Page 21 of House of the Beast

Chapter

A year after I arrived at the Avera estate, Aster taught me how to kill.

It had been a beautiful afternoon, bright and crisp with the last vestiges of summer lending warmth to the mountain air.

My father had gone to the capital on business, leaving my training temporarily in my own hands.

I welcomed the reprieve from his constant criticisms, but Aster was excited for another reason.

“Your father won’t teach you this the way I can,” he had said. “And right now he isn’t around to pry.”

He had instructed me to sit behind the house on a patch of sunlit grass, and then to close my eyes and pray.

It was an Avera’s gift to have a heightened sense for life and death, the same way that House Metia’s vessels could see certain things not revealed to mortal eyes, and the way House Goldmercy’s vessels always knew what made something tick.

At the height of communion, a vessel of the Dread Beast could see how to separate life from a living thing, and it was this ability that made them such terrors on the battlefield.

I remembered not being sure if I could do what Aster asked of me that day. Even my father had yet to master the art of finding death and following it. Only those whose minds had already come close to the edge, like my Uncle Maximus, could wield this gift of the Beast.

I did not know what this said about me, if Aster thought I was ready now.

But my god had instructed me to try, and so I did.

As I emptied my mind, I opened myself up to all the signs of life around me, the way my dark companion had taught.

He had sat me down a few weeks ago just like this, holding my hand and guiding my thoughts beyond the mundane perimeters of my own head, to find all the insects vibrating their wings in the air and small animals chittering as they burrowed into the ground.

I could smell the wildflowers opening their petals to the sunlight, the fresh grass rippling in the breeze.

There was an abundance of life on this austere mountainside that I would have otherwise never paid attention to, and at the time it had been a warm and uplifting task.

I felt comfortable, surrounded by it in the quiet of my head.

Today, however, I had been instructed to find something else.

“It’ll be there, somewhere among all that life,” Aster had said. “You’ll feel something different about it. Once you do, follow the feeling and come find me.”

I couldn’t at first. It was difficult without him there to guide me, and I slowly grew frustrated. “Something different” could have meant anything. Eventually, I gave up and simply let myself bask in the sun. My mind began to drift.

After some time, I noticed an undercurrent of cold despite the warm afternoon, creeping over me like a shadow and then seeping under my skin to make me shudder.

It was as Aster described—like the feeling of all those little things alive around me, but changed.

Sharper. Excitement bubbled in me as I uncrossed my legs and stood.

I kept my eyes closed as I tried to wrap my mind around that feeling, eager to see the smile Aster always rewarded me with for meeting his challenges.

Once I had a firm hold on it, I opened my eyes and followed it, barely aware of the brush of my own feet through the grass, around the side of the house, down to one of the gardens, and into the shade of an old oak tree.

Aster was crouched on the ground, holding a wounded bird in his hands.

I could tell right away that the strange, cold feeling was coming from that bird. One of its wings was bent out of shape, broken beyond repair, and blood stained its soft feathers as its small chest puffed up and down in terror.

“Aster,” I gasped, horrified.

“You found me.” He beamed. He looked down at the bird and caressed its broken, trembling body. “See? It wasn’t so hard. You felt the thread of its life snap and quiver, and you’ve followed it here. Now, Alma,” he said, his starfire eyes looking at me brightly from the shadows, “you can kill it.”

The poor thing cried out weakly, reminding me of the way I had cried, too, when held down in the temple at the mercy of my father’s blade. It was the kind of cruelty my mother used to frown upon. I trembled and shook my head.

Disappointment clouded my friend’s eyes.

I remembered standing there, torn. I did not want to let Aster down, but I also did not want to kill an innocent thing.

The thread of its life had snapped, yes, but it could still be mended.

I could nurse it back to health—and that thought, along with the sight of Aster’s gentle hands around the poor creature, had brought to mind another memory.

A thud against the glass.

My mother’s soft voice, murmuring.

The dull ache of another disappointment. A memory I had thought long buried.

“Alma,” said Aster gently, straightening slightly as he sensed the change in my demeanor. “What is it?”

I kneeled in the grass next to him, eyes still on the poor bird. It would surely die without help, and soon. Its small heart was beating so fast, fast enough to be dangerous; I could feel it pulsing in my own head, muddling my thoughts.

“When I was about six,” I started slowly, “a bird slammed itself into our apartment window in Merey.”

It was before I had met Aster—before the loneliness had truly settled in.

My mother had brought the injured creature in, and I had been immediately enamored.

She had taught me how to care for it, how to feed it, how to hold it gently in my hands so it wouldn’t be afraid, just like this.

I had spent long hours watching it every day, stroking its soft, feathered head, and imagined it was keeping me company when my mother was at work.

After some time, the bird had healed—and I remembered crying as it tried to fly away, slamming again and again into the window to get to the blue sky outside.

Why was it doing that, I had wondered. Why was it hurting itself, when it knew it would be safe here, with me? Why was it trying so hard to leave?

My mother was the one who had let it out again, and as it fluttered out of sight, I had been inconsolable. I had convinced myself that it would know I had cared for it, and that it would remember me and stay.

I still remembered how much it hurt to find out I was wrong.

“Don’t cry, my duck,” my mother had said. “We’ve done a good thing. Now it needs to be free again.”

Underneath all the hurt, I remembered how her words had soothed me. I had done a good thing.

The poor creature in Aster’s hands was so similar—to kill it felt like betraying my mother’s memory.

“Do I have to?” I asked Aster, desperation making my voice crack.

He looked at me with an expression so tender that I could not help but lean toward him for comfort.

“Oh, Alma,” he said. “Your heart is so soft. You must harden it, so that no one can hurt you again.”

I knew he was right. He always was, despite his devilish tendencies, and he was always there to comfort me when I was upset, soothing me to sleep, chasing my ghosts away.

He would comfort me after this too, I was sure.

He was the only one who had never left me, who already knew the most terrible things I’d done and was happy with me regardless.

Perhaps if my mother had been alive, she could have told me differently.

But she was dead, and there was only one person to blame for that.

Aster was going to help me find my retribution—and that was the only way I knew to find peace again, after everything that had happened.

I had to harden myself up.

So I wrapped my hands around that precious, wavering thread of life. Wound it tight around my fingers.

When I snapped it, I felt the bird’s delicate neck under my hands, broken in two. The cold instantly dissipated, the warmth of the sun washing over my skin once more. I exhaled from the relief of it.

Aster had beamed at me, so brightly that I almost forgot to feel any guilt.

“See?” he said. “You’re a natural.”

THE MEISTER’S EYES WERE ALMOST SMUG AS THEY MET MINE .

“You ask for a trial,” she said, motioning for her Thing to join her. It ambled over in a manner that seemed almost listless compared to the elegance of its movements while fighting. Its clumsy footsteps shook the ground beneath me. “House Goldmercy shall be glad to provide you one.”

Her words were a threat if I had ever heard one—but before trepidation could begin to crawl its way up my spine, Aster let out a raucous laugh. “This is even better!” he exclaimed. “A special show, just for you. People are so easy, aren’t they?”

Despite all the eyes on me, I could not help shooting him an exasperated glare. This was hardly the time or place to be joking around. Regret was settling in at the callousness of my own words. I had played my role well, but now everyone was riled up and hungry for blood.

My blood.

My monster didn’t look worried at all. He met my incredulous look with a fond roll of his eyes.

“Relax,” he said. “If this Meister takes you more seriously than your father and cousin, it will only convince everyone that you really are worth the trouble.”

“I hope you’re right,” I muttered under my breath.

Because I didn’t know what the fuck I had just gotten myself into.

The Meister snapped her fingers. At her side, the Tinkerer’s Thing bent its head low. There was a quiet prayer spoken, and the Meister touched her fingers to the talismans on the Thing’s face.

The paper disintegrated into ash.

Underneath it, the Thing was—oddly beautiful. Its features were gentle, with wide eyes and a delicate mouth. I paused, un settled to see them paired with its mutilated body. Did all the Tinkerer’s Things look like this? So strangely mesmerizing?

Then it opened its lovely mouth and began to wail—a mournful, rageful sound that rattled through my skull, like something had been released with the destruction of those talismans. My grip tightened around my sword.