Imago Ch5: The Bookkeeper (Patreon)

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The Market is crowded. The lights are all wrong. There's too many smells, too many sounds. Too many people. It makes her head hurt, and it's hard to focus. Even flight is difficult in the network of corridors. It's like being in the canopy all the time. 

She'd go back if she could, but that path has closed.

Lyra huddles in the corner of the rooftop, delicately probing the soot covering her wings.The nymph makes a face as she does her best to clean it away. Hardly becoming, but what does that matter? She just needs this place's grime off of her. The rags she wears are equally filthy, but her wings are her wings. They're important. 

She sings as she preens -  her old song, wordless and wild. It isn’t intentional, but by the time she realises she’s doing it, it feels wrong to stop. What does it matter here, in this prisoning, limited place? She's here, and she can't change that. The least she can do is allow herself her song.

"Haven't seen you before." 

Lyra spins, talons poised and wings spread. From behind the brass tanks steps a four-armed goblin, dressed in a gilded vest and waving a half-smoked cigarette. 

"Oh come on now, I don’t bite." He says, holding up two of his hands. His others pluck a fresh cigarette from a pocket, offering it to her. "Just admiring a rare sight. Not too many nymphs around here. Name's Hedrick. You got one of those?"

"...a Hedrick?" 

"A name." 

Lyra stares suspiciously at the cigarette  "Yes.”  She lowers her claws. “Is this your perch?" 

There's a catch, or a trade, or a bargain. She knows better than to think otherwise. But the goblin just chuckles and repockets the offering, leaning against the tank and taking a speculative puff off his own. 

"Runaway, then? Escaped from the Unseelie district? Or someplace…further afield?”

She grips the closest pipe for support.  "I'll go if this is your perch.”

“Ach, keep it,”  he waves.  “I’m not here to chase you off.”

They rest together in silence as the goblin puffs happily away. After the cigarette’s half-burned down, he glances back to her.  “You look hungry."

Lyra doesn’t answer, turns her back and flicks her wings.  She goes back to preening.  

"This here’s what you’d call an entertainment establishment. We could use another performer. I’m told nymphs make exceptional singers.”   

"I don’t sing.” She says flatly.

“That’s fine. Just do whatever it was you were doing before my arrival, then.”

Lyra glowers.

Hedrick chuckles and takes one last puff before flicking the glowing end to the alley below.  “At the very least, let me get you some vittles. A wash. Some clothes that don't scream runaway?"

She considers. Could be a trap. But she has her talons and her teeth, and the goblin doesn't seem like a hunter. The wash sounds nice, and it would be good to wear something else.

But it's the food that decides it. 

"If this is false hospitality, I’ll kill you." Lyra warns. Hedrick bursts into raucous laughter.

“Well, I should bloody hope so!” 
He’s still chortling as he waves her inside.

+++

Only a few steps in, and she’s already regretting it. Hedrick lifts her arm, waving her hand at a surly-looking brownie hefting a large tub of soapy water down the hall. 

"Look 'oo I found on the roof, Mads. A stray! Guest now, I suppose. She’s hurting for a wash and a fresh uniform.” 

Lyra shakes free and steps out of arm’s reach, hissing. 

"No uniform." 

The brownie - Mads, she supposes - snorts.  "Garms are garms. Anything beats runaway rags.”  The brownie’s eyes narrow. “Not bringing trouble on us, are ya? None comin after?"

"No.” Lyra crosses her arms to obscure her wrist. “I’m alone."

Hedrick winks. "Convenient, innit?”

“You said there was food?” 

“Ah, right! Madeline, have Trystan offer her a proper meal.  She’s half starved.”  Hedrick gives them both a wave. “I’ve gotta talk with Selkie about some things for tonight’s performance.  Don't go disappearing on me, lass! We got business to discuss."

He straightens his jacket, then heads down the hall. Madeline rolls her eyes, giving Lyra a look up and down.

"Never thought he'd bugger off. Well, then, c’mon. Yous could use a scrubbin. Got a name, or did ya sell ‘at too?”

"No. Who sells a name?"

Madeline grins. “Ask Selkie why ‘er name is Selkie sometime." She drops the tub on the ground.  “Anyhow, let’s get ya shiny.”

+++



+++

Lyra scratches at the unfamiliar fabric of the uniform, wondering if she can unpick it into something more comfortable. She's already made holes for her talons and wings.  Like the water here, it doesn’t feel right… but the people who lived here had a point.  It was nice to be in a change of clothes. It was nice to be clean again.

 "...thank you." She says,  trailing after Madeline. She’s being led around the edge of some kind of common room. Lyra’s glad of it. It’s too crowded in the centre for her liking. 

"Not charity.”  Madeline answers.  “Hedrick’s hoping to twist your arm into workin’ for him.  Which I can clearly see is a waste of time, but try and tell that to the goblin.” 

Madeline stops to smile fondly at the empty stage. "Even so, do us a favour? talk to Selkie before you turn it down. She’ll be dotty ta meet ya. Always up for a new face, our Selkie. I’ve got customers to tend, but ‘ave a seat at the bar, Trystan'll be out with the scran." 

She nods at a clear stool and strides off. Lyra cautiously settles down, glancing at the stage. It looks exposed.  

Turning away, she measures her reflection in the polished bartop. She may be clean again, but there’s something dreadful in her eyes, hollow and gaunt.  She hadn’t realised how thin she’d grown.

A steaming basket slides over her reflection. It’s filled to overflowing with piles of light gold and darker fried something, all of which smells delicious. She looks up at her would-be benefactor, about to voice a thanks. 

It’s a surprise. She hadn’t expected to see another nymph, let alone one tall enough to tower over her. He lacks wings, but the bottles enshrouding his body… a protective carapace? Portable treasure?  

"So you're the rooftop nymph.” He says.

Lyra pulls her food basket close.  "And you’re Trystan. Are you going to ask for my name too?"

"Some people consider it common courtesy." He smiles. "I assume you disagree?"

She shrugs, then spears one of the darker fried somethings with a talon and bites into it. It’s fish! Strange, crispy, breaded fish. Much like Trystan, it’s been encased in a shell. A neat trick!  She takes another, larger bite, before answering through a mouthful.

"If it will stop people asking, it's Lyra.” 

“Lyra is a pretty name.”

Lyra swallows, dismissing the compliment as a useless nicetie. “Are you from the Wilds?" 

Trystan rubs at his arm self consciously. "Bit of a sore subject.  What's important is that I'm here. As are you. ” 

She finishes off the fish and swallows, nodding with a little more respect. So he understands, then. Good.

“But let's both be honest..." He leans forward and whispers. "You're from a Grove. Aren't you?"

Lyra's wings twitch. She hunches down over her food, pulling it closer to her. "That's not where I'm from."

“Oh no?”

“No.”

Trystan taps his chin in thought.  "Selkie’s almost on. Hedrick wants you to be her understudy.”  He smiles. “How do you feel about that?"

"Like he isn't listening." Lyra mutters, picking a fragment of fish out of her teeth.  He laughs. She smiles. Something inside her is beginning to relax.

The lights around them dim, and the room starts to quiet down.  She looks around nervously, when Trystan redirects her attention to the stage. A girl with mottled grey skin and thick black waves of hair bounds into the spotlight, gripping the microphone.  

"Allo, Marketeers! Who's ready to have a good time tonight?"

The audience roars, and Lyra watches as the performance begins. The girl's song is cheerful, her expression bright. Something with a bouncy melody. Nothing like anything she’d associate with the Wilds. But her smile...

She's where she wants to be, with the people she wants to be with. Singing her heart out for the crowd. 

By the time the lights come back, Lyra's gone, leaving nothing but an empty basket.




It's trickier to scale brick than bark.

Not impossible, not like the smooth stone walls. There's enough give for her claws to find purchase. In some of the oldest neighbourhoods, her talons can even punch right through the crumbling mortar.  But that takes strength, and energy, and concentration.  All things in dwindling supply.

She skitters across the edifice before settling into position, scoping out the alley below.  Her prey is fast, and knows the lay of the land better than she does.  She’ll need to attack with deadly accuracy. But she has one advantage.  She’s approaching her prey from an angle it doesn't expect. 

She lets go and swoops. Too late, the crowd realises its danger. She lands and is on her target in an instant, digging her claws into yielding, rubbery flesh as she lacerates and twists. Death is instant. The others scatter in all directions as she springs to her feet and drags her meal into the shadows.

As the rush of a successful kill drains away, she feels her knees wobble, and she sinks to the cobbles. Finally, she examines her dinner. No fried fish. No fresh venison. The limp carcass of the alp-luachra dangles from her claws. She's a scavenger preying on scavengers, a fact that turns her stomach. It's no different from some of her meals back in the Wilds, true - nothing she hasn't eaten before - but... 

I should have known these days would come again. 

Lyra gnaws at the leech's midsection. It's tough going, and the flesh is bitter and chewy, but she needs the energy. 

"That was quite the catch!" 

Lyra jumps, startled, spitting fragments of skin.  

There's a man, tall and bulky, moving toward her with an easy confidence. She had checked the alleyway before.  Where had he come from? Too large to hide. A threat?  She clutches her half-eaten carcass to the stained remnants of her uniform.

"Though your talents seem a bit… wasted."

She growls, flashing her wings and talons, hoping she looks more fierce than starved.  “What do you want?”

The man folds his arms, rings on every finger catching the light. He grins at her through a neatly-trimmed beard.   "How would you like to kill someone for me?"

Lyra's wings flicker. She withdraws behind some bins, watching him, measuring his movements.  He looks unlike any fae she’s ever seen.  Tentatively, she extends her antennae to taste the air.

"Why would I do that?"  She asks, suspicious.

"Because I think you’re good at it."

“That’s why you’re asking, not why I should accept.”

“...because you think you’re good at it, too.”  He chuckles.

Lyra settles further into the shadows, fidgeting with her catch. He grins hungrily, advancing. 

“Admit it. Hunting joint eaters in alleys just isn’t sustaining you.  It keeps you alive, sure, but it fails to give you a reason.”  

Lyra hesitates. She looks down at the half-eaten worm in her hand. Barely more than a few mouthfuls.  

“I will not be kept.”

“Of course not. You’re a real nymph. Not one of those bred for the sheets, but carved from dark and blood and bone.”  He smiles darkly.  “Your nature is to hunt. To kill. Is it not?”

“All things kill.” Lyra can feel herself growing defensive. Not towards him, though - not entirely. Her fists tighten.  “If you don’t kill, you starve.”  

The man speaks in a careful, fatherly tone.  “Of course. Few people understand, because most have been shielded from it.  Unlike ourselves.”

Lyra eyes him carefully. His stance. The way he holds himself beneath his coat. Yes, she can believe it. She stares hard at him, lowering her kill. 

"I'll need payment." 

"Money, clean clothes, shelter.  Any suite in the Market. Any food money will buy.”  His eyes twinkle.  He extends a hand.

Lyra steps closer, fighting back a sudden shiver. It's only when she takes his hand that she realises where it's coming from. 

His rings burn. She jerks away. 

"You wear iron.”  

"I do."

“You're human?" 

"I am.”

Lyra tilts her head, studying the faint marks on her fingers. She's heard of this. She can remember long stretches of dozing, wrapped in blankets and sharing sweet drinks, hearing of nothing but this.

"It has been a while since I’ve worked with a nymph like yourself, Lyra."

She hesitates. "... I didn’t give you my name.”

"Knowing things is my role.  Doing things will be yours.  With each of us playing to our natures, I think we will understand one another quite well.”  He extends his hand again.  Rings and all.

Lyra reaches out and clamps down, ignoring how her flesh burns, tightening until her claws draw his blood. "Do you have a name?"

"Long gone.” He grins, neither withdrawing. "But you can call me the Bookkeeper."



There are rules.

Sometimes it's one person, sometimes it's two. Once it is three, but never more than that. Occasionally it is in the Market, more often in the brutal human forest of iron and concrete. It is never in the Wilds, and she does not question this. Nothing the Bookkeeper requires is as brutal as the Wilds.

She is never seen. That is the most important rule. 

There is always blood.

And at the end, payment.

+++

The bar is one of several they’ve met at, all tucked away in the Unseelie district. This one’s run by a sour-looking, one-eared troll, currently shelving bottles behind the stained bartop. The space is dark and damp, with a mildew smell to match and the odd fungal growth sprouting from the furniture. The Bookkeeper is seated at the bar, looking incongruously trim with his neat beard and little notebook.

Lyra watches him scribble away. She doesn't know what he's writing, and he doesn't bother to tell her. That’s their understanding, and there’s something like friendship in it. 

She works meticulously, holding her wing with one talon, cleaning with the other.  The cloth she uses is stained deep crimson.  It's good to keep preened, so she can spend her earnings on more food, rather than more clothes. It's better to make sure she preens around the other Unseelie, so they can know what she does for those earnings. It's best, of course, to be seen with the Bookkeeper, because he is a man who leaves no question. 

"I need at least two cycles before next." She says, not bothering to lead into the statement. Some words she still struggles with, but he'll know what she means. "Will that be difficult?"

He lowers his notebook, raising an eyebrow.  "Don't tell me the banker was that much trouble. The old boy couldn't have seen you coming." 

"He didn't. He was preoccupied with his vault."  It's a new word for her, and it doesn't seem to encompass the idea of an iron prison for money, but the Bookkeeper is full of strange words and ideas. "I will need time to spend the payment." 

“You could just hold onto it, you know." 

“Why?” Her face creases in puzzlement. “To hoard it like a dragon?” 

The Bookkeeper smirks. "Accomplishment, then celebration. I can respect you for following the old ways.”  He crosses off two more things and snaps his book closed. “Take the full week, it’ll only increase demand.  In fact…” He looks up at the drink selection.  “Maybe we can start the celebration right now - go ahead. Anything you’d like."

Lyra scans the bar’s offerings.  It's a mixture of human alcohol and fae spirits. She has trouble reading the words, but fortunately, there’s images for most. For a moment she considers trying something dark and heavy-brewed, but then another catches her eye.  Her antennae twitch just looking at it. She knows how sweet it will taste, how the warmth will travel to her heart.

She jabs a talon at a bottle of glowing, golden liquid.  "One of those."

"Top shelf aether, and you’ve earned it.”  The Bookkeeper nods. Without a word, the troll swipes the bottle, cracks the seal, and  pours out a heavy glass for each of them. The Bookkeeper holds up his glass.  “To you, my talented friend."

Lyra gently taps their drinks together, 
then drinks…

She's lying in a high chamber. Light cascades around her, silk piled beneath as she turns to face a narrow window. Astraea hums behind her, her light pulsing softly as-

The image fades, just a sliver of a memory, and Lyra lets out a wistful sigh.  Her focus returns. She’s startled to see the Bookkeeper studying her, a fond expression on his face.  

“Yes?”

"Where did you go?"

She blinks at him, confused.  “Nowhere. We are still at the bar.”

“Just a turn of phrase,”  he chuckles.  "I see that look on your face sometimes, and I wonder where your mind wanders." 

Lyra considers her drink.  It isn't the kind of friendship they have, and perhaps ordinarily she'd leave him wanting, but the memory has left her feeling like she isn’t ready to let it slip away just yet.

"A time in the Wilds.” 

“Satisfying kill? Dangerous encounter?”

“A soft bed." Not a nest. Astraea had been very emphatic about that when Lyra had tried to make adjustments. "That’s the whole memory."

The Bookkeeper raises an incredulous eyebrow.  “I’ve always understood the Wilds to be, mmmm…rather brutal.” 

“They are.”

“Not the place for creature comforts.”

“They aren’t.”

“Well, then…?”

She shrugs, and takes another drink.

The Bookkeeper rotates the ice in his glass.  “So where would one find a bed in the Wilds…? A Grove, perhaps?”  

Lyra's eyes narrow.  “Leave it.”

The Bookkeeper’s eyes twinkle. 

“Don’t tell me this whole time my partner’s been a dryad’s delicate plaything? My deadly contract killer, the chamber pet."

“Bookkeeper.” Lyra growls. He lifts his glass, framing her in the golden liquid.

“Must have taken quite a cruel hand to keep you in line - ”

"She wasn’t like that."  She slams her drink on the counter. The Bookkeeper goes quiet, both looking away. Finally, he clears his throat.

"So… you were Kept?” 

Lyra nods.

“Captured?” 

No response.

"A gift for a kindly dryad, maybe?"

His tone’s softened, but she’s had enough of these questions. Lyra takes a longer, deeper drink. The Bookkeeper nods. 

"Or perhaps not." He slips out his notebook and begins to jot things down. "So she sends you to the Market under some orders, and when the opportunity presents itself, you make your escape.”

“She didn’t.”  She says, a bit more forcefully than she intends.  “... although she did want to visit.”   

“Annwyn?” 

Her irritation dissolves at the thought of Astraea making good on her plans to visit the human realm. She shrugs.  “She was…different.”

“So you didn’t flee an errand?”  Lyra nods. He frowns, obviously confused.  “Then how did you get away?  I don’t believe they’re in the habit of letting nymphs wander through the portal."

She grips her glass. “There are other ways." 

He blinks, apparently at a loss for words. Lyra’s wings shiver. As the last warmth of the drink fades away, it's left her colder than ever. 

“I think I want another drink.”  She mutters.

The Bookkeeper stares at her for a long good time.  “You know, there's a drink I've been saving for a special occasion.  It’s a human drink. I don’t believe you’ve tried it."

Lyra lifts an eyebrow. He waves at the bartender.

“Johnnie Walker.  From my homeland.”

"Cost ye an arm." The troll asks, glancing to Lyra. "Sure ye want ta spend it on 'er?"

The Bookkeeper gestures.  "She's been my lucky charm the past three years.  No good deed goes unpunished, right?"  The troll shrugs, then reaches up for a blue bottle of amber liquid. 

Lyra shifts restlessly as he pours their drink. She’s never tried any human liquor before.  But a gift was a gift.   She could hardly turn it down.

The Bookkeeper lifts his glass, swirling the drink and indulging the rich bouquet. "To our true purpose." He offers.

She taps her glass against his. Lyra drinks deep, before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“What do you make of it?”

“Burns.” She says. “But in a good way.”

The Bookkeeper nods. “That’s the idea. Wait for the rest of the effect. It’s something special.”  He goes to drink his own, pauses, then sets his drink down. "Say, Lyra. What was it you said your dryad's name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“…alright, well… I’m not one to push. But it might be helpful for me to know.  What if she comes looking?"

"She won't." Lyra gives the glass a swirl. Her reflection twists and dances, distracting her from her thoughts. "What’s this supposed to do?"

The Bookkeeper
Smiles.

Slowly, the bar tips sideways. Lyra's hand thumps at the wood, scraping at what’s left of the finish. She tries to flap her wings for balance, but one won't open and the other just sweeps away her empty glass. Her eyes are telling her the world's tilted one way, her antennae are arguing something else.

"What-"

She collapses to the floor, taking rapid, shallow breaths. Two shapes near her head resolve into something like a pair of boots. The Bookkeeper crouches down in front of her, grabbing her hair and pulling her up to face him. His rings wreathe her head in searing winter. 

“It does what all liquor does. 
Create opportunities."

tik 
tik 
tik

Lyra's eyes snap open. 

The Bookkeeper stands over her, pinning down her right wrist.

Her left is a blaze of pain.

"AAAAAAGH!" 

Her teeth snap a hands-length from the Bookkeeper's face. Her talons slash at him. Whatever's holding her left arm in place

 chains I'm chained he's chained me with iron

keeps them at the wrong angle to carve and puncture, but one still hisses through his shirt, scoring a shallow cut in his chest. Bright blood arcs through the air. The Bookkeeper sucks in air, holding one hand over his shirt. 

"Awake sooner than I thought."  He grimaces, then turns away with a bark of laughter, walking toward a pile of oddments.  

She’s dizzy and sick to her stomach.  Her head is pounding and her eyes feel painfully sensitive.  Lyra can't make sense of her last few memories. It's hard to put them in order.

She remembers enough.

A single chain binds her left arm to a large wooden altar, adorned with another five manacles, waiting to secure five waiting limbs. 

They are atop a pillar, unwalled and exposed. Mirrors spin and rotate in the inky air, each showing a different flash of somewhere else. In the distance, ticking gears move in the same mechanical rhythm as the Bookkeeper. And, to Lyra’s growing horror, herself.

She lurches upright. Her head spins, her arm jerks back.  Searing pain jolts through her. Lyra hisses.  With her free hand she pries at the manacle, her fingers sizzling at the touch. 

"You’ll bleed for this.”

"Apologies for not properly inviting you in.”  He selects a copper spider the size of a tea kettle, inserts a key into its thorax and begins to wind. “I didn’t plan for it exactly, and I hadn’t wanted you to suffer.  You've been a good partner to me for these past three years. You may have crossed the river, but we don’t always get the choice not to."

Lyra scrambles onto the top of the altar, the chain forcing her into an awkward crouch.   The skin of her wrist feels blistered and cauterised. She doesn't want to think about what it must look like underneath. 

“Why?”

The key clicks, and the bookkeeper holds it up with satisfaction.  "Desperation, I suppose.  When I come across something I desperately want, I prefer to have the one who possesses it equally so."  

He touches his hand to his chest, smearing blood on his fingers, then daubs it on the spider. It bursts into searing white light, forcing Lyra to snap her eyes shut and look away. She can hear its legs working, thrashing and clattering as the Bookkeeper sets it on the floor.

"Relax.  All I want is information. Nothing has to change afterward, if you wish. We can go back to the bar. I’ll buy you another drink and you can forget about all of this. They sell something that’ll do the trick nicely, I understand."

“Ask.” Lyra spits.

“Tell me about this backdoor to the Wilds.” He says. His voice is steady, measured. 

“Why?”

Her antennae track the spider. It’s close. Already to her. Working its way up the altar.

“You'd die. The Wilds would consume you."

"There’s no other way. I must go to Xylia. I must meet with the dryads.”

She feels a pull at her ankle. A light thread winding around it. Lyra bares her teeth, tensing.

“Then the dryads will kill you. If you’re lucky.” 

A light chuckle. “What say you let me worry about that, pet?”

She doesn’t answer. The thread winds round and round.

“Why the hesitation?” The Bookkeeper asks. “I won’t say a thing about you to them.   You’ll be safe here. I don’t believe we’ll ever meet again, but no need to lose sleep over my loss. I’ll set you up just fine.” 

The line goes taut. It’s being dragged up to a point over her head.

Only a few seconds left.

“Come on now, lass.”  His voice takes on a softer, wheedling tone. “Before this gets a bit less pleasant. Why don’t I make the offer sweeter? Freedom from your past, security for your future.” 

“Do they sell that drink too?”  She rasps.

The Bookkeeper chuckles. “Nothing so complex. I’d just pay that Keeper of yours a visit before attending to my business. I promise you, once I’m done with her she’ll never trouble you again.”  

Her eyes snap open, even against the blinding light.  Her free knee comes down on her imprisoned hand, and with an agonised scream she gives a vicious wrench.

The crack that follows is the worst sound she's ever heard. 

The nymph slithers free, putting the dizzying pain into a single, brutal thrust with her talon. It punches right through the spider. She can feel whatever force held her ankle go slack, and then she's shaking it loose and springing, a furious thing of wings and claws and hate.

The Bookkeeper's voice catches in his throat.

 "FUCK-" 

And then she’s on him, the two crashing head over foot into his collection, scattering strange devices across the floor.  Even with the full force of her body they’re both still upright. Surprise can only take her so far, though. This predator is nearly three times her size. She’s fast and sharp, but his bulk will win out within moments. 

“Lyra, be REASONABLE!”  

She kicks off him to make distance, but he lunges and grabs for her good wrist, fingers tightening like a snare. He drags her closer.  

“We’re just having a chat.”

Her bad arm dangles, blistered and bloodied, and her good arm is trapped.  But she still has her-

The talons on her secondary arms flash. One strikes for his eyes. Even as the motion catches him by surprise, his reflexes kick in. He flinches back, preferring a light slash on his cheek to blindness. But it’s at a cost. Head lifted away. Neck exposed.

Her second talon bites deep into his throat.

He rasps horribly, throwing her off of him and grasping his neck. Blood wells between his fingers, rich and red. The Bookkeeper’s legs buckle and he falls back into his cache, pawing frantically through the collection with his free hand. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a liquid burble. She must have sliced right through his vocal cords.

The nymph staggers upright, panting, shaking blood from her claw. Her wings flare as she stands over him, drawing in her breath, waiting for him to die.

His hand closes on something. She hears the scrape of metal.

Lyra screams. Loud and long and sharp enough to drown out the ticking. Shaking the mirrors. The Bookkeeper drops, his face a silent grimace, thrusting blindly with a jagged knife. 

It’s too late, though. She’s already lept into the air, whirling through the circling panes of glass to stay out of reach. Some show streets, some show rooms, some show nothing at all, not even a reflection. It's a confusing, disorienting blur. The nymph can't possibly know if she can reach those images, but the only other way out is into the void around them. 

Shielding her face with her good arm, the other dangling limp behind her, she darts straight for the closest one. There’s no crash, no sudden stop; the world strains and shifts, and then bursts like a soap bubble. 

Rain.

A crackle of thunder. 

Wind in her - 

The nymph slams into a wall of bricks, bouncing away and dropping to heaped rubbish. Rats scatter, and a can that smells of ice rolls away. Across from her, she sees a mirror, her reflection snarling back. She's wearing white, the same outfit that Unseelie keep their catches in.

The nymph drives her talons straight through the face, shattering the mirror.

No way for him to get to her.
Or her to get back to him.

Her antennae twitch, screaming for her attention, bringing the scents of rainwater and smoke and iron and clothbricksfoodmudpaint - 

The nymph sways. Drops to her knees. She's outside, in the human city. She can go back through the Suites, surely, but what then? What if he lived? Or there's more like him? The Market isn't the Wilds. She'd been prey without knowing it. She can't survive it again. 

No, it's worse. He hadn't wanted her. He'd wanted a way to get to Xylia. Wanted a way to get to- 

She looks down at her good wrist, the one with the mark. The name in flowing script.  Images flash through Lyra's mind. Astraea on the Bookkeeper's table. Astraea in iron. 

He's dead. She tells herself. I split his neck.  Spilled his blood. Watched him choke. 

But she hadn't seen him die. 
And she still has what he wants.

Lyra slumps against a wall.

She could leave, go far away. What if he found her? She could find protection. How? Where? She could step in front of one of those iron chariots. Over fast, and then he'd never get to her. I have to survive, the old voice tells her, but somewhere it had found a twin that says she has to survive, and it's just as loud and growing louder by the second. Lyra's breath hitches, sounds and scents flowing through her antennae, an overwhelming cacophony choking out her thoughts -

Crying. A baby, not far off, startled by the storm. 

Lyra freezes. Rainwater trickles down her face. 
She could hide. 

She knows how it's done. Then she could survive. And Astraea could be safe. And... Heart thundering, arm trailing limp at her side, the nymph stumbles through the shadows, moving toward the sound.

It's only a few dwellings away, down the empty streets. She has to cross over the iron fencing, through a small garden, and up the wall to the cracked-open window. None of it is a problem. She has her wings, after all. And even if part of her is aware how much moving hurts, it's masked under a creeping numbness. Tomorrow, perhaps, she'll feel it. Perhaps. She's not quite sure. Lyra's never spoken with a changeling. It's the apex of glamour-magic. She's unsure if whatever parts of her can't be folded into a human form will feel much at all. 

And neither will the infant, she's already decided that. It doesn't need to hurt. She can offer that much in trade. 

Lyra clings to the wall, levering the window open carefully, so very carefully. It's still crying. How did humans survive at all? Surely the sound would draw predators. 

It has. She thinks, something clenching inside her at the thought. 

But she knows what she is. Even as it hurts her now.  Even as it hurt her then.

One foot in the room. 
Then another. 

Lyra flows like a shadow into the building, looming over the crib.

The child's fussing stops, and he stares up at her.  Wide brown eyes, a shock of black hair. So round and soft and warm. His eyes grow wider as he gurgles and reaches up, squealing happily. 

She's the one who has brought him comfort from his fear of the storm.

It's so absurd.

Lyra reaches into the crib and scoops him up with her good arm. It's best that he has no fear. He won't even know. 

Her secondary talon lifts, still red with blood.

Lyra stares down into the child's innocent eyes. He doesn't know to think of her as a killer. She's not the monster that crept in through the window. She just came when he called. 

She can survive. She can be safe. She can... She can... 

The child reaches up and grips her hand.
She stops, holding her breath.

Then, slowly, holding the child close.

…chooses something new.


continue reading ->

Hey, Heart hear! Thanks for reading chapter 5 of Imago! It's great to spend a bit more time with our danger moth, and finally get to reveal some things about how she got from contract killer to ant farm enthusiast in london suburbia.

Chapter 6: The Plan, is set to post Friday, April 26th at 12p EST! There are still one or two surprises ahead, and with these revelations, L and co will need to decide what... if anything... they're going to do about it.

See ya'll then :3