Predatory

After leaving the alley for the main streets, I broke away from Pietus and considered what to do next.

“Hokay,” I breathed.

There was searching for the sinner from last night, and there was searching for Amiyr. I really wanted to square the sinner away before tomorrow—but I lacked any leads apart from simply wandering on the soul’s warm current until it jostled me to the right guy. As for Amiyr, well, Pietus likely had that covered, but if I was going to be a Bishop I also ought to be a bit more proactive about being helpful.

The image of the bearded man stuck hard in my mind.

And I wasn’t entirely out of tricks yet.

“This is so grotesque...” I muttered.

My body is entirely under my control. I can shape it into anything. Accordingly, I can alter my senses—giving myself sight like an eagle, or the hearing of an owl, or in this case, the sense of smell of a wolf. Or really, better than that. A simple tweak and—done.

The smells of the crowd slammed into me instantly. I retched, grabbed my nose, and reversed the shift to catch my breath. Without inns available, many people had come from afar without being able to wash themselves for days—the reek was horrible. But I steeled myself and resumed the alteration, trying to pick out scents of death and decay.

The city wasn’t without death, lurking in its corners. But most likely, that was dead animals. I then recognised that, if Amiyr had gone missing so recently, he likely hadn’t gone rotten yet either. Fresh death, meat and blood, like the vision—

“Ah. Wow.”

An overpowering waft of blood came from the east, too much to be an animal. Bingo, I supposed.

Assuming that he was dead. Whatever owned that blood was probably dead.

I followed the scent through the crowds, through the streets, to the outskirts of town not too far away from the alley with Uni and Pietus. I came to a dirt depot where many camels and wagons were stationed—the smell was coming from the largest wagon, which was more like a small house on wheels. It had multiple camels draped in red and white cloths at its head, and red and white banners rippled from its sides. Those were the colours of the Church.

A doorman stood, leaning on the door to the wagon with his arms crossed. He looked me up and down as I approached.

“Bishop, eh?” he drawled. “You looking for Blessed Attaran? He’s busy, I’ll take a message.”

“Attaran? You mean—this is Attaran’s carriage?” I sputtered.

“’Course it is. Cripes, you came here and you din’t know that?”

“Hold on, sorry, I’m—God it smells like blood. I’m Mephi tel-Sharvara, the... the Cur of the Church.”

“Fucking tel-Sharvara! No wonder you look half-dead. Shit! Blimmin bloody Attaran, getting Sharvara on his fucking heels.” The doorman rubbed his lip.

“What?” I sputtered.

“Well I know a damn squat better than getting between you and him. Hell. Yeah, go on then.” He nodded to the doorway and stood aside.

I opened the door, confused, when suddenly another string of static shocked my mind. I flinched again; this time, a vision came of a knife thrusting in to a body, and a chunk of meat squeezed between white human teeth. I squinted, collecting myself from the daze, as my senses slowly returned and the scene before me registered.

Firstly, there was blood. There was blood everywhere. There was blood on the chairs, blood on a table—blood pooled beneath a young human corpse with its belly cut open and ribs reaching out to the air. There was a noticeable brown spot on the dead boy’s nose. A man was seated at the table, holding bloody cutlery: the same bearded man from the vision. He looked equally bloodstained, but far less haunted.

I struggled to immediately compute the sight. It then struck me that the currents of warmth of yesterday’s sinner were converging in a funnel that pointed directly at the man, and I instantly knew his identity as my mark. I had found both my targets at once, maybe appropriately.

“Attaran,” I said.

“Sharvara. Hm. I didn’t expect you so soon,” Attaran massaged his bloody, unruly beard in thought.

“You’re in trouble,” I said, approaching the table.

“I imagine I am,” he chuffed, putting down the cutlery with a ‘tink’. “Will you sit with me? Foreboding as it is, I have wanted to meet you.”

My mouth stiffened into a line and my clawed fingers played on the head of a chair across from Attaran. Did I want to sit? I wasn’t all that bloodthirsty yet, but instincts were nagging to rip the man’s throat out.

“Please,” he continued.

“There’s a dead boy on that table, and you want me, to just sit?” I gawked, then grit my teeth, and hissed, and sat. “Look—there’s a search party out for this boy, people will find you. Are you going to explain... what the hell this is?”

“I have heard you can know the heart of a man by looking into his eyes,” Attaran leaned back in his chair. “Look into mine, and know the truth.”

“Sure. You won’t like it.”

Attaran huffed without concern and tilted his head toward me. Obliging him, I made eye contact.

And I saw into him. I saw what he’d done. Amiyr wasn’t the first; he regularly kidnapped people, usually children, off of the streets, gutted them, and then ate them. He did it at least every month, at most every fortnight. It was a ritualistic thing, where he’d bring them before an idol and pray loudly to--

--To, to me.

He would pray to me as he killed them. As he ate them. The idol was a statue of me, in my hooves and tail.

“Sharvara! Sharvara! Shadow of Sharvara, King of Witches, fall on me!” he would crow between mouthfuls of flesh.

What the fuck? I ripped myself backward, breaking eye contact, but information still buzzed in the back of my mind. He believed that the rituals gave him immense power; indeed, that it powered his miracles. Not any blessing of Czjeir.

“Ohh... ohh...” he breathed, pinching his nose to steady himself. Now his eyes did look haunted—he’d seen the Hunger in mine. “Truly horrible... I see your anathema...”

“You’re a fraud,” I accused. “You’re... I have no idea how you’re doing this, well I guess I do, it’s by chopping these people up while chanting my name, huh, but you’re stealing magic from me.”

“Not entirely a fraud,” he assured. “You know, Sharvara, it is true that Czjeir has blessed you. I am quite affectionate to you, as you have given me much, you see—not with your knowing, but you have blessed me, very much. I have heard, through you, words from Czjeir Himself. That is real. The Cardinals—of course, they don’t know everything—but they verify the message, at least. I am quite fit to be Pontifex.”

“You’re a monster,” I said. “Aren’t you a little unconcerned, considering the abomination sitting across from you?”

“You will not kill me.” He brushed his hands off on his lap.

I clicked my tongue. “I usually don’t have much choice.”

“You will not,” he assured. “Listen to me, Sharvara. I have allowed you to see this, because if I should die, you will be doomed with me. By miracles, and by virtues, I am the most qualified Pontifex in the last two hundred years. The Church will not accept that you have killed me, even should you accuse me, and rightfully.” He leaned back in his chair again. “No—the Archbishops, and the Cardinals, they quite like me, and they will bind you for disrupting my reign. You will finally be subject to real restrictions, ones you will not enjoy. You may not be at risk of death, but you can be enslaved and imprisoned. I speak this with the wisdom of one to be Pontifex.”

I bit my lip.

Somehow, I didn’t think he was bluffing.

“That’s all great,” my nails sheared splinters from the table, “but, again, I don’t—don’t have much control of this. You’re next—it’s you.”

“I think we should have no problems, if we stay away from each other. Simply stay away from Amsherrat while I am reigning.”

“I mean, I’m here, it’s too late.”

“It is not,” he chuffed, and then stood.

I pointed to the door, standing also. “Does that doorman know about this? He has to know, right?”

“Of course. He is my accomplice.”

“And how many others?”

“Just him.” Attaran smiled. “And now you, my friend, my unknowing accomplice. Dear Sharvara, understand. We can bless each other, or we can be damned together. It sounds romantic, no? But it is not at all enviable, to have our freedoms, lost.”

“What freedom do you think I have?” I hissed, ripping up a handful of wood.

“Oh, but plenty! You are the Night Star! You have freedom to hunt, freedom to kill, freedom to bless and to work in whatever you wish. You are not confined to a room, and your powers are not limited to be useless. You have very many freedoms, it is breathtaking how you are allowed them.”

“I’m a slave to impulse,” I rebutted. “I kill because I have to—I don’t have a choice. This thing that I am... isn’t freedom.”

“Ah, you do not know the power of the Church. They have been lenient with you, thus far. It could be far worse.”

“It could be far better, if what I’m hearing is right. Maybe, if I get blessed properly, I won’t have to feel the hunger at all!” Fire was starting to burn in my arms. My claws, his neck...

“A pity, Sharvara. Your hunger makes you quite powerful. I do not envy that you feel it, of course. But it is a legacy, and a legend, that has given me a medium of blessing. I hope you would not cut that line, needlessly.”

“Yeah, you need to die.” I took a breath and reared to lunge over the table at him, full of fangs and fury and fire, when Attaran raised his hand and a blue light flashed. My momentum stopped and my body froze in place—for only a second, but it was enough to stay my hand momentarily.

“Calm down and think,” Attaran said. “You are being very hasty. Come, you must be hungry. Find another one tonight, and leave me be—I would be happy to discuss with you by correspondence, after we are both situated.”

“Just—find another one? I couldn’t if I tried! Your signal is so outrageous it drowns everything else out.” I punched the table. It creaked precariously. “So it’s you. I know you’re all, laissez-faire, everything will work out about this, or maybe just arrogant, but whether it’s today or tomorrow or a day after that, it really is you.”

“I am not simple prey, Sharvara. I am a devotee of two Gods—you and Czjeir. I have many tricks and twice the supporters.” He smiled. “Well, blessings upon you, for however long until you become cordial about our little arrangement.” He fanned out his hands. My claws flexed. “Yes, I see you are still a bit tetchy. You will come to accept it in time. Goodbye, Sharvara.”

I lunged. Attaran clicked his fingers and he ignited in a wall of blue flame, which dissipated—and he was gone. I caught air.

“Fuck,” I hissed, with my legs splayed over the body on the table.

But it was fine, Mephi. I just had to present the evidence of Attaran’s misdeeds to the Church, and surely...

When, then, the blue flame spread across the inside of the wagon. In seconds, it burned away the corpse of Amiyr to nothing, as well as all the bloodspatter. In less than a minute, the room was utterly clean and undisturbed, save for some clawmarks on the table.

“Shit. Shit, goddamn it,” I cursed again, and exited the wagon to accost the doorman. I’d throw a fist into his worthless face, fucking working with that scum Attaran.

But when I came outside, he was gone.

I breathed rattling breaths, flexing my fingers in time to each inhale and exhale. In... out... and let the hatred I felt simmer, below my skin, to be released in a violent burst later.

Fucking Attaran. But I know the monster I am.

And I knew God Himself said he’s next.