Humanity 02 - Raven Flames (2 page)

“
Actually, that’s why I
came. I know you’re doing that cool stakeout thing you always do,
but your Dad wants you there to greet the Humanitarians. He needs
you perfectly groomed and trained for the Coronation.”

“
Yeah, yeah,” Michael
muttered. He would get the title of
Monarch
when he turned eighteen in
less than a year. It was something that he didn’t look forward to.
He had no choice, though, and he wouldn’t dispute his right. There
was no one else to follow Nathanial’s doctrine. He would sacrifice
his own happiness to help humanity retake its place as the sole
ruler of the Earth. That included being rid of Mirage.

The sooner the
better
, Michael thought bitterly. He
didn’t know why this Dark Child bothered him. He’d been responsible
for the deaths of over a dozen Paramortals, over half of them by
his own hand. He’d killed at least one from each tribe, and that
included her own. It was through his information that her father
had been cornered—it made no difference that it had been his father
that had dealt the deathblow. The Humanitarians attributed his
death to him. It was one of the reasons that they all looked to his
Coronation so eagerly. They saw HUMANITY going places beneath him.
He had to live up to their expectations.

“
Try to sound a little
more enthused for your father,” Derrick muttered as he stood up.
“Unless you want a black eye that the Dark Child
won’t
be able to
heal.”

“
Sometimes you’re a little
too observant.”

“
Hey, I’m more than an
awesome stud that has kick-ass assassin skills.” Derrick preened in
front of him, flexing. Michael fought the urge to gag as he
followed him to the vehicles parked behind an expanse of cultivated
bushes. It helped that some faction supporters—not actually
Humanitarians, but they were still useful—lived beside the
Paramortal’s home. That was where Michael had staked the home out.
He’d never spoken to the home owners, but they asked no questions
about the vehicles parked outside their home, and they didn’t say
anything as they walked out of their back yard. In fact, the woman
that was out tending the garden ignored them completely. If she saw
nothing, that made her innocent, right? Would she even
care?

Those were questions that
Michael always asked. He never denied what he did was murder.
Despite his hatred for Mirage’s kind, he’d never disregarded the
fact that they were
sentient
. They shared pains,
pleasures, thoughts, but….they weren’t
human
and that made all the
difference. He didn’t share that sick pleasure that most
Humanitarians experienced when they extinguished another parasite,
but he did feel an odd sort of relief. There was one less of the
species that took from the resources that belonged only to his
race.

Michael got into his truck, starting
it up, following Derrick as he pulled out in his white, beat up
Oldsmobile. It still struck him as funny to see his cousin driving
such an old car, but he was fiercely defensive about it, so Michael
only brought it up when he wanted to make him mad.

His home actually wasn’t that far from
where Mirage had moved. She lived at the edge of the slums, barely
ten minutes from where the broken part of Paradise opened up on the
reason the city had been given its name. The homes in the suburbs
were large and full of grandeur, edged by sweeping, perfectly
manicured lawns. The flat land had palm trees sheltering the front
yard, some of the homes claiming beautifully immaculate gardens.
There were a few that had playgrounds situated off to the
side.

It was a perfect American setting; the
air heavy with the smell of grill outs, the men hurriedly trying to
finish their meat before the rain decided to ruin the
food.

This is a bigger illusion
than something I believe even Mirage could produce,
Michael thought vaguely as he pulled up to his
home. The garage door was already open, waiting for him. He parked
and turned the engine off with a sigh. Derrick had driven on; he
would park at his own home and wait for his call.

“
Is that you,
son?”

Wayne Parlinn’s voice was sure, the
question more a statement.

“
Yeah,” he answered. “Any
reason why you took me off stake out? You know I like to get
information first.”

“
You’ve done enough
watching on her,” his father dismissed. Michael got out of his
truck, walking toward where Wayne leaned against the doorway that
led into the house. “She’s a young Dark Child, and her being a
hybrid means she’s probably not even through the Transition. I need
you here. The Nobles are coming.”

“
You mean Mr. Taylur, Mrs.
Wanderson, and the others?” Michael shrugged. “I don’t care. I see
them everyday at school.”

Wayne frowned. “Show more enthusiasm
when you walk through this door, boy.” His voice held that edge of
a threat, barely containing the monster that he knew his father
could be. Wayne wasn’t only violent against the
Paramortals.

Michael felt himself begin to shut
down against his father’s tone of voice. There was nothing he could
do; Wayne had complete control over his life. “Of course, father,”
Michael said, forcing a smile on his face. It was more of a simple
flash of teeth, his voice an empty echo of the calm he forced
himself to feel whenever he was near the Monarch. No matter what,
he didn’t want Wayne mad. He wasn’t sure he could handle another
beating without breaking.

Michael took a deep breath
and made his way past his father, walking through the doorway that
gave way to his mansion-like house.
House
was all it was; it had never
been his home. He’d never had a home.

Stop with the
self-pity
, he thought viciously. He pushed
away thoughts, allowing his mind to be perfectly blank. The mask
that HUMANITY needed from him.

“
Greetings,
Monarch-to-be,” Mrs. Wanderson said. She gave him a coy smile and
he returned her flirt with a mental eye roll. She thought herself
beautiful. She was a young teacher, about twenty-five. Her tight
blond curls bounced about her face, but her expressions were always
pained—thin and drawn out. “You were a good actor in class today. I
almost thought you cared for her.”

“
That’s what will make him
a good Monarch,” Mr. Taylur said. “He sat in my office drawing a
picture of the hideous Dark Child. He’s a devious person. Though, I
must admit, the drawing was spectacular.”

Michael pretended to take their praise
graciously, nodding his head and voicing his thanks in a subdued
voice. “The others are meeting us at the Dark Child’s
home?”

Mr. Taylur nodded. “Lady Wanderson
told the Lords and Ladies to come.”

Michael fought another eye roll with
difficulty. The insistence of using titles made him physically
sick. He wondered if they knew how stupid they sounded, or if they
were just that damn stupid to begin with.

“
The other Nobles were
upset that they wouldn’t be able to share in
the…
revelry
,”
Wanderson said, her voice a throaty purr. The word came out
sounding dirty. It was the euphemism for the murder of a
Paramortal. “There was no way that most could just leave and take a
plane. Especially without making it seem suspicious. You know she’s
going to make the news.”

“
It’ll be good publicity
for us,” Michael heard himself say. “She’s only the third
Paramortal to try to attend a human school. The other two quit and
went into hiding before we got them, but she just happened to
choose the city with our strongest network. There aren’t many
humans that support the Altruistics. We are a more powerful group
than they are, and we’re going to prove it tonight.”

“
Well said,” Wayne said,
coming up behind him. He put a hand on his shoulder and Michael
fought his grimace.

“
Thank you, Monarch.”
Again, the title sounded stupid to him, but calling him Monarch was
better than calling him
father
.

“
You may leave us now,
Michael. Ready your weapons. I think it should be you to kill the
last in Darkcaster’s strongest bloodline. It would
be…appropriate.”

Michael nodded and left without
another word, winding his way up the long and sweeping stairs that
lead to his part of the house. He had an entire floor to himself.
His father wasn’t a strict man when it came to his personal life,
and this part of his home was just for him and anyone he happened
to bring home. As long as it didn’t mess with HUMANITY, his father
didn’t give a damn.

That’s why she
left
, Michael thought as he caught a
glimpse of the portrait of his mother. He wouldn’t see any others
in the house other than that one. Wayne had thrown them out when
she’d disappeared over eleven years ago. Michael had been six at
the time.

She didn’t take me with
her.
His mother, Lily, was every bit as
delicate as her name suggested. How she’d lived as long as she had
underneath his father’s tyranny was beyond him. Why had she left
him to live in this hell? Was it because she saw what he’d become?
What Wayne had trained him to be? His mother had been a loving
soul. To have her son become a ruthless murderer would have turned
her stomach. Of course, she would have run. He couldn’t blame her
for that. He would have, too, if he could.

He’d inherited her straw color
hair—his father’s was a darker, almost brown—but the feather-light
texture shown in the carefree portrait was something his hair would
never see. It was as coarse as an animal’s fur, reaching his
shoulders. Her face, round and innocent, was nothing like the sharp
angularity of his own, covered with the rough dark stubble of a
teen’s almost beard. Only his eyes were like hers. It was like
looking into a mirror. Her icy blue, kind eyes staring into his.
They were lighter than Wayne’s cruel sky.

Michael turned from her smiling
expression that accused him. He went into the first room on the
right, where he kept his weapons. He had his own kitchen,
bathrooms, bedroom and another bedroom he brought the girls from
school to. He had a house within a house.

A house within a house,
but not a home.
The thought was distant as
Michael studied the slender blades laid out on his bed. The knives
were short and only slightly curved. They gleamed from when he’d
been bored and cleaned them the night before and he slipped them in
their sheaths that rested on a belt he wore. The sheaths were
beside the two gun holsters on the leather, but he hoped he
wouldn’t draw a weapon tonight. It would be better if they killed
her in her sleep. He didn’t enjoy the thought of trying to take her
down if she was allowed to use her powers.

He’d killed Dark Children before, but
never when they fought back. There was a reason why they were
feared even by the other Paramortals. Their powers relied on
darkness, on fear and illusions. The other Tribes of Power were
pure elemental—Thorn Heathens, Flame Tongues, Cloudlings, and Rot
Scales—they only had so much control over their elements. They had
power, but he could deal with them. Day Spawn hardly had any
powers. They sometimes had special mind gifts, but mostly they only
healed and were pacifists. He actually hated killing them; it was
almost like killing children.

But Dark Children…they were different.
They had no qualms about protecting themselves, and their powers
were more mystical—utterly unpredictable. He’d felt the strength
that had radiated from Mirage as she attacked Derrick earlier that
day, and something inside him told him that wasn’t near what she
was capable of. After all, she was Darkcaster’s descendent. If
Nathaniel hadn’t turned traitor when he did…the stories were clear
on her power. She’d wiped out entire camps of humans on her own.
Mirage had that potential. He didn’t know why he thought that, but
he didn’t try to convince himself otherwise.

His father wanted him to kill her, and
he would. If anything, his fear of what she was capable of would
spur him into action. He’d seen only a portion of her power and he
wouldn’t allow something like that to live.

* * * *

Mirage quivered inside the cloud’s
echoing thunder.

This is a
dream.

She didn’t have the power of flight;
she wasn’t a Child of the Breeze. She reached out a hand, trying to
claw up a bit of the flighty gray streaks that caressed along her
skin. They slid past her, separating against her sharp nails. It
was like trying to scoop through the ether of her own
power.

“
Call out to your
ancestry, Shadowstart.”

Her back arched at the sound of the
voice, her hands rising out from her sides. Echoes. The gray was
beginning to streak with black, pooling like around her like slick
oil. She could feel the heat of flames at her back. The ground
beneath her was burning.

Mirage was frightened.

“
They come for you. They
seek you. You will experience sorrow tonight,
Shadowstart.”

“
Who are you?”

“
You will know my name
when I want you to know it.” The voice, definitely feminine, seemed
strangely like her father’s. The thought made her choke and the
memories rose against her bidding. She hadn’t been
prepared.