War of the Networks Page 6

  White stars poked through the inky sky outside the Arck, decorating the night with swirls of light. Darkness had long since settled over the castle. Mabel and Juka breathed softly in bed, while Juba lay on the floor, his tail twitching dangerously close to my feet. I fantasized about stepping on it.

  Juba’s head rose the same moment I heard the lightest scuffle on the balcony. Both of us looked outside. A second, subtle little snuff sounded. I sat up. A lone figure crouched behind the biggest cactus, trying to hide but failing. The edge of a sleeve glowed in the moonlight. My mind went immediately to Papa, but I dismissed the thought. He’d never make such a rookie mistake, and he’d promised Stella not to come. Zane wouldn’t attempt anything while Mabel was in the room, and no other Protector would be assigned to me. No, this was someone else entirely. But who would crouch on Mabel’s balcony?

  Juba growled low in his throat, rocking his hind legs back and forth. The crouching witch remained motionless. The ridge of hair along Juba’s back stood up, creating a supple, speckled line from head to tail. Mabel’s breathing paused. She’d woken but hadn’t moved.

  The witch leaped out from behind the cactus the same moment a blinding burst of light filled the room. I recoiled, throwing my arms in front of my face. The light disappeared, replaced by a shrill scream of pain. When I regained sight, Juba had sunk his claws into the broad back of a male witch attempting to scramble back over the cacti on the balcony. The intruder hadn’t expected Juba.

  Extensive, detailed tattoos covered the witch’s arms and neck, indicating he was from the clans of the Western Network. His clothes were shabby and torn, as if they’d been worn and washed too many times. I could see his ribs, bony elbows, and knobby knees. He screamed, his head snapping back from the force of Juba’s body landing on his spine. His eyes met mine in horror. I stifled a yelp by sucking in a sharp breath.

  Juba’s jaws wrapped around the front of the witch’s neck, silencing his desperate howls. Juka straightened from her position on the bed and stared, remaining close to Mabel’s side.

  “Good work, Juba,” Mabel said, yawning. She shifted underneath the sheets and settled again with a little sigh, as if this were a frequent occurrence.

  Stay here long enough, and you’ll find out, she had said.

  The gauzy drapes whispered in the room on a breeze from the open balcony door. A puddle of blood shone in the moonlight beneath the dead, desperate soul. The body faced the ground, face turned away from me. I closed my eyes, covered my ears with my hands, and buried my face in the floor, humming a lullaby Mama used to sing when I had nightmares. The horror of the grisly death replayed in my mind until the sun rose in the early morning hours.

  Juba licked his lips when I woke up, staring at me from only a few paces away.

  A slight, almost indecipherable, drop in temperature ushered the Western Network out of summer and into the first month of fall. A week after Mabel kidnapped me, I woke, sweaty and sore, to find her towering over me, kicking my ribs with her pointy shoe.

  “Wake up,” she said, dropping a ball of fabric on my face. “We have things to do today. I want to show you something.”

  She’d given me a fresh linen dress with capped sleeves, a long waist ending at my hips, and a rounded neckline, just like the dresses the silent maid had brought me. When Mabel stepped away, I changed, grateful to slide into something fresh and longing for a tub of water instead of the pitcher baths with which I’d been making do.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked. She wore a radiant red gown with complicated black lace over the bodice. It highlighted the glow in her eyes. The familiar Book of Contracts rested in her thin arms, held tight to her side. I stared at it. Did she still carry it around all the time? Even under the protection of her own castle? Her paranoia knew no bounds.

  Juba growled when he noticed my keen attention, so I took a step away from Mabel. He quieted, but still watched me. The fading bruises and still-healing teeth marks on my arm were warning enough.

  “I thought you might like to see the extent of my power,” she said.

  Her lip curled in disgust when she grabbed my arm and transported both of us away. When I emerged from the pressure and darkness, I found myself in a cavernous room filled with witches. Voices, bells, and the occasional low bellow of a camel rang through the organized chaos. The room smelled like wet hay.

  Mabel released me with a flick of her hand. “Witches are flocking to my side and swearing themselves to my power on a weekly basis, as you can see. Everyone wants a piece of the new life I offer, Bianca.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “You should think about it.”

  Mabel loved attention, so I gave her none and acted as if I hadn’t heard her.

  Two small waterfalls drained from holes in the ceiling and trickled down the striated rock walls, forming a small creek that cut through the middle of the room and flowed out the southern end. A glass dome protected the water, preventing any witch from getting a drink that wasn’t rationed for them. Desert life was more intensely restricted than I had anticipated.

  A crowd of witches filled one side of the room, congregating in close-knit, family-like groups and speaking in hushed whispers. Their almond-shaped eyes and sun-wrinkled, cinnamon-colored skin indicated they were from the native tribes of the Southern Network, like the little maid. Wealthy witches like Mikhail had forced them to the mountainous outer reaches of the Southern Network, where it snowed most of the year. Discarded fur coats littered the ground. They wore leather pants tied to their legs and waists with cords of rope. The strange chatter of their language—one I’d never heard before—echoed off the red rock walls. Had the young maid been here once?

  A skinny, frail witch with a white turban and wide nose walked up to Mabel’s side and bowed until his forehead grazed the floor. Behind him, a cluster of West Guards formed a semicircle.

  “Your Omniscience,” the witch in the turban said. “It is a blessing to see you this morning.”

  “You may rise.”

  He moved slowly, keeping his eyes down. Mabel’s foot tapped, making the hem of her dress dance.

  “It is my deepest desire to swear these new witches into our way of life,” he said. “Do I have your all-powerful permission?”

  The phrase our way of life belied her claim that they swore the new witches to her power. Mabel handed him the tattered Book of Contracts. The leather on the front cover had torn in a strip down the middle, and the frayed corners sprouted hairs like baby spider legs.

  “You have my permission,” she said. “Please proceed.”

  A West Guard stood on a tall platform in the corner with a scroll in his hand from which he bellowed out names. Each time he read a name, a witch in the crowd stepped forward and put their hand on the Book of Contracts. Every male witch that cooperated received a small leather bag of water and a sword before disappearing into another room. The women received a bag and an apron and walked to the opposite side of the giant cavern to vanish through a doorway. I wondered if the married couples would ever see each other again.

  As the strange ceremony continued without interruption, I bottled up my questions. Mabel would certainly feel good about herself if I showed any interest, so I didn’t ask, although I drank in every detail.

  “Ah, a little family,” Mabel said, motioning to a young couple that stepped forward together. The girl appeared to be not much older than I. “Isn’t it sweet? I’m giving them a life. Probably not together, of course, but that doesn’t matter. I’m sure they’ll be more comfortable under my reign than they were eating whale blubber in the horrid, cold regions of the Southern Network.”

  My stomach roiled. The boy—he could hardly be called a man with such young features—stood protectively in front of his slim wife. She clung to a baby hanging in a loose sling from her shoulders.

  “The wife will work for me, of course. Her baby will go into service as soon as he’s old enough to wash dishes,” Mabel said in an idle, conversational tone, patting her lips
with her fingers when she yawned. “Her husband will have the privilege of becoming a West Guard.”

  The young man had a steely expression, and the girl looked as if she were about to weep. I wanted to ask what would happen to them if they didn’t swear loyalty, but I didn’t. In the end, I didn’t really want to know. The manacles on their ankles told me they weren’t volunteering.

  A West Guard stepped forward, ripping the young man from his wife before they could embrace. She let out a cry and clutched her baby tighter. Her husband said something in a low voice before they were torn apart. I didn’t need to know their language to understand what he meant.

  Be strong, he seemed to say. It’s not forever.

  That’s what Merrick would say to me, I thought. When the girl clutched her baby and stumbled away at sword point, my throat thickened.

  “Ugh,” Mabel said under her breath. “This always takes forever. But you know how it goes, Bianca. I must oversee things, or they won’t be done correctly. No one else should have power unless I give it to them. Witches can’t be trusted with magic. That’s why the Almorran system is so wonderful. I control the power and give it to those who are worthy, rich or poor, young or old. The rest work for the common good of the world.”

  Each recruit passed through an arch beneath us, bowing to Mabel before they left. None of them dared raise their eyes to her. I remained as far back as I could, hoping to hide in the shadows. No doubt my plain dress, braided hair, and the shining, heavy manacle on my wrist would make it obvious that I was just property like the rest of them, but I didn’t want to run the chance that anyone would associate me with her.

  Soon an old man approached the book. A West Guard escorted him, keeping a sharp knife jabbed into his curved spine. When the old man made no move to put his hand on the Book of Contracts, the West Guard grabbed his wrist and held it there. It trembled, rope-like veins crawling through his old skin like green ribbons. The old man shook his head again when the West Guard barked a command. Mabel straightened, raising one eyebrow.

  “Interesting,” she murmured. The West Guard slammed the old man’s hand onto the book, but nothing changed. He shook his head again. A stoic strength came over his small, wrinkled body, and I saw hints of my father in his steely jaw and straight shoulders.

  Mabel leaned back in her throne with a little sigh. “His choice,” she said. “They can’t complain that I don’t give them agency.”

  She waved a hand when the West Guard looked to her for direction. The old man’s chest arched forward as the West Guard stabbed a curved blade through his body. The tip protruded from his chest, gleaming bright red. The old man struggled; a few witches in the crowd cried out. Then, with his head held high, he turned his wrinkled face to Mabel. With a regal, proud nod, he slumped over in death.

  I turned away, my eyes heavy with tears. Another name rang through the cavern.

  “Lovely process, isn’t it?” Mabel asked. “It gives me so much more power to have all these witches devote themselves to my magic. I can feel it in my blood every time we hold a swearing-in ceremony.” Mabel bit her bottom lip, sinking lower in the throne, holding onto the armrests as if she were in danger of flying away. Her eyes glowed bright red. “And I do love power.”

  How scared she must be that she doesn’t have enough. Papa never bragged about his abilities. He didn’t even believe he was as powerful as most witches thought him to be, which was only part of his greatness. All of Mabel’s gloating just made her seem … frightened. Desperate for more, but more was never enough.

  “What are you hoping to accomplish with all this?” I asked, gesturing to the witches below us. “You’ll never be stronger than Papa. Not through means like this.”

  Her voice grew cold with annoyance. “I’m bringing about a new world, of course,” she said. “One in which magic is controlled.”

  “You sound like Evelyn.”

  Mabel rolled her eyes. “I’m smarter than that old fool. Evelyn wanted to establish a hierarchy based on wealth. I don’t care who’s wealthy. I care who is using magic and what they’re doing with it. That’s why the High Priests of old came up with Almorran magic, you know. The witches fighting the mortals, casting curses everywhere, endangering the lives of all concerned. The High Priests of Almorra were just trying to protect everyone.”

  “They ended up slaughtering mortals and witches,” I pointed out. “You may think they had good intentions, but they didn’t.”

  Mabel shrugged. “Things went awry. It happens. But it won’t under my reign because I’m stronger than they were.”

  I wanted to ask her if things went awry when she killed my mother, but I held it in. Mama’s murder had been deliberate. A choice.

  Just like how much I hate Mabel. The thought took me aback.

  Just as my confusion swelled to new heights, whispers from her mind replayed back through my head, flashes I barely remembered because they were buried so deep in the darkness.

  Make the fire stop! a young girl screamed. I’ll get it right next time.

  The terror faded in a flash, but it left me feeling cold. What she’d endured as a child at her grandmother’s hand had been horrifying. Is that what led her to such grand delusions? I tried to turn the thoughts away. I wanted to despise Mabel as much as she despised me, but I couldn’t find the energy. I’d shared her pain for what felt like eternities, and a traitorous sense of pity chased away my loathing.

  Mabel was still talking, as if she didn’t really care whether I listened.

  “Under my reign, witches won’t be cursed,” she said. “Magic won’t be used to harm others unless it’s in punishment for breaking my law.”

  “You’re banishing the use of curses?” I asked. “How ironic.”

  “I’m stopping the use of magic unless approved.” Her eyes gleamed. “I’m preventing waste and …” She trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice sounded forced. “Pain.”

  “So you’ll establish a system that witches must obey, and if they don’t, you’ll punish them with magic?”

  “Yes.”

  The faded memory of Mabel’s screams surfaced in my mind again, only this time with more clarity. There had been agony. No, not just agony. Burning. Magical fire on her skin. But why? Oh. A missed homework question.

  “Sounds familiar,” I quipped.

  Mabel responded with a sharp intake of breath. She clenched her hand around the chair until her knuckles blanched white. I held my breath, certain she’d turn and choke me at any moment. Her body trembled. She turned to look at me for the first time. Despite the terror of her glowing red eyes, I didn’t look away. I wondered if she remembered everything she saw while in my head.

  “You know nothing, Bianca Monroe,” she hissed, turning back to her army. I let out my breath.

  “Don’t forget how powerful I am,” she said, returning to her light, conversational prattle, as if we had never deviated. “You’re only seeing the physical aspects of my growing influence throughout Antebellum. The magic is…” She released a long, slow breath. “Empowering. Fascinating. It makes me stronger than you could ever hope to be.”

  As the swearing-in ceremony continued, I lingered back, unable to watch the innocent witches choose between two terrible fates. Despite trying my hardest to merge the two Mabels in my mind—the tortured soul crying out in pain and the sadistic Almorran Master who stood before me—I couldn’t reconcile them. Of all the things I’d experienced at Mabel’s hand, nothing was so terrible and confusing as the realization that beneath all the indifference and evil and cunning, Mabel had once been a witch just like me.

  I Am Nothing

  The Cudan witches fostered a rare breed of paranoia during the two hundred years of their existence, which took place largely on the border of the Eastern Network and the Central Network.

  Despite the enormous magical advancements of their day—namely transformation and transportation—which would later reform the entire world of magic as it had been known since the time
of the Mortal Wars, the Cudans staunchly held to the belief that neither transformation nor transportation was “good for the witch,” as it was “against nature.”

  Since neither transformation nor transportation were yet perfected, the spells at times produced separated bodies, witches who could not leave their transformed state, and a few well-known witches who wandered around with whiskers and tails.

  The Cudans remained isolated, keeping the new-world magic well out of their borders through indifference and a strictly conservative culture.

  I closed the heavy book’s faded leather binding, my mind buzzing with thought. A group of witches so adamantly opposed to transformative magic might not have worried about transformation at all within their community. If the magic was new—and better yet, unfamiliar—they wouldn’t have known its intricacies.

  Which meant they might not have protected themselves against it.

  I gazed at the doorway. I’d never get through it as myself, but what if I transformed into something else? Could I move through the doorway as another creature? It would have to be a native, local animal, of course. One that wouldn’t alert the maids if they stumbled on it in the halls unexpectedly. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

  Juba yawned, sprawling across the cool floor, stretching his limbs to their limits. An idea percolated in my mind.

  Something local like Juba.

  “How very interesting,” I said, setting the book aside when the little maid’s familiar tap tap tap sounded at the door. After today, I’d have enough parsley for the sleeping potion if the cooks included another sprig in the meal.

  The little maid stood in the doorway, a tray in her hand, like every day before. Only today her eyes darted to mine, then to Juba, then back to me as she set the breakfast tray down in the doorway. The usual round loaf of seeded bread sat in the middle of the plate, but it came with nothing else. My stomach fell in disappointment. No parsley. Her hands trembled as she backed away, and she pattered out on bare feet as fast as she could go. I watched her leave, stymied. The poor little thing had always been frightened of Juba but had taken to smiling shyly at me the past couple of days.