She Dies at the End (November Snow #1) (37 page)

The spectators’ features were twisted with hatred, especially Willow’s.  November looked around for Ben, who also had much reason to hate the wolves, but she couldn’t find him.  Every vampire’s fangs were showing, their mouths watering at the scent of wolf blood.  

The werewolves made to watch this display began to shift forms, as the smell of blood and the nearness of the full moon forced their transformation.  Desperate to aid their leader, they threw themselves against the silvered bars of the cage, adding the smell of singed fur and skin to that of blood and excrement.

The only one who did not change was the little boy, of course, who had not yet reached puberty, the time when werewolf children generally began revealing their heritage.  He remained in his trembling human form, eyes squeezed shut, hands balled into little fists over his ears.  November’s stomach clenched.  She wanted to turn away but knew that it would not save her from seeing.  Besides, something made her want to bear witness.  She felt like the condemned man deserved that at least.

The wolf tore into his kill with a desperate hunger, but before the Hector's father had a chance to swallow more than a bite, the gate to the tunnel opened again, and a mountain lion stepped into the fray to continue the torment.  The parade of vicious animals continued for an hour, each battle more difficult for the werewolf as he accumulated wounds.  A bear followed the mountain lion, and a pack of wolverines followed him.

Even a werewolf’s remarkable healing ability could not keep up with the onslaught.  Finally, unable to continue the fight, the condemned creature collapsed half-dead in the middle of the carnage, shifting back into his human form as he fell, revealing a slight, middle-aged man, naked and grizzled and covered with wounds.  The other wolves howled and reverted as well.  

November remembered a conversation she’d had with Pine months before, when he had tried to explain the antipathy between the supernatural races.  “They style themselves as protectors of the innocent,” he had explained.  “They feel justified in killing us because we prey on humans.  The fact that most of us only kill as a last resort is lost on them.  They’re also fond of getting humans to do their dirty work.  Every witch hunt in history, they’ve had their fingers in it.  Why do you think suspected witches were tested by immersion in water?  You can’t drown a fairy or a vampire, so we were guilty as charged.  We sure as hell burn, though.  And if humans die in the process?  Collateral damage, unfortunate but necessary.  They especially enjoy murdering fairies because if a werewolf takes a fairy life, it extends his own, sometimes by decades.  They resent our longevity and feel justified in murdering to take it from us.  Every fairy living has had loved ones or ancestors slain in the night by a werewolf.  Every vampire knows someone dragged from his resting place by them, condemned without trial to die screaming in the sunlight.”  She wondered if the cycle would ever stop.

In the end, Luka’s men hanged the poor man, hauling him up with a noose of silver chain, without even the mercy of a quick fall and a broken neck.  His family was forced to watch him twist and twitch for the better part of twenty minutes, listening to the catcalls and glee of their enemies. 

November placed one hand on her neck, swallowing convulsively, the scene before her alternating with flashes of a vision of her own hanging centuries before, in another life.  She saw a slight old woman, swinging in the wind at a crossroads, strangling slowly from a too-short fall, a crowd screaming its condemnation of a witch.  Finally, both the phantom and the flesh-and-blood victims gave up their struggles and swung limp.

She was overwhelmed by the sadism she’d witnessed that night, at the very limit of her strength, when Luka turned to her and said, “I think this would be a good time for a song.”

She was about to beg for his mercy, to plead exhaustion.  She simply couldn’t face anything more.  But when she looked at the wolves in the cage, their grief and rage and hopelessness, she decided that if she could give them any kind of comfort, she would try.  “You wanted a funeral type song, sir?” she asked with as much fake meekness as she could manage.

“Yes, I think that would be best,” he replied, pleased to think she was going along with his taunting of the werewolves.

“I can only remember the words to one at the moment,” she replied.  She struggled to stand up on shaking legs.  She started with a weak voice which grew more powerful as she managed to ignore everyone but the grieving wolves.  She drew a deep breath before beginning.

Some bright morning when this life is over

I'll fly away

To that home on God's celestial shore

I'll fly away
, f
ly away, oh glory

I'll fly away, in the morning

When I die, hallelujah by and by

I'll fly away

When the shadows of this life have gone

I'll fly away

Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly

I'll fly away

Oh how glad and happy when we meet

I'll fly away

No more cold iron shackles on my feet

I'll fly away

Just a few more weary days and then

I'll fly away

To a land where joys will never end

I'll fly away

I'll fly away
, f
ly away, oh glory

I'll fly away, in the morning

When I die, hallelujah by and by

I'll fly away

She sang with all her heart, her voice filled with sadness and hope and defiance, knowing that she herself would never receive the gift of peace after death.  She wanted to remind the wolves that even if this life had no mercy for them, the next one would.  She wanted to make them feel that though their leader was dead, he was also free.

She finished, trembling, and looked up at Luka for his reaction.  He smiled his creepy smile and said, “But, kitten, there is no freedom in heaven for you.”

“I know,” she replied softly.  “That’s why I thought it would amuse you.”  She hoped against hope that he wouldn’t see her true motives, her desire to stand with the wolves in their grief.  She had no strength left to survive his displeasure.

To her relief, he threw his head back and laughed.  He tweaked her nose as he said cheerfully, “You are going to be so much fun, kitten.”  And with that, November promptly collapsed in a heap.  The last thing she saw was Hector in his cage, raising his hand to give her a little salute.

She woke twelve hours later to find Willow in her room and the shackles gone.  The fairy looked relieved as November sat up in bed.  The fairy handed her prisoner a plastic cup of water, asking, “How do you feel?”

“Better for having slept,” the girl replied after finishing the water.  “Is he upset with me for fainting?”

“If he were, you’d be in the box.  No, he was worried that he might have pushed you too far, that you’d wake up crazy or something,” Willow admitted.

“How touching,” the girl replied in a voice dripping with sarcasm.  Willow said nothing in reply but called out to the guards outside, “Tell him she’s awake and lucid.”  Willow then told her, “He’s given me permission to take you outside to the garden for a walk.  He wants you to have the chance to say goodbye to the sun.  He fears there won’t be time tomorrow.  It’s almost sunset, so we should hurry.  You can eat and bathe when we return.”

November shivered at the reason, but her heart leapt at the chance to see something besides stone walls.  Willow gave her a pair of bedroom slippers to go over her wool socks, covered her with a cloak, then slipped the black bag once again over her head and led her to the roof.   The edges of the garden featured thick, chest-high walls topped with eight feet of metal bars and razor wire.   Even these stark reminders of imprisonment could not destroy the view of the sunset over the desert.  November found herself smiling in spite of herself.  If this was to be her last sunset, at least it was a pretty one.  The garden itself was handsome enough, a green oasis and unexpected respite.  

There was a small group of humans taking the air under the gaze of watchful guards.  They seemed to be doing yoga.  At one end of the roof, another handful of humans appeared to be constructing a small stage at the direction of a short, red-haired fairy.  Three of the workers lifted up a wooded structure and anchored it to the platform.  It consisted of a central wooden beam with two arms angled downward.  November began to wander over to see what they were doing when Willow blocked her way.  “You don’t want to go over there,” the fairy cautioned.

November was turning to ask why not when she realized the reason:  they were building this for her, for the next night.  “He’s going to attach me to that . . . that cross thing?” she asked in revulsion and disbelief.

“It’s just so everyone can see you.  They couldn’t bear witness if he drained you lying down,” Willow said in a weak attempt at comfort.  “It won’t hurt.  You won’t be hanging from it.  You’ll just be standing in front of it, attached so you won’t fall.”  She shook her head.  “I thought they were putting it up tomorrow.  I wouldn’t have brought you out here to see that.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” November demanded angrily.  “I’m going to get murdered for public amusement.  Tomorrow night.”  The reality of her predicament was beginning to hit her as she watched the hammers swinging.  Fear and panic and rage and grief fought for supremacy as she began to tremble.  

While she watched the sun finish dipping below the horizon, her tears began to fall.  
This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.  Ilyn is supposed to save me from death, to drain me reluctantly.  I’m supposed to die with people who love me.   I’m not supposed to be gleefully executed by a monster like Luka.  They’ll come for me.  They have to.  I don’t die like this.  I have seen it.  Please don’t let me die like this,
she prayed as her trembling increased.

“It isn’t a murder to us.  It’s a birth, a joyful occasion,” Willow protested at the sight of her weeping.  She reached out to put an arm around November’s shoulders, which were now shaking with silent sobs.

November jerked away from the fairy, anger flaring at her touch.  “Oh, are we friends now?  You killed Pine.  You brought me here to die.”

“I did not want to kill Pine.  He was my friend.  Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.  And I brought you here to live.  You would be dead if you had been in the hotel.”  Willow came close again and placed one hand on each of November’s shoulders.  November stood still this time but could not look her kidnapper in the face.  “Soon you will understand.  Now let’s go back inside.  You must be getting cold.”  
I am cold
, the girl realized, and she slowly followed Willow toward the door, with one last look at the nearly full moon rising.

Just before Willow slipped the hated bag back over her head, November glimpsed something odd: three of the exercising humans fell to the ground.  Before she could ask what was going on, Willow ushered her quickly back inside the fortress.

Back in her room, breakfast sat on her table.  She sat down to tuck in to what might be one of her last meals, preparing to savor the oatmeal with maple sugar, fruit, and a mug of hot chocolate.  Just as she was about to take a bite, a blur swept into the room and knocked the spoon out of her hand.  It was Luka himself.  She looked at him with puzzled surprise.

He grabbed her shoulder, spun her around, and demanded, “How much did you eat?”

“None of it, yet.  Why?” she asked, her hands prickling with fear at his frantic demeanor.

He looked to Willow for confirmation, and she nodded.  “We just got back in.  What’s going on, my lord?”

Luka studied November another moment and finally relaxed his iron grip.  “Someone’s poisoned the humans’ food, or the water.  We’re not sure yet.  But they’ve all collapsed.  Half are already dead, and the rest soon will be.”  His eyes burned with his fury.

November stood up and took a step back from the table, as if to avoid contamination.  
Those poor people
, she said to herself.  She thought a moment and said a silent prayer for them.  “It can’t be the water.  I drank some over an hour ago, and I’m fine.”

“I gave you bottled water,” Willow countered.  “Ben brought it by before dawn, as you slept.  He said there was a problem with the cistern, a crack in a pipe or something.”

“Did he?”  Luka asked, eyes narrow and voice dripping suspicion.  He clicked a button on his phone.  “Find me Ben.  Yes, the idiot youngling.  Now.”  He did not wait for a reply.  In a flash, November found herself pressed against the wall, the vampire’s hand and fangs at her throat.  “Tell me you didn’t know about this in advance,” he said with quiet, dangerously precise diction.

She could barely take in enough air to reply.  “Of course not!” she answered hoarsely.  “I would never sit by and allow such a thing,” she managed to protest, her honest horror at what had been done evident in her face.

Luka studied her closely before releasing her.  “I thought not,” he replied, fangs once again hidden.  He straightened her tunic and patted her on the shoulder.  November found a seat, hoping no one could hear her knees knocking.  Luka began to pace.  He turned to November.  “If you examined the cistern, could you tell if he poisoned it?”