Work Text:
Her heart is pounding.
Scylla’s eyes snap open, legs flailing against the sheets. In the early morning gloom she can’t recognize a thing. She cranes her neck, tries to catch a glimpse of something familiar, something safe. Bitter experience has told her that waking up like this, with your heart lodged in your throat and sweat down your neck, is never good. Where is she?
Does she need to run?
Another heartbeat, then another, and off in the distance a familiar clock chimes.
Oh.
She flops back onto the bed, fighting the absurd urge to kick herself. Jesus. She doesn’t need to be afraid of being murdered by the army if she is going to give herself a heart attack every morning when she wakes.
The house is stirring. From behind the door, she can hear the steady murmur of voices, the scrape of a chair leg against the floor. She rolls over, burrowing her face against the pillow, chasing sleep. Hoping against hope today is the day she doesn’t have to deal with -
“Heyyy, newbie. You awake yet?
Fuck. She thinks of feigning sleep. She used to do it all the time in order to assuage her parents' guilt as they drove their half-busted pickup through the Cession in the dead of night. But there’s no point faking here. Every witch in this safehouse has better instincts than her. “No.”
“Cool.” She recognizes the voice. Asha. Another refugee. “So. Are you going to lie here all day or are you actually gonna do some Work?”
“Work?” Scylla scoffs, turning over and glowering at Asha, who has the gall to look amused. “You call gardening Work ? I didn’t realize I walked into a commune.”
“The lady upstairs wants you to come with us.”
“Whatever,” Scylla snaps, retreating back to the familiar warmth of the bed. “If she wants it so much, she can tell me herself.”
+++
She has no idea what time it is.
It must be late because the house is empty, save for the soft warbling of a country music song that Scylla doesn’t recognize playing on a civilian radio.
She shivers as she exits her bedroom, groggily rubbing her face. The air around her is crisp, chilly and strangely still. She has only been here two weeks but she's already restless, a part of her wanting to up and leave and find somewhere new where she can be another girl, with another past.
Her newfound sanctuary is nothing more than an old, ramshackle building, worn and tired and filled to the brim with mismatched bric-a-brac. It’s an utterly undistinguished house, which, Scylla concedes, is probably the point. A part of her knows she should be grateful.It took her so long to get here. After her parents were murdered, she ran, getting out of dodge as soon as she could. She ended up finding another dodger community, one her mother told her about a few months before the military police found them. Scylla ended up bouncing around - the charity case. Other dodger families tried to be kind, taking her in as if she were a stray kitten. But they couldn’t deal with her claws; she never stayed in a place more than a month, max.
Maybe she was too wild, too grieved, too angry. Too risky. Scylla thinks the other dodgers knew she was itching for a fight. She didn’t give a shit if the army found her; in fact, a part of her wished they did; better to go out on her terms than be a cog in Alder’s machine, ground down and used up and just as dead in the end.
Maybe that’s how it would have been. Until they came along.
From the kitchen, she can see the other safe house members pottering around in the garden; crouched down low to the ground, whispering into the grass, as if trying to coax something from the earth.
Scylla can’t help but stare, aghast. What are they doing? Is this supposed to be Work ? Why aren’t they out there, putting their knives to Alder’s neck? Witches are dying, bleeding out in the deserts of Kabul; their cause is too important to wait.
Everyone should be out in the field.
She should be out in the field.
Why aren’t they doing more ?
“Jesus.”
A cup that Scylla didn’t even know she was holding snaps in her hands, shards cutting deeply into her palm. She yelps, dropping the broken thing to the ground. “Ow. Crap. Ow, ow, ow.”
The wound is deep and the pain sharp. She stares in somewhat morbid fascination as tendrils of blood snake down her wrist.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
A woman, straight-backed, fair-haired and with a world-weary face, is behind her.
“Oh. Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to -”
“It’s fine. It was a cheap old thing anyway. As for that --” she motions towards Scylla’s wound - “I’ve seen worse, believe me.”
“Oh.”
“It’s fine, really, but let’s get you cleaned up before you bleed all over my floor.”
“I can do it -”
“I said, it’s fine.” She rounds the kitchen island and takes Scylla’s hand. The woman’s grip is firm, and Scylla has to resist the urge to pull herself away. There’s an odd, buzzing noise rattling in the air as the woman begins to whisper, her voice barely perceptible. Scylla strains to hear her and before long she finds herself repeating the woman’s words, unbidden.
“Ask, and it shall be given you.
Seek, and ye shall find.
Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.
For everyone that asketh receivth, and he that seeketh findeth.
And to him that knocketh, it shall be opened.
For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. ”
Scylla’s reeling. For a second the ceiling swirls and contorts as energy thrums between them. Scylla tries to keep her footing, tries not to wilt in the face of this powerful and potent seed. But it’s impossible, and the more she struggles against it, the more useless it becomes; there’s nothing she can do to stop this woman tugging at the threads of her heart.
After what feels like eternity, the woman drops Scylla's hand, a soft smile curling at her lips.
“Whoa,” Scylla breathes, a bit woozy. She brings her hand to her face. There’s dried blood caking her wrist, but the skin underneath it is completely healed. “That was amazing. What was that?”
“That is called Linking.”
“Linking? What, like, healing?”
“Well, Linking is healing, but more. Your mother never taught you?”
“No,” Scylla drops her eyes. “We couldn’t do a lot of Canon Work. It wasn’t safe. We had to...”
“Stay quiet. I understand that. Your parents were smart to be cautious.”
Fat lot of good that did them , Scylla thinks bitterly, shoving her unbloodied hand in her pocket.
“Hmmm.” The woman sounds contemplative as she wanders over to the kitchen stove. She turns on the stove, frying up a batch of tomatoes, and suddenly Scylla finds she is very, very hungry. “Well, how about you make yourself useful. Wash yourself up and start cutting these vegetables. There’s no room for layabouts here.”
+++
They work in silence for about 15 minutes. It would be domestic if Scylla couldn’t shake the feeling she was being weighed up, like a prized sow being led to market. The woman seems nice enough, in a foreboding sort-of-way, but looks are definitely deceiving and Scylla knows power when she sees it.
Scylla’s halfway through her meal when she plucks the courage to say what’s on her mind.“You… you’re the Lady. The Lady upstairs.”
The Lady looks amused as she takes a bite of her meal. “Is that what they call me?”
“Yes. Because you’re the boss.”
“We don’t have bosses here.”
“Let me help,” Scylla bursts out, discarding her lunch. She’s yearned to say these words, and now she has the chance, she can’t stop herself. “I don’t want to just sit around, I want to help. I want to be out there, fighting for witches. Fighting against our oppressors. I can help. Let me help.”
The Lady is silent.
“Please. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Scylla has to swallow the lump in her throat. “We’re all in danger. We won’t stop being in danger until we’re free. Until we burn down the house Alder built.”
“If you really wanted to help you’d be out with the others.”
“The others?” Scylla scoffs, throwing a hand towards the window. “I saw them. They’re talking to plants. Oooh, really scary. I didn’t realize horticulture was the key to defeating the army.”
If Scylla could, she would scoop the words right back into her mouth. The Lady’s face is indecipherable as she stares at Scylla, eyes as still as a snake. Scylla feels herself wilting, right in the middle of this suburban kitchen as she pushes her rapidly cooling breakfast around her plate.
Just as she thinks she might have screwed up terribly, the woman relaxes, taking a long sip of her tea. "My goodness. You’ve sure got a mouth on you, Scylla.”
“How did you know my name?”
“It’s my job to know a lot of things.” She sets her mug down. “Now come on, missy, let’s go for a walk.”
+++
It must be the weekend in their sweet little piece of suburbia.
Civilians are milling around, enjoying the early afternoon breeze, talking to each other over a cup of coffee, half-watching their kids speeding down the curb on their bikes. The smell of fresh cut grass and barbecue is in the air. It's so saccharine sweet, and a gnarled part of Scylla hates them all for it.
She hears her distaste echoed in the Lady’s voice. “It’s like something out of a brochure, isn't it? What a nice little slice of the American Dream.”
Scylla shrugs, tries not to scowl too much at every passing civilian.
“Patty!” A woman is power walking towards them. She’s clad in a fuchsia lycra suit, hair in a perfectly coiffed bun, a dumbbell in each hand and a determined look on her bovine face. It takes every ounce of Scylla's resolve not to burst out laughing. “Good to see you.”
“Stella, how are you? You’re looking well.”
“Gotta get my steps in. Who is this?”
“This is my niece, Louise. She’s starting college in the fall.”
“Hi there.” The woman’s eyes slide past Scylla, almost as if she wasn’t there. “This weather, huh? It feels like forever since I stretched my legs. Better get back to it. Nice meeting you, Louise.”
The smile on Scylla’s face could cut glass, but the civilian is oblivious, trotting down the tree line street without a care in the world. Scylla watches her go. Her insides are roiling but she’s not sure why.
“Did you know there are twenty active conflicts around the world right now?”
Scylla starts, turning to look at the Lady guardedly. “Sorry?"
“Twenty. From Kabul to Kiev to Aceh and a whole lotta places in between.
And they - ” she throws a dismissive hand towards the civilians- “have no idea. They throw parades and launch balloons and give their enthusiastic consent for us to die on their behalf. And what a death. Smallpox. Plague. And worse.”
“It’s Alder’s fault,” Scylla hisses, lowering her voice as a group of children race past. She feels an illicit thrill at her treasonous words. “The great hero. She did this.”
“Alder,” the Lady spits her name out like a curse, “sold us out. As did all the High Atlantics. So desperate to entrench what little power and privilege we witches have. It’s pathetic. They helped build our cage. But they weren’t the ones demanding we get into it.”
“Are you serious? The army is persecuting their own. They hunt us down like dogs. It’s immoral. It’s unnatural. We are enslaved because of them.”
“Are we?” The Lady turns to look at Scylla, her pallid blue eyes icy. “Tell me, who really benefits from our sacrifice? Who are the ones who get to live how they want, safe in the knowledge their daughters will never be war meat? Civilians thank us for our service, but really, they’re thanking us for dying quietly. And the faster our numbers dwindle, the more the civilians praise us.” The Lady scoffs. “I don’t think there has been a race of people more willing to go to their deaths.”
Scylla shivers, pulling her coat tighter around her. The neighborhood is bathed in a warm, dappled light, but Scylla is suddenly so very, very cold.
“If the Camarilla were still around,” the Lady continues, her voice low but conversational, as if they were discussing some trivial thing, “they’d be shocked: their ancestors have done all their dirty work. No need for a genocide when witches are doing it to themselves.” She stops and looks at Scylla. Gone is the genial woman from the kitchen, replaced by someone harder, colder. Scylla has to swallow hard and will herself not to take a step back. “Civilians think they can stay on the sidelines, but we’re about to change that. We are at war, Scylla, but not with who you think. If you want to join us, you need to understand that.”
Scylla pauses, sucking in a breath, trying to comprehend what this strange woman is saying. Growing up, she hated the military with every fiber of her being. Her parents were gentle people, but even they couldn’t hide their loathing. And her parents were right to hate the army; they were her family’s shadow, their relentless pursuer.
But Alder doesn’t work alone. Even she needs allies. And really, who are the ones really pulling the strings? Who gave their tacit consent to conscription, to war, to summary executions? Who stood by and did nothing, watched her family flit from place to place, never staying long, never staying safe. The President says this is a democracy; but there’s no justice here; not for her.
Not for her parents.
She turns her gaze back to the Lady.
“Do you understand?” the Lady asks solemnly.
Scylla hears the question behind the question.
“Yes,” Scylla says. “I do.”
+++
She’s already ready to go when Asha knocks on her door the next morning.
+++
The Work is strange at first, but soon she sees the worth in the Spree’s subtle, potent seeds. She honed her skills for weeks in the garden, coaxing life from the squalid, damp soil. Then she learns the art of transfiguration, turning mushrooms into roses. The roses that bloom from the earth are gorgeous and strong and Scylla almost regrets it when she figures out how to conjure fire; if only she didn’t love to watch things burn.
“Wilbur,” Scylla drawls when she sees him lurking around in the kitchen.
“Scylla,” he says, his disdain evident.
Wilbur is one of those men who always seems aggrieved - a tiny wisp of a witch who is constantly on the cusp of taking offence. He pretends it’s because he’s angry about the tyranny that witches face, but Scylla knows it’s because he’s a glorified babysitter. He runs errands while the rest of them work towards changing the world.
“Where’s the Lady?” Scylla asks, pouring herself a cup of water from the faucet.
“Out,” he says brusquely.
Scylla nods. In her months here she’s discovered the Lady is rarely present. She’s wondered why, but information is kept to a minimum. Scylla understands it, even if she wished she could be trusted with more secrets.
“Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, as always,” she drawls, not caring to dial down the condescension in her voice.
“Wait.” He sounds reluctant, his beady eyes flitting around the room. Scylla wonders if Wilbur knows how closely he resembles a praying mantis.
“There is something. She wanted me to give you this.”
“Oh?”
It’s a book. It’s heavy, its pages yellow and well thumbed. She turns to look at its cover.
A History of the Persecution of Witches.
“Just a little light reading,” Wilbur says drily.
“Yeah,” Scylla says distractedly. “Thanks.”
She retreats to her room. Inside, there’s an inscription.
Just something to help you hold on to your fire.
We’ll discuss it when I see you again.
L.
+++
The next attack is magnificent in its scale and grandeur.
A military convoy explodes in the middle of a routine transfer. Four tankers full of equipment are destroyed. Minimal witch casualties, the bulk of those killed are civilians accompanying the convoy, so it’s not like Scylla needs to cry over them.
They aren’t sure what weapon is used. It’s something the military wasn’t aware of; Scylla is told grunts do sweeps for possible explosives before undertaking major transports. The Spree operative, whoever she is, is nowhere to be found.
It’s beautiful.
“It’s all over the news,” Asha breathes, dark eyes gleeful as they watch it all unfold on their civilian television. “It’s all anyone will be talking about for weeks. It’s amazing!”
Scylla agrees, although perhaps not for the same reason. A mission like this requires a know-how that most Spree, if her cell is any indication, would not have access to.
It can only mean one thing.
Someone very powerful in the military is on their side.
+++
It’s late one evening in April when she hears a knock on her door.
“Hey,” Asha says, poking her head around the door. “Can I come in?”
“Since when do you knock?”
“Hey, I wasn’t raised by wolves. I can be polite. Sometimes.”
“Sure, come in,” Scylla smiles. She gestures apologetically. “Sorry for the mess, I was getting ready for bed.”
“It’s fine.” Asha seems a little tentative as she enters. It’s strange. It’s not as if she hasn’t been in Scylla’s room countless times. “Can I…”
“Oh.” She wants to sit by Scylla next to the bed. Scylla shuffles so the older girl can take her place. “What’s wrong? You look serious.”
“I’m getting activated.”
Scylla’s stomach drops. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s great,” Scylla tries to muster a smile. Asha is the first friend she’s had for a long time. She’s the only one close to her age in this cell. They’ve lived in the same world; Asha’s family were dodgers too. Her parents are still alive, cowering somewhere near Alabama, but Asha chose to fight. Her anger burns almost as bright as Scylla’s; sometimes at night the pair of them swap stories, stoking their shared flame.
“Yeah.”
“I’m serious. It’s an honor. Do you know what the plan is, or…”
“No, just the address. It’s the afternoon, but I need to leave pretty early. So I guess… this is goodbye - ”
“For now,” Scylla says firmly, her voice sounding more sure than she really feels. No-one, once activated, returns to their original cell. “One day I will be activated too, and then, who knows? We’ll see each other again. I know it.”
“You’re always so sure of everything.”
“It’s because we’re right, Asha. What we’re doing is right and just. I don’t need anything else.”
“I know. It’s just a lot.” Her friend swallows hard, dark eyes darting around Scylla’s room. She pulls out a flask from her sweatshirt. “I feel like a bit of liquid courage right now.”
“Seriously? You want to get drunk before your mission?”
“No, you jerk. I just want to take the edge off, and it’s not much,” Asha’s smile is tentative, “if you share it with me.”
+++
Scylla’s only had a few shots of whatever potent concoction is in Asha’s flask before the pairing of them are on the floor, laughing about nothing in particular.
“Oh, shoot,” Scylla says as she spills a bit of liquid on her sweatshirt. She pulls it off. She’s only wearing a thin tank top underneath and she shivers when her skin is exposed to the tepid air.
She meets Asha’s gaze. In the dull light her friend’s eyes seem darker than usual. Scylla swallows, her throat dry, feeling a little flushed.
“Your witchmark…”
“Oh-” Scylla self-consciously reaches around to touch it. It’s on her left shoulder blade, low enough that it’s easy to hide. “What about it?”
“It’s shiny! You never said anything. I can't believe it, you were holding out on me." Scylla gives her an arch look, but Asha bulldozes on. "Oh please, you are not wiggling out of this one. Come on. Spill. Who was he? Or she. C'mon....”
“Fine. There was someone.” She hasn’t thought about Porter in months. “I liked him."
"And?"
"And nothing. He was nice."
"You're really talking this guy up…"
"I don't mean it like that," Scylla sighs, taking a swig of her drink. She doesn't like dwelling on Porter. It would have devastated him to know that she left without a second glance. But her pain was greedy and jealous. There was no space for anything else.
"He’s a good person. And being with him felt right in the moment, but honestly?" Scylla picks at the lining of her jeans. “I don’t see what the fuss is about.”
“You don’t see what the fuss is about? What do you mean? Like, sex?”
“Mhmm.”
“What? A witch's pleasure is beautiful, Scylla. It’s the most beautiful thing. It’s why we celebrate it, why even the army has to accommodate it.” Asha’s voice is low, hoarse. Scylla finds herself leaning closer. “I can show you. If you like.”
Scylla sees the heat in her friend's gaze, and it makes Scylla feel warmer too, warmer than she’s been in months, and she doesn't push her away when Asha’s soft mouth meets hers.
+++
“This is bullshit.”
“Language.”
“I’m sorry, this is fucking bullshit.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Wilbur snaps.
“I’ll talk how I like. Because you’ve all gone insane.”
“Maybe we should all take a breath,” the Lady says mildly, as if she’s used to being sworn at. She motions to the kettle, sitting in the middle of the kitchen island, like this is some ordinary day. “I brewed tea.”
“Don’t play this down.” Scylla hates that she’s on the cusp of tears. But hearing this request, from the Lady, of all people, feels like a slap in the face. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to hand my future over to Alder. I spent my entire life fighting against that. And now, what? I’m supposed to give that up?”
“Not at all,” the Lady says, pouring herself a cup. “Wilbur, do you want some tea?”
“Only if I can throw it at her.”
“Don’t. That’s not helping.” The Lady’s pale eyes look at Scylla beseechingly. “Scylla...”
“I’ll do anything. Send me out in the field - you know I’m good. I’ll fight whoever you want, go wherever you want. But not this. Anything but this.” Her parents' faces swirl across her vision. “Please.”
“Scylla,” the Lady says gently, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “I know. I know how hard this is for you, but we all have our parts to play in what comes next.”
“The return to Eden,” Wilbur says reverently.
“The return to Eden,” the Lady repeats. “And you are good, Scylla. You have powerful Work within you, girl, but any full-grown witch will eat you alive. And you’re no good to me dead.”
“Thanks, I feel better now.” She rubs her face, appalled when her hands come away wet.
“You’ve been here long enough,” the Lady says. “You know how we operate. You know we are the most dangerous when we strike from the places where they won’t look.”
“They’ll be looking at me if I’m standing in the middle of Fort Salem.”
“No, they won’t,” the Lady says. Her voice, normally so measured, is for once impassioned. “That is exactly why you must go. They think we wouldn’t dare breach their sacred space. That’s why they are fools. That’s why we will win. Remember: the way over is under.”
“The way out is in,” Scylla replies, dutifully.
“Use them. Let them make you powerful, then use their weapons against them. And we need people, watching their every move.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Scylla asks tiredly, feeling her fight ebb away. She slumps into the nearest chair, staring listlessly at the faded kitchen bench.
“Answer the call. Be the perfect student. Hone your talent. They’ll fear it someday.”
“So you want me to be a good little soldier?”
“Scylla,” the Lady laughs, as if this is some joke. “I am actually asking you to be the opposite.”
“And if I refuse?”
“…Then we will have to let you go.”
The threat isn’t subtle. Scylla sighs. The thought of being alone, truly alone, fills her with the kind of creeping dread she hasn’t felt in years. “I thought…”
Scylla trails off. She wasn’t sure what would happen when the Lady called for her today, but it definitely wasn’t this. “I’ve been waiting to be activated for years, but I thought it would entail something more than...this.”
“Oh, honey...you’re not ready to be activated yet.”
“Excuse me?” Scylla seethes, her anger, always smoldering, roaring to life.
She stares at the Lady, incredulous. What mission could be more fraught, more important, than breaching Fort Salem’s walls? "Let me get this straight. I'm going to enlist but I'm not on a mission?"
"Your mission for now is to learn."
"Fine," Scylla snaps. The Lady isn’t as genial as she pretends, and Scylla knows it’s kind of stupid to question her, but none of this is making even a tiny a bit of sense. "When will I be activated?”
“Don’t worry. We will let you know.”
+++
Her parents looked so happy.
She took this picture. They were at a beach called Labor in Pain, a spot in Massachusetts so gorgeous and remote that for a few, heady days, her family dreamed about putting down roots.
Her father had come up behind her mother and threw his arms around her, squeezing tight. Her mom rolled her eyes but she wasn’t fooling anyone, leaning into the embrace as Scylla grinned and lined the shot up from behind the camera’s lens. She took a few snaps, and almost dropped the damn thing when her dad pulled her close, his wispy beard tickling her temple and she burrowed into the warmth of his chest.
It was why they were running. For moments like this.
It was the one thing, the one thing, her parents didn’t want for her. They did everything they could to stop her from setting foot in Fort Salem. She was supposed to live, not die for a cause that wasn’t hers. She was supposed to be free, not shackled to Alder’s cage.
Except she wasn’t free. None of them were, least of all her pacifist parents.
And when their time came, they were helpless, cowering and begging, only to be crushed by the military all the same.
Scylla will be crushed too. It’s only a matter of time. But she won’t go quietly.
A knock at the door shakes Scylla from her thoughts. After a second, the Lady pokes her head around the door.
“Scylla?”
Scylla shoves the picture into her pocket. If the Lady notices, she doesn’t say anything, which is good, because her parents are hers, and hers alone.
The Lady comes to sit next to her on the bed. She’s silent as Scylla stares resolutely ahead. If the Lady wants to talk, she can, but Scylla isn’t going to indulge her.
“I know this is hard for you. I know. We’re all going to sacrifice…so much…for this cause. No matter how much it hurts. No matter the price. Because it’s the only way.”
That’s easy enough for the Lady to say. She’s not the one betraying her family. But Scylla doesn’t have the energy to fight, so she swallows hard and says instead, “I know.”
“I know you do. That’s why you’re ready.”
“For what?”
“When I said I wanted you to learn, I don’t mean just from them. Your Sargeant will tell you it's only acceptable to Work within Canon, that there’s only one way to be a witch. It’s a lie. That’s why we don’t play by their rules.”
Scylla’s heart begins to beat faster. Her parents taught her Work, but only small charms to keep them safe. “Are you talking about...banned Work?”
“It’s only banned because civilians want it to be. But I’m done taking orders from them, aren’t you?” She hands Scylla a lighter. “I think it’s time for you to be free.”
Scylla stares at it. To an untrained eye it’s a nondescript, grey lighter, but she can feel its power, thrumming and warm as she cradles it in her palm.
“You’ll need training. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maybe a month, but I want you prepared before you say the words.” The Lady smiles, and for once, it reaches her eyes. “I know it’s a little early, but happy 18th birthday, Scylla.”
+++
Scylla enlists. She expects it to be the worst day of her life.
It’s not.
She feels an illicit thrill when she puts on the uniform, and the medallion around her neck doesn’t feel like an albatross. In fact, if anything she enjoys her disguise, becoming well-practised in the art of the secret sneer.
Her outfit is perfect, her smile impeccable and when Alder first addresses the new recruits, she stamps her feet harder than anyone else. The work Necros do, by its nature, is solitary, so no-one questions why Scylla keeps to herself. The other new recruits are led to the Circe barracks, but Scylla and the handful of other Necros are allowed their own rooms in the Medea dorm.
It’s an incredible amount of latitude and Scylla realizes the Lady is right- only the army could be so arrogant not to suspect their own.
Still. Their stupidity is her gain, and she spends her free time alone in her quarters, practicing the Spree’s Work, running through the whole gamut of new faces the Lady gave her.
Eventually, even the other Necros leave her alone. She doesn’t mind the isolation; she was used to it growing up, and here, at least, she can throw herself into the Work. Some days, though, when it feels like she’s barely spoken in days, she wishes the Spree would check up on her, just so she could talk to someone. But it’s better this way; everyone knows the army has no qualms killing their own.
So, in a way her parents never could, Scylla beats the army at their own game. She’s polite, studious and better than the rest of her cohort combined. The army is enamored but their praise leaves her cold; only at night does she feel a flicker of heat, when she sees the strange face in the mirror and thinks of a blade pressed flush against Alder’s neck.
+++
She doesn’t return to the Cession.
Instead, she finds a note, delivered to her window at Fort Salem. It’s an address in upstate Massachusetts. She commits it to memory, which is lucky, considering that the note self-combusts less than three minutes after Scylla receives it.
It’s enough. She goes to the new safehouse, with a song in her heart and a grin on her face.
She’s been at the new cell for a month when everything changes.
“How are you enjoying your holiday?”
The Lady is sitting in the living room, nursing a glass of liquor and looking a little wan.
“Fine,” Scylla says, surprised. She hangs her coat by the door. “Could be better.” If you activated me, Scylla wants to add.
The Lady indicates the chair across from her. “Take a seat.”
Scylla shrugs and complies. In the afternoon light she can make out the deeply etched lines on the other woman's face. Scylla hasn’t seen her for more than a year, but the Lady is definitely wearier than she remembers. She looks used-up, as if someone has sucked all the marrow from her bones. Which is weird. She should be elated. The Spree has never been more rampant.
“What are you drinking?” Scylla asks.
“This here is a Chippewa Cession delicacy. You wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me.” My dad used to like weird drinks.
The Lady’s smile is wry as she sizes Scylla up. “Well, I suppose you’re not a kid any more.” She pours Scylla a large shot. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Scylla downs it one. Then really wishes she hadn’t. The aniseed flavor is pleasant at first, but the drink stings like hell on the way down. She tries to keep a straight face but within seconds she’s coughing and spluttering everywhere.
“I did warn you, Scylla. But you didn’t listen.”
“What is this? Poison?”
“I don’t tend to poison people unless it’s strictly necessary.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Scylla croaks, putting her drink away. She gathers herself. The Lady doesn’t make house calls for nothing. Some may think she’s an ordinary woman, but Scylla can feel the power, the authority, radiating off her in waves. It makes her heart beat a bit faster because there’s so much she wants to share, and Scylla can’t shake the feeling she needs to prove that she’s worth the Lady’s investment. “I did what you said. Top of the class and everything.”
“I heard. Good work.”
“I was the very model of a perfect soldier, ready to die for the cause.” Scylla chuckles, hoping to cut through the odd tightness in the air. “They’re scared, you know. The army. They're so freaked out they are barely even hiding it from the cadets. Every day, whipping up hysteria, over and over. It's almost sad, really. To see so many proud witches so afraid."
The Lady smiles thinly. "They shouldn't be. If only they knew we were not their enemy."
"You should hear the officers talk. ‘It's our duty to protect civilians,’ as if the burning days are behind us. It's such a joke. They’re so sure they’re right they can’t see the truth even though it’s right in front of their faces. It's all very…” she thinks of the stories her mother used to tell, “the-last-days-of-Rome."
"Let me guess. Alder is Nero?"
"With the tiny violin and everything." Scylla leans forward. "Let me go out into the field. Don't send me back there. Please. I want to help."
"You want us to extract you? You really think you've learned all the army has to offer?"
"Learn what? How to be scared of other witches?! Surely I can be more use -”
“You’re useful where we say you’re useful.” The words are clipped, almost perfunctory, but Scylla can sense the other woman’s tightly coiled fury. “Don’t you forget that. Things are escalating. Everyone will play their part. Be patient. If you can’t, the door is open, you can always leave.”
“No- of course not. I would never -”
“Then listen, for once. When the moment comes, we’ll expect you to act. Decisively, and with no regrets.” The Lady’s eyes burn with an ice-cold flame. “Can I trust you to do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The woman stands, downing the dregs of her drink. Scylla wants to stand with her, but her wobbly legs are rooted to the floor. “And stop the backtalk to Wilbur. He’s my eyes, you know. And I see everything. Every success, and every failure. But you won’t fail me, will you Scylla?”
Scylla wants to say, I never fail, but she can’t force the words. “I won’t,” she says quietly instead.
“Good. We’ll be in touch.” The Lady’s smile is sour. “Enjoy what’s left of your holiday.”
+++
A week later she’s packed for her return to Fort Salem when she sees Wilbur waiting in the living room.
“You’re needed. Drop everything and go to this address.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re being activated. You need to go to this address, now. There’s a bus stop at the end of the street. Catch the 11am. You’ll be there in an hour.”
Scylla’s heart is galloping She takes a small piece of paper from Wilbur’s hand, casts her eyes over the black scrawl.
Baylord Auto.
Within seconds the note catches alight, burning bright before dissolving into ash in Scylla’s palm.
“My - my stuff…” she stutters, gesturing vaguely towards her bedroom upstairs. “Does this mean I’m not going back to Fort Salem?”
“I don’t know anything about that. Your bags will be waiting for you when you finish your task. But you gotta go now. Revolution waits for no witch.”
“Okay,” Scylla swallows hard. Now that the time has come, she can barely believe it. She wants to say finally but also too soon . But she's never been one to dawdle, and fuck it: if she's in this war, she may as well start getting her hands dirty. She's about to throw on her jacket when she remembers the Lady's warning. She turns. “Thank you, Wilbur.”
It’s a pretty weak attempt at being polite, and Wilbur knows it. His chalk-white face is a mask of malice. “My pleasure. Oh, and Scylla? Happy conscription day.”
+++
It turns out she is needed back at Fort Salem, but she’s no longer a sleeper agent.
Scylla has barely entered her room on the barracks when she feels the air pressure drop and the whisper of ancient scripture reverberate around her ears.
When she whirls around she sees a blue balloon, floating ominously in the mirror. She does appreciate the Spree’s flair for the macabre.
“Is this how you’re going to talk to me now? No more little fire notes?”
The person controlling the balloon breathes onto the glass and writes neatly into the condensation.
Your new assignment. Find and recruit first-year cadet Raelle Collar.
“You...want me to recruit a first year?”
Befriend her. Bring her to our way of thinking.
“Okay,” Scylla drawls. It’s not the fire and brimstone that she was hoping for, but it’s an interesting task nonetheless. She's never been a mentor to anyone and as long as the girl isn't boring, she wouldn’t mind having her own acolyte, someone to mold and to guide and to share her hate.
And befriending some impressionable private isn’t such a bad assignment. It’s better than the alternative, it’s better than hearing the sounds of bodies against the flo--
“What does she look like?” Scylla says quickly, shaking away those thoughts. “What does she like? Where can I find her?”
But in a puff of smoke the balloon is gone, leaving Scylla shivering in its wake.
+++
One good thing about being Sargeant Izadora L'Amara’s pet student is access to the Necro building whenever she likes.
“Hand me that scalpel, will you?” Izadora asks, leaning over the carcass of a fox.
Scylla peers over to inspect what Izadora is doing. Most of Fort Salem is fake, indoctrination dressed up as pageantry, slavery dressed up as honor. But when she’s in the Necro building she feels Fort Salem’s true power; death, in all its glorious magnetism. People think Alder holds the key to Fort Salem’s health, but Scylla knows the base’s beating heart is here; underneath its sacred earth.
But she’s not just here to learn anymore, so she hands Izadora a scalpel and hopes her voice sounds casual. “Heard anything about the new recruits?”
“Not much,” Izadora says, slicing into the fox’s gut. “Smallest pool in years though.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Scylla lies.
“And I don’t believe there is a single Necro among them, which is...unfortunate."
“More time to focus on us, then.”
“If only everyone was as studious as you. Hand me the forceps, please.”
Scylla does so, watching her instructors' dark eyes rake over the remains of the animal, totally transfixed. Scylla smiles, keeping her voice light.
“Anyone...interesting to look out for?”
“From the old families? I believe there is a Bellweather. And a Swythe.”
“I heard a rumor you’re putting the cadets in units this year.”
“You’re a resourceful one. That’s supposed to be a secret.”
“I keep my ear to the ground, just like you always said. So, are Bellweather and Swythe in the same unit?”
“Of course not. You want to start a civil war? I think Swythe is with O'Connor and Adair.”
“And….who is Bellweather with?”
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. And it probably never will be answered, because Izadora is no longer paying attention to Scylla. Her gaze is fixed on the animal lying prone on the slab, murmuring a seed so softly Scylla almost misses it. Izadora can be in this trance-like state for minutes, even hours, so gathering intel is going to be tough.
That’s okay. There’s more than one way to skin a fox.
+++
She’d laugh out loud if it wasn’t so utterly depressing.
Dozens of women, barely waiting for their buses to come to a halt before bounding out, chattering excitedly to one another, as if this was some civilian summer camp. Even from Scylla’s vantage point, half-hidden behind a crowd of onlookers, the excitement is palpable as they bask in the sun, milling around the manicured gardens. Some of the girls are looking around reverently, smitten by Fort Salem’s beauty. Others are showing off their medallions, cooing over them with such a sheep-like subservience, it makes Scylla want to scream.
She wishes she could boot them back to where they came from. But she can’t save them. Not yet, anyway. Not when she finally has a purpose. Her mark is here, among these impressionable women.
The Spree haven’t given her any details besides a name. Collar could be anyone: it could be the small dark hair girl, gawking up at the sky. It could be the willowy redhead who has tears in her eyes, it could be…
It could be her.
She’s the last one off the bus, dragging her heels and she shuffles onto the pavement. The other girls are overjoyed to be here; this one isn’t. Her clothes are worn and hanging off her small frame as she looks around with obvious distaste. Even from a distance, Scylla can sense her unease. Her vulnerability.
Her anger.
She doesn’t get much chance to scrutinize her possible mark any further before the new recruits are herded towards the Reception Hall so they can sit through an address by the Great General Alder. Indoctrination starts early here at Salem.
The girl looks up and for a split second Scylla swears she looks right at her. Scylla drops her gaze, heart pounding against her ribcage. If this girl is Collar, she can’t engage her. Not yet, anyway. Not until it’s on Scylla’s terms.
“Come on, ladies, get a move on,” one of the older recruits bellows from above. Scylla sneaks a look just in time to see her possible mark roll her eyes at her commanding officer.
She prays to a Goddess she doesn’t really believe in that she has just laid eyes on Raelle Collar.
+++
The Goddess listens.
Scylla waits outside, skulking in the shadows so she can watch the new recruits filter outside after listening to Alder. The girl is one of the last to shuffle out of the auditorium, hitching her large rucksack over her shoulder. She’s pretty, even from a distance, her flaxen hair catching the late morning light. But Scylla is more interested in the way she clenches her jaw as she stares up at Circe Barracks.
“Private Collar. We do not have all day.”
Collar.
Scylla’s heart is cantering in her chest as she stares at her mark. She’s glorious in her indifference, boots scuffing forlornly at the ground as she drags herself towards the entrance. Collar is weary already and she hasn’t been here for an hour.
Scylla can work with that.
She’s not entirely sure what method she is going to use in order to lure this girl to the Spree, but once she takes in Collar’s tattered flannel shirt, short cropped hair and tomboyish gait, Scylla gets an idea.
+++
She waits for the right moment.
Collar waits all of three days before she skips class. Scylla’s disappointed it’s taken that long.
From the aimless way she chooses her path, Collar doesn’t know where she’s going, only that she needs to get away from vocal training. She walks towards the outer boundary of Fort Salem. A dark part of Scylla is worried this girl is going to run. Scylla has been watching her like a hawk but she will never forgive herself if Collar slips through her fingers before she’s readied the net.
But no - Collar is drawn to the storm and fury ahead. Some third-year Blasters have conjured up at least half-a-dozen tornadoes, bending the sky to their will. It’s awe-inspiring magic -the wind howling as it scythes through rock and steel. She doesn’t blame Collar for staring.
Scylla’s mouth is dry as she makes her approach; there’s power in this moment. She can feel it percolating all around them.
“Sounds like a freight train. Who knew wind could cut rock? Wouldn’t mind learning how to do that.”
Collar’s eyes widen comically as she whips around. She relaxes slightly when she realizes she’s not about to be chewed out by a drill sergeant.
“Yeah, well, with my luck, I’ll wind up a medic like my mom.” Collar - Raelle - sounds bitter. “Didn’t work out so well for her.”
Dead mom? Scylla can definitely work with that.
“Shouldn’t you be in training?”
Goddess, she’s earnest . And beautiful up close. Scylla doesn’t even have to feign the flirtatious lilt in her voice. “Shouldn’t you?”
Raelle gapes, glancing bashfully away. She looks sumptuous in the late afternoon light. Scylla takes a moment to drink her in; she is going to need to memorize this face, after all. And it's a lovely face: sharp jaw, button nose, bright eyes. A faint, proud scar on her chin she has chosen not to heal. Chippewa braids. A small pink tongue that flits to lick parched lips and…
They’re interrupted, because of course they are; authoritarians are everywhere. The older witches try to intimidate them, and for once, Scylla doesn’t bother to hide her contempt.
“They were loads of fun.”
“I bet they do birthday parties.”
Scylla laughs, almost despite herself. It's the first time Raelle has surprised her, and Scylla thrives on being kept on her toes. Raelle’s grin is cocky and wild, and Scylla thinks, mission or not, she'd like to have her.
"Walk you back?"
"I'm Scylla."
"I'm Raelle."
Scylla meets Collar's gaze with a lingering one of her own, enjoying the pink tinge on her mark’s face.
Scylla shouldn't have been worried.
This is going to be easy.
This is going to be fun.
+++
“I hate it here sometimes,” Raelle whispers.
“I know,” Scylla sighs, frowning at the forlorn lilt in Raelle’s voice. She threads their fingers together as they look up at the night sky, feet touching the base of an oak tree - their tree.
“I don’t know Abigail and Tally do it, all the training and the pageantry and the long hours. It’s such a grind. Every day, the same as the one before. And for what? Just so we can get into War College? Live a little longer?” Raelle scoffs. “Sounds great.”
It’s the kind of nihilism Scylla would have welcomed a few months ago, but now it makes her shift uneasily against the grass.
“Abigail is being even more of a pain than usual. Apparently, we are supposed to have a meeting with the Dean of War college at the wedding. At a wedding? Who even does that? Would it kill Abigail to let us have fun once in a while? I wish you could come with me. I’m not going to have any fun without you.”
“You will. It’s a wedding, blow off some steam. I bet Tally will be up for a dance, at least.” She squeezes Raelle’s hand gently. “Don’t let Abigail get to you. She’s just stressed. Anyway, even if you do have to meet the Dean of War College, you have nothing to worry about. I know you can win over even the most pompous High Atlantic.”
“Doubt it.”
“Hey. You’re charming. You charmed me.”
For a fleeting moment, a smile tugs at Raelle’s lips. “You were easy.”
“Hey, if I'm easy, Private, then so are you.”
Raelle’s laughter dies as quickly as it comes. She’s still struggling with something, Scylla can tell. Her girlfriend sighs, looking up at the sky with a desolate look on her face. Scylla bites her lip, wishing she could reach into Raelle’s chest and take all her pain away.
“You don't understand, Scylla They won't even look at me. I'm just some nobody with a Cession drawl and a civilian father and a dead mom, who…who...”
“Raelle…"
“This isn’t my world, Scylla. None of this is. But it’s all I’ve got, until I’m old and grey, if I’m lucky. If I don’t get used up and spat out, just like my mom.”
It’s the perfect opening, and somewhere inside she hears the Lady’s voice, urging her on: Hold onto your fire. Let it burn. The army wants to chain you, let us set you free…
But the Spree’s words feel squalid in her mouth. So she swallows them down, staring instead at the girl beside her, a girl the Spree seems determined to snare. The drumbeat is getting louder; the balloon visits every day, each warning more explicit, more ominous than the last.
Scylla feels cold all of a sudden, chilled right down to the bone. She’s wearing one of Raelle’s hoodies, she pulls it tight around herself.
“Hey. You’ve got me.”
Raelle turns to meet Scylla’s eyes. She looks so young, bathed in the moonlight. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Always.”
She leans over and kisses Raelle’s chin, her nose, her temple, wanting to convey with her lips what she can’t with her words. Raelle swallows a sob, tugging Scylla half on top of her, burrowing her face into the crook of Scylla’s neck. Her girlfriend’s body shaking, from cold or exhaustion or grief or a hundred other emotions Raelle keeps stuffed inside. Scylla squeezes her tight, wishes she could be a better source of comfort. Wishing they were back in her dorm, lying skin-to-skin in her sheets with nothing between them at all.
The Lady’s voice whispers again.
You won’t fail me, will you, Scylla?
+++
If she closes her eyes and listens, she can hear the steady beat of Raelle’s heart as Scylla lays on her head on her girlfriend’s sweat-slicked chest.
Scylla’s exhausted and sore in the best possible way, but the harder she chases sleep, the faster it eludes her.
“Can’t sleep?” Raelle asks. Scylla shakes her head. “Me neither. And here I was thinking we’d tire each other out.”
I’d never get tired of you, Scylla thinks, but the words can’t come out, so instead she burrows her face into the crook of Raelle’s neck instead, lips ghosting across salty skin.
“Hey. That tickles.”
“Sorry.”
Raelle rolls Scylla onto her back. Even in the gloom, Scylla can see the glint in her eyes. “You are absolutely not sorry.”
Scylla shrugs, smirking.
“You’re trouble , you know that?”
“Oh, please. You knew that from the moment you met me.”
Raelle’s grin is like wildfire, and Scylla feels her whole body burn.
“I suppose that’s true.” Raelle kisses Scylla. “I liked it.”
I know you did, Scylla wants to say but the words are swallowed by another deep kiss. They lie like this for a while, kissing deeply, slowly, intimate but not expectant. She shifts, a silent invitation that Raelle accepts, pushing Scylla further into the mattress, skin-against-skin. Scylla thinks that there is no other place she’d rather be than warm and spread open underneath Raelle.
She feels Raelle’s heat, slick and hot against her thigh and Scylla is about to beg for her to stop, because her poor body can’t possibly go again , when Raelle pulls her mouth away.
“You know what else I like? Your freckles.”
“Raelle!” Scylla laughs as Raelle starts kissing a cluster of spots, dotted all around her left shoulder. “Stop.”
“What? They’re cute.” Raelle bites down gently. “And everywhere. Although...I think...I’ve found all of them.”
“You have,” Scylla runs her hand through Raelle’s hair. “I don’t have as many as I used to.”
“How come?”
“I’m not outside much. Unlike you,” she squeezes Raelle’s arm, enjoying the taut feel of her muscles, “I’m too busy indoors to get a tan.”
“Mmmm. Doing sexy Necro things…”
“Yeah. Sexy weird Necro things.” They share a laugh as Scylla idly traces her finger down Raelle’s shoulder blade.“When I was younger, though...I was outside a lot...because…”
The words curdle in her throat. A Dodger’s life is spent on the road and through the darkness she can see her father. He was a mad hiker, and that's how she likes to remember him best, bathed in sunlight, calling up to her from a mountain's peak. Her mother, on the other hand, was a calmer presence, quiet to the point of shyness. Their shared passion was reading, there wasn’t a week when her mother didn’t come to Scylla’s room, with a half-dozen books under her arm and a gleeful look on her face.
Scylla squeezes her eyes shut, as if that would banish them from her thoughts, but of course it doesn’t work, because it never works. Her parents haunt her, but it’s better than not having them at all.
“Hey,” Raelle says gently, placing a soft kiss at her temple. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
It’s not okay, nothing is okay, least of all being cradled by the woman she’s supposed to betray. But her mind is more muddled with each passing day; the only thing she knows, truly knows, is that she needs to hold on to her anger because without that, she’s lost. Without it, her parents' deaths will mean nothing.
But it’s hard to hold onto her fury when Raelle slides off her, wrapping her arms around her from behind, fitting their bodies close together.
“What were they like?” Raelle asks so softly Scylla isn’t sure that she even said it.
Scylla has to swallow a sob because she doesn’t cry. She never cries.
"Sorry," Raelle gently kisses her neck. "You don't have to talk about them if you don't want to."
“No…” Scylla’s mouth feels full of clay. “It’s...okay. My mom was quiet. Smart. Serious. Dad...he was a joker. He made me laugh. They were...good.” It’s the most she’s spoken about her parents to anyone. Her mom and dad have always been her own; she’s guarded them from everyone, even the Spree. “I just miss them, that’s all.”
“I’m so sorry, Scyl.”
Scylla is biting down on the inside of her cheeks, willing herself not to lose it as Raelle tangles their legs together, holding her tight.
“What happened to you after your parents were killed? Did you enlist straight away, or…?”
It’s a dangerous line of questioning and any other time Scylla would put another brick in her carefully calibrated walls but there is something intimate in this moment; her room is so quiet and Raelle feels so solid and warm against her back and maybe it’s okay for her to whisper some secrets into the dark.
“There was a safe house. They took me in, gave me shelter.”
“Other Dodgers?”
“Sort of,” she lies, glad Raelle can’t see her face. “Everyone was running for some reason or another. There was…a woman there. She was older. Kinda strict and stern but really, really powerful. I think she ran it, the safe house.” Scylla swallows hard, picturing the Lady's impenetrable, unyielding face. “She helped me with my pain. Gave me the strength I needed to enlist.”
“I wish I knew you back then. I would have protected you, Scyl.”
“You couldn’t. Not from the military police.”
“Screw the military police.” And Scylla is rolled onto her back again, looking up at Raelle. “I don’t care if they sent a battalion after us, I would have burned them to the ground before I let them touch you.”
Goddess. Raelle’s face is so open and honest and Scylla can’t help but look up at her in awe. Despite her past, her trauma, there isn’t a disingenuous bone in Raelle’s body. Even her anger is righteous.
Scylla can scarcely believe she’s real, sometimes. Can’t believe she’s here.
Can’t believe she’s with Scylla.
Truthfully, she’s glad she didn’t meet Raelle all those years ago. Raelle would have tried to help, because that’s her instinct. That’s who she is, but Scylla’s grief is greedy; she thinks it would have swallowed them whole.
She would have used Raelle up and spat her out and ground her into dust because there wasn’t space in Scylla’s heart for anything else.
“Scylla? Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”
Raelle looks so concerned. Scylla swears her heart flips over in her chest.
“No.”
“Are you sure?” Raelle grins languidly. “Because my foot kinda lives in my mouth.”
Scylla pulls Raelle fully on top of her, breathing her in. “Don’t say that- I like your mouth.”
“It has its uses.”
Scylla laughs, nuzzling her clavicle. Raelle’s scent is comforting and all around her. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you.”
Raelle squirms, a bit shy and Scylla feels a tangled mess of emotions surge into her chest that she just doesn’t have the energy to deal with right now. Not when Raelle is in her arms. Not when the future fills Scylla with the worst kind of dread.
“So…” she clears her throat, “about your mouth…”
“Wow,” Raelle lifts her head, damp blonde hair stuck to her forehead. She looks bemused. “Again?”
“What can I say?” She brushes her lips against Raelle’s. “You inspire me.”
“You’re insatiable, more like.”
“Yeah. But only for you.”
Raelle’s roguish grin falters, and Scylla swears just for a moment, there’s a look of devotion in her vivid blue eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came Raelle’s kissing her softly, before trailing her mouth lower and lower still.
Scylla thought her body was sated but she’s wet, all over again, filled with a need so deep she’s not sure it will ever be quenched. She spreads herself open for Raelle, hot and ready, gasping against the sheets, thoughts forgotten. When Raelle slides her tongue along the length of her, two fingers working gently inside, it feels suspiciously like they’re making love.
+++
Later, when Raelle finally falls asleep, Scylla hazards a glance towards the mirror. It’s empty, mercifully, but it’s only a brief respite. Scylla swallows hard, a heavy weight settling squarely on her chest. They’re watching, even when she thinks they’re not; and Scylla swears she can still feel the Spree operative’s cold hands around her neck.
She’s not sure when the lines became blurred; when her purpose shifted towards Raelle and away from her mission. All she knows is that she’s chest-deep in trouble, with nowhere left to go.
Raelle mumbles in her sleep, something about her dead mom, Scylla thinks, heart clenching. She pulls her girlfriend close, basking in their shared warmth, their shared flame. Mapping out the contours of her face, committing every inch to memory.
While she still can.
++++
This is the street.
After fleeing Fort Salem in another stolen face, Scylla heads directly to her emergency stash. A locker, situated in a dilapidated pool-and-spa place, eight miles from Fort Salem. There is one set of civilian clothes, a handful of cash and an address. It’s only a street name, but it’s the best lead she has.
Scylla walks down the street carefully, searching for clues. Her fatigue means she doesn’t have the strength to hold her glamour for more than 20 minutes, max, so she doesn't bother to even try.
Scylla shifts uncomfortably. Her whole body aches, her joints stiff even though she's been walking for hours. Her wrists throb constantly: she swears can still feel the chains clasped around her wrists, chafing the skin red raw. And if that isn’t bad enough, the dungeon's dank, ashen stench is everywhere. In her mouth, her hair, on her skin, even after she washed and scrubbed herself dry. The army’s parting gift, she supposes. All part of their hospitality.
Her body is clouded with bruises and she hopes her jacket is big enough to hide them all. But even with her bulky outfit, she feels naked without her disguise.
Civilians are everywhere. She can hear some children down the street, hooting and hollering, causing a dog to bark in protest. Older civilians stroll down the pavement, hand-in-hand, and Scylla swears her heart stops every time that someone's gaze lingers on her face just a fraction too long. But she’d rather be an anxious mess than be stuck in that hellhole, that dungeon. It’s the only thing keeping her going; the knowledge that every step she takes is one step further away from Fort Salem.
Further away from Raelle.
I wish we never met, Scyl.
Unbidden, Scylla’s mind strays back again to her cell, Raelle rounding on her with fury in her eyes. Raelle, who said she loved her; Raelle, who now despises her. And even still - even when Scylla is so mad at her for not listening, for not realizing that she gave up everything just so Raelle would be safe, Scylla loves her still.
She always thought of Raelle as a one-woman-fire; Scylla was stupid to think she could play with flames and not get burnt.
There.
Scylla stops. The house is nothing special, a two-storey, ramshackle sort of place, with overgrown plants everywhere. Its facade is reminiscent of the properties she saw littered through the Cession when she first joined the Spree. She shoves her hand deeper in her pocket. Something about this place draws her closer, moth to flame.
What really seals the deal is the music. Some old country tune, the woman’s mournful voice warbling out onto the street. It could be nothing, but her intuition says otherwise: the song is so out-of-kilter with upscale Massachusetts. It feels like a beacon, a message just for her.
There’s a girl out on the stoop. Scylla doesn’t know her, but she’d recognize that haunted look anywhere.
“The way over is under.” Scylla resists the urge to play with her seashell necklace, the one her mother gave her.
“The way out is in.”
Scylla smiles wearily, feeling her heart lift a little for the first time since Anacostia offered her a way out.
The music rings out even louder when she enters. The house itself is charmingly disheveled, full of mismatched antiques - the sort of place her mom would have loved, and so different from her austere quarters back at Fort Salem.
In the pale, wan light, the house feels eerily familiar, as if she’s seen it in a dream. But that must be her fatigue talking. She feels a flicker of hope - dangerous, dangerous- hope - that maybe all isn’t completely lost. Maybe, now she's back with people who understand her pain, she’ll have a chance to do some good.
Her stomach growls. Someone is cooking. The food itself doesn’t smell appetising; but Scylla's mouth waters anyway. She hasn't eaten in more than a day and right now she'd even enjoy the muck the army serves. She heads towards the kitchen, ready to plaster a smile across her face, when…
Her stomach drops to the floor.
Wilbur.
He’s sitting in a chair by the kitchen, sallow face looking at her blankly as he twirls a mushroom stem in his fingers. He doesn’t say a word, just stares forward, still as a cornered snake and Scylla has to look away quickly. Her heart is clanging in her ears. Because if Wilbur is here…
She hears her first. She’s humming an old country tune Scylla vaguely remembers, on those rare occasions she was allowed to sit with the Lady while she cooked in the kitchen. She can’t see her, but Scylla can guess what she’s doing. She knows the Lady likes to present herself as a picture of domesticity; there’s something almost motherly in her behavior sometimes, but Scylla knows better.
Fail us and your future is bleak.
She can’t breathe.
She can’t breathe.
She can’t breathe.
Every threat comes back to Scylla, over-and-over, in vivid color; even if those weren’t the Lady’s words, Scylla is sure as hell she sanctioned them.
Scylla hovers by the door, heart beating so hard she’s surprised her ribs don’t rattle. Her life is unspooling before her eyes. This might be the end. She may have been extricated from the bowels of Fort Salem, only to be devoured by her former friends.
But she has nowhere else to go. She could hide, she supposes, and try to live an anonymous life. But she couldn’t stomach that; not when she’s seen the military up close. Alder and her acolytes tried to destroy her. Raelle almost finished the job. But none of them snuffed out her flame. Quitting now is not an option.
When all is said and done, she may have been unwilling to sacrifice Raelle’s life for the cause, but she’d gladly offer up her own.
One step. Then another. She sneaks a look and sees the Lady by the stove, stirring the food around a pot.
Scylla’s stomach churns. Her legs are like lead.
“How’d you get out?” the Lady asks blandly, not bothering to turn around. The other woman sounds completely unsurprised Scylla is here, as if she saw her coming from a mile off.
As if she’s been expecting her.
“Anacostia helped me,” Scylla says, entering the kitchen, praying she sounds nonchalant.
“Good work,” the Lady says. She still doesn’t turn around. Alarm bells ring in Scylla’s head. “I’m guessing you’re hungry?”
“Very.”
The slap of the wooden spoon against the counter rings out like a shot. The Lady turns. Her face is stone: even Medusa would shrink from her.
“You were supposed to bring me my daughter.”
Oh , Scylla thinks stupidly, stomach dropping to the floor, staring into those all-too-familiar blue eyes, everything at once falling horribly in place.
Oh.
Shit.