This was it. My breath steamed in the remnants of the early morning chill, mixing with the dew that was rapidly burning off what grass remained on the field. Metal and boots had churned the damp grass to a muddy slurry; everyone looked the same from the knees down. But on our torsos, the colours were still visible. And they mattered.
“Just leave it! Come on, we’re going to be late, it’s fine.”
Richelle, caught in a pool of light from a streetlamp halfway between their gate and the taxi, cast a fretful look back at the front door of their house. Dan, one leg dangling over the taxi’s doorframe, the rest of him already securely seated, scowled at her around fake fangs.
New York was a half-alive ruin; electronic billboards smashed and window displays boarded over, tipped up and trashed. DataVision on 38th looked like a storm had hit it. An empty plastic bag fluttered in the breeze, snagged on a shard of broken glass in one of the windows. A desultory flag for the new age.
The great Houses of magic were not concerned with bloodlines or politics, except in the unescapable mundane sort of way most things are. But at their heart, the Houses considered themselves above such things. Magical heritage did not concern itself with mere genetics; an aptitude was the essential requirement. And, for some Houses, an attitude.
You don’t recognise the car. It’s cool inside, cold even - the air conditioner’s blowing so hard you can feel it against your skin, but you can’t hear it. Everything is silent, in fact. If it wasn’t for the scenery moving past the window, you’d think the car was stopped, the engine dead. Perhaps it’s an electric car?
Shots off the starboard bow at dusk, the captain rosy-red like the sunset sky. The sound of drums carried over the steady grumble of the engines, and lights flickered over the stark white paint of the ship’s sides. The crush of people swirled like the sapphire waves below. Sparkling wine flowed freely – everyone knew fresh water was limited on a ship, so alcohol was the responsible choice to preserve rations.
Andres Paolo was a dead man walking to a hopped up beat, and he knew it. It was hard to say who wanted him dead - or at least who wanted him dead enough to pay assassins. The usual strings of scorned ex-lovers, disgruntled fans and irate club owners were long on ire but generally short on cash and/or real desire to inflict lasting physical harm to his person
here’s lots of things I’m too scared to say. It feels like if I say the words out loud it makes them real - my voice gives them a weight and a dreadful presence that weighs in my gut and fills me with dread. There’s something about the finality of speaking.
Firelight made his eyes ache, even through his eyelids. It flickered and danced, casting lurid shapes across his vision, and Jurian curled himself tighter and tried to ignore the feeling of his skin gradually drying out as the warmth and light sapped his strength. The eternal dusk overhead was gradually lightening as the Pyrds carried him further from the cliff-carved ring city of Dular – soon, they would need no flame to keep him contained.
