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Indigo
IN THE END, I ACQUIESCE quietly, stripping off and bathing as quickly as I can, refusing to let either of the women touch me. I have to admit, the warmth of the purple-tinged water is more soothing than I expected. When I climb out of the pool—I can’t call it a bath; it’s too large—one of the women hands me a fluffy white towel.
I stare around, looking for my clothing that I left in a pile at the edge of the pool. Nothing.
“Where are my clothes?” I wrap myself in the towel and raise a querying brow at the woman.
“You won’t need them, dear.” The other woman materializes out of the shadows. She has a long satin gown draped across her arms. “Here, you can wear this instead.”
“Yeah.” I eye the plunging neckline and sheer nature of the fabric as she holds it up. “I don’t think so. Give me back my own clothing, please.”
The woman’s mouth turns down in disapproval. “They are gone. It’s either wear this, or appear in front of the conclave naked, and that wouldn’t be very nice, now, would it?”
Right. I purse my lips, trying to hold in a curse word.
“Well,” I say at last. “Judging by the look of that, there’s not much difference between the two options. But I guess I don’t have a choice.”
I’m getting a little sick of having my right to choose taken away from me.
I wonder what she means by conclave. Is this a necromancer stronghold, and the conclave is their group meeting? A shareholder’s meeting, wizard-style.
Why is a fae queen—an ex-communicated one, at that—here and apparently calling the shots? Necromancers are a secretive breed, from what I understand. Full of pride and powerful in their own right. Why would they kowtow to a banished fae royal?
The whispers over the years about evil intentions and bad magic have always been just that. Whispers. Rumors. I’ve never had any call to pay attention. I’ve never even met a necromancer before. Unless...
Was it wizard magic that killed my friend six months ago? Courtesy of a piloted loup? The seeds of that idea were already planted in my mind after the attack on my neighbor. Now, those seeds have sprouted, and the reality that Sienna probably died because she was my friend, sends ripples of horror through my system.
At the time, I believed the police who decided it was a random attack. Though I blamed myself for a long time, my therapist helped me understand that what I was experiencing was likely survivor’s guilt, which is not uncommon in situations like that.
Sienna and I had just left the theater after a show and planned to head across the street for drinks at the cabaret club. We were standing on the sidewalk, chatting, when I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. I ran back inside to retrieve it from my dressing room, and was on my way out again when the banshee call struck.
Calling in the death of my best friend was by far the worst moment of my life.
By the time I was able speak coherently and stagger back outside, it was too late. Sienna was dead, her throat a mangled mess and one of her ears torn off. A crowd of horrified onlookers had formed around her body, which is likely why the killer ran off. It was deemed by the police as an interrupted robbery, though why a thief would take the time to bite out her throat but leave her handbag lying on the street next to her, was a question that remained unanswered.
As I collapsed beside her that night, still sobbing and crooning in the wake of the banshee cry, it seemed to me that an unpleasant purple haze lay over my friend. It eventually dissipated in the night breeze, and I hadn’t thought any more about the haze. Until now.
A necromancer killed my friend. Which means... it wasn’t a random attack. They were likely after me.
Fresh guilt washes over me, only this time, the guilt is laced with fury.
Who are these vicious monsters, and what the hell do they want?
The serving women slip the dress over my head, and when the fabric slithers down my legs and pools at my feet, I turn and study my reflection in the tall dressing mirror positioned off to one side of the room. Unfortunately, the mirror confirms that the dress is as see-through as I suspected. So much so, that I’m tempted to just rip it off once again and face whatever is coming buck-naked.
At least that might be less sexually enticing than the hints of nipple and bare mound that appear and disappear every time I move in this ridiculous outfit.
Is this going to be some kind of sex thing? Where a whole bunch of creepy men in ceremonial robes get off at the sight of the mostly naked banshee woman in a sheer dress?
Then I remember that some of those robed figures were abominations, and a wave of nausea hits me.
My heart speeds up and I clutch my hands together so the women can’t see them trembling.
Hold on to the fury. It’s safer to focus on that, than to fall apart in terror.
“Come, dear. Take a seat and we will dress your hair.”
Oh, Dreya. I would give anything to be back in my small dressing room at the theater, my assistant bossing me around as she runs a brush through my hair and helps with my makeup.
If only I was there with you now, my dear friend.
The women drag a chair over to the dressing mirror and shove me down into it, and then both of them take turns to comb out my long hair and braid the edges into delicate little plaits.
I stare at my own reflection while they do their thing. My eyes are wide and scared, and the green color is brighter than usual. I guess they reflect the turmoil of emotions inside. I can barely contain my rage now. I feel as if I’m about to explode with the force of it. My cheeks are faintly flushed, and I can see the pulse at the base of my neck beating super-fast, which means these two women can probably see it too. I wonder if they know how riled up I am, and why. I clutch my hands even more tightly together in my lap, until my nails dig in to the flesh of my palms, forming little crescent marks.
Eventually the women finish doing my hair, and one of them comes around to face me and then darts out a hand to pinch my bottom lip hard between finger and thumb.
“Ow, Jesus!” I duck my head away and she makes a tsking noise.
“Just brightening up your mouth, dear. Now it’s nice and plump and rosy.”
Great.
“Don’t touch me again,” I say, and the two women laugh.
“We don’t need to. You’re as ready as you can be for the ritual, dear.”
Double great. I grit my teeth and wait for the return of the queen. Bring it on, bitches. I still have a voice, and this banshee is not afraid to use it.
In the end, it isn’t the queen who returns for me, but one of the hooded and robed men. At least it’s not one of the loups. He doesn’t speak, just looks me up and down and grins lasciviously. Then he gestures, and I march out ahead of him in the direction he indicates with my head held high and the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.
I’m about to enter a whole room full of these monsters, and they’ll likely all be staring at my privates, just like this guy. Ignore the leering, I tell myself. Think of it as a stage performance with an uncooperative crowd.
Easier said than done.
After heading down a long and winding set of stairs and along a corridor that has no windows, we reach a set of double doors. I presume we must be underground, and I hope the doors are not going to open up to reveal a rat-infested prison cell, or a dungeon.
No such luck. A prison cell would have been preferable to what greets me when the doors swing open and I march into the room ahead of my captor.
I stop short as a wave of illness washes over me. Death has touched this room, many times over. So much so, that even though the previous inhabitants passed over a while ago, the effects are strong enough to linger. I clutch at my belly, trying not to heave.
The space is cavernous, to the point that I can’t even see a ceiling. The floor is made of stone, and tall pillars are dotted throughout the room, each pillar sporting a flickering candle lamp. Straight ahead of me is what looks like an altar, also made of stone. It could be a place of worship—though this is unlike any place of worship I’ve ever seen. The altar consists primarily of one huge, human-bed-sized slab, with purple candles decorating each corner.
In front of the slab, a fire pit ringed by a shallow stone wall has been arranged on the floor. Within the confines of the pit, a fire is already stoked and roaring. Above the fire an enormous black brazier bubbles and steams with a purple mist. Gathered around the fire and staring into the rising steam from the pot, are at least a couple of dozen robed figures, chanting in a language I don’t recognize.
If I was scared before, it is nothing to the dread that fills me now. The chant sends chills across my skin and I freeze. What are they going to do with that pot? It looks big enough to hold a person. Even a tallish one, like me. My mind goes temporarily blank as I face the reality that I am most likely going to die today.
Will I sing in my own death? Is that a thing, for banshees?
No amount of lip-biting or hand clutching can now hide the tremors that rush through my body in waves. For some reason, at the moment of facing my coming death, my mind suddenly kick-starts out of its terror-induced lethargy, filling with thoughts of the sexy winter warrior.
Tarrien, I wish we could have gotten to know each other properly. I wish we’d had more time.
I lock my knees, determined not to collapse in a puddle of fear in front of these hideous creatures. The robed man still standing behind me pushes me between the shoulder blades, urging me forward.
I can’t do this. I can’t be here in this place. So much death.
I turn and punch the man in the face. He staggers back, bringing his hands to his already-bleeding nose, and the distraction provides an opening to flee.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized the chanting has stopped, which means all eyes are likely on me. Run! I race toward the door but have only taken a few steps when a clutch of magic grabs at me. The enchantment renders me immobile. I growl, trying to push the magic off me and away, force the grip that holds me to let go. Whoever has me is far too strong.
Oily tendrils, visible even to my eyes, wrap around me. I find myself lifted high into the air, coaxed forward to levitate over the heads of the avidly watching crowd below, until I hover horizontally above the altar slab. The magic squeezes so tight I can barely breathe.
I’m not sure which is worse: the lack of air, or the feeling of utter helplessness at being restrained in this way.
Who has me in their grip? A slight lessening of the pressure around my throat enables me to turn my head to the side and my heart sinks when I notice what I hadn’t seen before.
There is a raised dais behind the altar. On the dais rests a throne-like chair, currently occupied by the exiled fae queen. She stares at me with her sweet glamor finally stripped away completely. All the innate darkness within her is now resident on her features.
She is evil, through and through. No doubt whatsoever is left in my mind as I stare back into those malevolent eyes.
But even the queen can’t hold my attention for more than a few seconds. Not when I notice the male who is standing behind her, almost hidden in the shadows. Like the others around the fire pit, he is wearing a dark robe, and with his long dark hair loose, he blends in to the shadowy background in a way that encourages my eyes to miss his presence altogether.
Only I can’t miss him—not when he has one arm held out toward me like that, with his hand in a claw shape directing an oozing purple miasma straight at me.
The magic is there, but not quite there, almost like heat waves rising from tarmac. He’s the one holding me immobile. All by himself. Which makes him a powerful threat in his own right.
And yet, I don’t think he is a necromancer, even though he is clearly channelling purple wizard magic. He has an otherworldly air about him, that reminds me of the queen. I think this man might be fae. As if he hears my thoughts, he shakes his head, shifting his hair backward. The action reveals his pointy ears and confirms my guess.
Who is he? Silver-gray eyes regard me steadily, and my heart flip-flops unevenly in my chest. It can’t be. Those eyes...
It can’t possibly be.
I swallow hard and force out the question. “Tarrien?”
Even as I say his name, I realize I must be wrong. There is no way the winter warrior would be involved in something as evil as this. He might be annoying, and need some lessons in relationship skills, but Tarrien has a brave and decent heart. I know it, with every fiber of my being.
I squint into the shadows, trying to ascertain who it might be.
This is a slightly older fae. I notice a few strands of gray in the dark hair and he has a slightly less muscled presence than the winter warrior I was wrapped around in bed only a few short days ago. Despite the physical differences, and the misleading shadows that make it hard to see anything, the resemblance is clear enough.
“You’re his father, aren’t you?” I say. “The one who betrayed them all, with her.”
The shadows increase around the figure, swirling until I can barely see him at all.
“Coward,” I spit out. “Hiding in the shadows behind the ex-queen. Why not step out and own what you did?”
They’re going to kill me anyway, I figure, so it doesn’t really matter what I say, now. I’m still looking at Tarrien’s dad as I speak—or at least, in his general direction, now that he’s almost completely hidden—but the queen hisses between her teeth. She really didn’t like that ex-queen jibe. I’ve probably just escalated my coming torture and death.
I search through the shadows for one final shot at the fae man. All I can see now is that damn, clawed hand. “Tarrien has been sworn to protect me, you know. And he’ll find me and kill your merry little band of perverted followers. I have total faith in your son.”
A titter of crazed laughter from some of the robed figures in the room seems to break through the temporary stand-off. Tarrien’s father straightens his fingers and withdraws his hand back into the shadows. I drop out of the air unceremoniously onto the slab and all the breath is knocked from my lungs. I gulp and scrabble to get up, until I am held once again in place by that invisible, shadowed claw-hand. The queen rises and steps forward.
She leans over me, her gaze murderous. “Tell us your name, banshee-hybrid, and we will let you live.”
Yeah, right. I really believe you, bitch.
The queen gestures someone from the group around the fire to come forward, and I try in vain to scramble away. Tarrien’s father remains silent in the darkness behind the queen, presumably the one still holding me in place.
Then the queen does a little hand wave of her own, and a blast of magic hits me in the face. Pain such as I’ve never felt before almost crushes my head from the outside in. His magic already holds me firmly in place. This bonus blast from her is nothing but torture for torture’s sake.
I am glued to this damn slab, while suffering the migraine from hell.
I hear pitiful moaning, and realize it’s my own voice. The pain is so intense I can’t stop keening like a baby. If I ever felt powerless in my life before, this is ten thousand times worse.
After what feels like an eternity, but may only be a few seconds, the pain in my head eases, though I still cannot move.
“Your name?” The queen waits, and I manage a weak grin.
“Indigo.”
Her face turns ruddy, and she nods stiffly. “So be it.”
A robed man appears in my vision. Oh, great. It’s the guy who collected me from the bathing room. The one who enjoyed the view of my privates a little too much. This time, he holds a stiletto-style blade in one hand.
So, this is it? This is the end?
There is something I have to ask before I die. I need to know...
“Did you kill my friend, Sienna?” I direct my gaze past the throne toward the man still wrapped in shadows. “Are you the one responsible for all this...horror? These...abominations?”
A quick flash of white teeth is my answer. He’s smiling. The fucking bastard. No doubt about who is the true monster in this room.
The queen releases a strange growling sound. Clearly, she doesn’t like that my attention has wandered from her. “I am in charge here. Not him. You will address me.”
Well. I amend my thoughts. No doubt about this pair of true monsters. They’re all monsters, here, but these two? They deserve each other.
As if she hears my judgemental thought and wants to demonstrate its truth, she reaches out and stabs my cheek with one of her long, pointed fingernails. The pain is sharp and unexpected and brings tears to my eyes despite my efforts to control myself.
She raises up her hand. A drop of my blood meanders from her nail tip down her finger. The red color against her pale skin is oddly mesmerizing.
“Beautiful,” she says. “Your blood will do nicely.”
An appreciative murmur from the crowd reminds me that we have an audience. The queen waves her hand and a pretty white bowl materializes in her upturned palm.
She hands the bowl to stiletto guy. “Cut her, and drain it into this.”
Cut me? Drain me? Terror builds in my chest and a tiny moan escapes my throat as I strain against the magic holding me rigid. The effort is futile.
She leans over me. “We will take your blood, either way, but provide us with your true name, and we will only need a few drops. You will be allowed to live.”
My chin trembles. I clamp my teeth together to try and control the fear and stop myself blurting out the name I can hardly remember. Indigosturianawella. That was the tongue-twister moniker my dear mother gave me, for some reason. The word hovers on my lips and I bite down on them to stop it from coming out.
What good will my name do them? Why do they need it so much? And what are they planning to do with my blood? Are they going to drink it? Paint themselves in it? Make a stew with it in that big, black pot bubbling away just out of my line of vision?
And here I was, worrying earlier that this ritual would involve something sexual. Laughter threatens and I know I am close to losing it.
“Choose not to cooperate, little hybrid,” the queen continues, “and we will drain you completely. Garner every...last...drop. And then, we will find and drain all your bastard siblings, until there is a river of banshee blood, and their deaths will be your fault, because you didn’t give us your name.”
The man with the knife moves suddenly and fast, lifting my almost-not-there dress and stabbing hard at my upper thigh.
My thigh? You chose my thigh, you fucking pervert? You couldn’t have chosen my wrist? If my eyes could burn holes through a person, stiletto guy would be swiss cheese right now.
At first, the pain is hardly there at all, just a burning sensation that suddenly grows hotter. Blood begins to seep out of the wound and down my leg into the bowl that the man shoves between my legs.
I can barely move at all. Only my eyes, darting about as I search vainly for any means of escape, and my mouth, twisting in a mix of terror and hatred. And my lungs. At least I can still breathe. For now.
“Give us your name!” The queen’s screech fills the air.
The man smirks, and stares down lasciviously at my exposed privates, before bringing the stiletto to his mouth and licking it. For some reason, that action is the very last straw out of all the things I have already endured.
Everything inside me reacts. I open my mouth, and instead of giving them any words, I let loose with the loudest and most haunting banshee song I have ever allowed to cross my lips.
They should never have left me with breath in my lungs.
I give them everything that the theater crowd have always wanted, and far more than any of my human audiences could ever truly take. I sing of death, and life, and all things between. I sing of the moment of extinguishment, the black grief when someone disappears from existence, and the utter joy of new life, of resurrection.
I sing the song of the banshee, and I do not hold back at all.
