along a curved line drawn across its skull.
He watched it tear into the first man. He watched the other Volatiles join it. He listened to the screams (because even if you'd volunteered to get eaten because you'd drunk the entire cask of Kool-aid, the actual eating remained unimaginably painful). He watched the whole damn thing until there wasn't much left, and most of the Volatiles had peeled away from the platform, dragging chunks of people with them.
Some chunks still had clothes on them, once neatly ironed, now soaked in gore.
By the time Kyle finally managed to look away and cast a glance to the side, he realized he was the only one who'd watched the show to the end. Aiden had retreated to a corner at some point, where he cozied up to the UV rod and its biting glow. He looked pale as a sheet. And Lawan sat over on the kitchen counter. Eating something out of a can.
Kyle's stomach lurched.
"The Night's Concord," she said between two bites. "Stands out, doesn't it?"
Kyle almost stalked over to her so he could grab her by the neck and toss her out the fucking window. Thankfully, he remembered how he currently had a bit of a temper problem and that answering the call of those violent tendencies was capital b Bad. He also remembered how this was the sort of horror Lawan had been dealing with for years.
And how she'd gone as far as to prepare a sniper's nest in case she had to get to one of her friends before the Volatiles did.
Kyle leashed up his anger.
Her words might've been harsh. Flippant, even, and dismissive of the lives lost so needlessly, but that didn't mean she didn't care. Everyone dealt with shit in their own way, who was he to judge…
"And don't think this won't be you if you cross the Church, because they will catch you. They always do."
"Someone fill me in on how they did that?" Aiden said from his corner. "When they made the Biters go away?"
"It's the Lady. She's one of Waltz's freaks and has this—" Lawan raised the can as she searched for words. "I don't know how to explain it. She repels them? None of the Infected like being around her, which is why you didn't see a Banshee or a Goon show up when they started sounding the drums. Even the Virals stay away and they're on a new noise like—" She snapped a finger. "—that, usually. The Volatiles don't seem to care though."
An extra ton of weight pressed down on Aiden, compressing the kid. "And you let her live? Why not just shoot her? You've got a spot right here and then this bullshit would be over, wouldn't it?"
Lawan scoffed. "I'd love to."
"But she can't," Kyle said after he'd finally found his voice. "It'd start a war."
"Yeah. Just look at what almost went down in Old Villedor. The PK were ready to go all in, and for what? Lucas?" She scoffed. "No one gave a shit about him, but he was the Old Villedor commander so they had no choice but to respond. But now imagine if someone killed Jack Matt. You think they'd bother with an investigation? Warning shots? No. They'd retaliate and then they'd ask questions. Same if someone knocked off the Lady. Assuming it'd even work, of course."
She hopped off the counter. Her biomarker had gone halfway to the red, luring her into Aiden's corner.
"The PK tried to, right after the Church came down from Orla castle and had their first Night's Conclave. Their guy gets three bolts into her before her Hounds find him. Not one, not two. Three." She tapped at her chest trice. "She lives. He doesn't. A day later, she packs his head into a box, stuffs a note into his mouth, and has a Carrier deliver it to Matt. She'll tolerate his one mistake, the note says, but if he doesn't honor the truce he's made with the old Colonel and makes one more move, she'll sink his ship and burn everything he owns."
A sudden, pained scream drew Kyle's attention back to the window, away from the history lesson. It was a very unique shriek; the sort you got out of a Volatile when you hurt it. Which was exactly what was going down in the courtyard, where five Hounds had snuck up to the platform while the last two Volatiles had been busy scrounging for scraps.
The Hounds bore heavy duty UV flashlights. Along with those slings on a long stick you used to catch unruly wildlife. Except in this case, the wildlife was the runty Volatile from before, with the sling already around its neck and the UV light herding it into the open cage.
Its 'buddy' tried to help. Almost successfully too, and Kyle was torn between rooting for the hissing, spitting Volatile and the Hounds trying to keep it at bay with lights and spears. One Hound got staggered by the Volatile tearing his spear away, fell, and didn't manage to regroup before the Volatile got a good pounce in.
Then the UV lights pushed it off and it finally retreated, abandoning the runt to get locked in the cage, and the Hound it'd attacked dead on the floor.
Only then did the static climbing up and down the inside of his skull finally stop. Not fade, not taper off. Stop. It left Kyle with the mother of all headaches and with the sinking feeling that he'd figured out why Villedor's Night Hunter had retreated.
Another one had shown up.
And she'd not wanted to share.