February 19th, 1935

 "Get away from that, Elizabeth, are you deaf or just stupid?"
        I cringe as cold hands grip my shoulders, but I don't turn away. The tomcat is perched, scrawny and greedy, on the lid of a trashcan. He yowls in warning as my fingers creep closer. I give his whiskers a brisk tug, and dodge the swipe of flashing claws. The tomcat lets out a hiss, and I grin. 
        "Elizabeth. We are going to be late." 
        Octavian pulls on my hand. Hard. I stumble back out into the flow of people with him. We make our way across the square. The Chicago afternoon is chilled and windswept, but I'm not bothered by the winter temperatures. We slip through the crowd, more graceful than most, dodging the warm human bodies, never coming into contact with anyone. 
        The door that we stop in front of is dull and black. In the corner of the square, shadowed by a towering oak tree, it is nothing to most eyes. The humans bustle past without a second thought. Octavian knocks softly on the door, just once. Within seconds there is the whisper of a responding knock. Someone is home.
        We don't enter through the front door.  Octavian disappears around the corner. I follow, treading carefully through the alleyway, dodging rusted bicycles, toppled trashcans, and heaps of abandoned debris. He walks much faster than I do. I hurry to keep up while trying to remain silent, leaping over the clutter in the alley. 
       Octavian pushes aside a trunk. The window is busted in, all glass long since knocked out. It is a basement window, low to the ground. We crawl silently in. 
        I have sat in this room perhaps a hundred times before, but I will never fail to be both frightened and awed at what I find when I drop through the window. The walls are adorned with grand paintings of grotesque figures: a woman with dozens of arms reaching outward, her face tipped back in a silent wail; a grisly man with black eyes surfacing from a pool of blood; children romping on a crucifix as if it were a playground, fangs where innocent little teeth should be. Troughs sit on the ground before these paintings. They are made of onyx and carved with intricate symbols, crude people and animals and swirling lines, and are filled with a rosy-pink liquid. Strange artifacts are cluttered here and there: a curved knife with a bone handle, a robe made of scarlet fur, what appears to be a small pile of bones. The room is filled with a sweet-smelling haze. I cough. 
        "Octavian, my good sir, I thought I would have to come find you. I trust you're well."
        My leader does not reply to the voice for several moments. He finds a cigar and lights it, puffing slowly, contributing to the herbal smoke in the air. He sits on one of the mismatched chairs and gestures for me to join him. He leans back, crossing his feet, and surveys the people before him with calm eyes. There is tension surrounding us. I gnaw on my lower lip.
        "No, Brutus. I'm afraid I am not well. I thought that my clan was entitled to protection, given all that we have done for the Society. I've had numerous complaints from the Dahlia clan in Detroit that their camps are being raided by rogues. I've even heard rumors that there's been a demon-human marriage. We came here to quietly establish ourselves as the dominant species, to slowly take over the Earth domain, and to continue our lives as if Tartarus had never fell. The humans think they're growing in confidence, but all I can call it is a growth in stupidity. They harass us in our own homes. We have tried to be very stealthy and keep the violence to a minimum, but thanks to these countless vigilante demons crazed with homesickness and bloodlust, a war is brewing. There have been five attacks on our closest satellite clans in the past month. One was not even twenty miles out. That is much too close for comfort. Also, I see that many of us have taken to using drugged, bewitched human girls as w****s." Here Octavian glares hard at a member of the Council who has a scrawny, blank-eyed human girl on his lap. The man blushes. "No, I am not happy, Counselor, and I am sorry to say that none of us are well." 
        The demon-man called Brutus is the advisor of the Society, Octavian's closest advisor, and the largest that I have ever seen. He stands at nearly seven feet tall, and for that reason he cannot venture into the outside world. Octavian must come to him when he is seeking counsel; Brutus does not travel. The hulking man gives me a curt nod in greeting, and I reply with the briefest of smiles. We are allies, but never friends. We've been unspokenly competing for the spot as Octavian's right hand for years.
        I watch him carefully. There is a gaping black hole where his left eye used to be, and his right eye is pale, milky, no color in the iris. He leans forward as Octavian speaks, resting his massive arms on his knees. His mouth sinks into a deep frown.
        "Many of the humans are aware of your clan's power. They're going to attack the source, Octavian. They wouldn't come after the little branches. You should have seen this coming. They charge an outcropping, a little camp deep in the woods, no more than ten or twenty strong. There is no retaliation, so they move in deeper. They're going to keep coming. Don't you understand? They're looking for the heart, and they're already at the neck. We need to begin fighting back. The whole Society is antsy. Our kind is not going to thrive while sitting idle. As the humans' confidence grows, our chances for survival lessen."
        Octavian is quiet. He shakes his cigar gently, and ashes float to the ground. When he speaks, he looks at the floor. "We need to find the man in charge. The one who is writing the letters. There are some out there who claim they might know where he is hiding. If we could get a party willing to come with me to hunt him down... He has indicated several times that he wants something. We satisfy his needs, he stops attacking. I won't have war if I can help it, Brutus. I am going to try to make peace. The domain of Earth can be big enough for all of us."
        Brutus's face is red with anger, but he keeps his calm. That is the key to success with Octavian: keep your calm. "Satisfy his needs? What in the hell is eating at your head, Leader? Silence him! Satisfying his wants is yielding. Allowing him to establish dominance. If you show him weakness he will crush us! If we give up and just blend in, if we make peace, it is over for all of us. We'll start working for them. Making friends with them. Falling in love with them and spawning hybrids--"
        "I will not be challenged by my Counselor," my Leader says coolly. "Do not urge me into war. You are thinking with just as much bloodlust as the rogues, and you are pushing the boundaries of your power. Check yourself, Brutus."
        Brutus takes a deep breath. His clenched fists are the size of melons. "I am not challenging you in any way, my Lord Leader, sir. I am simply pointing out that peace can be considered a coward's attempt at--"
        "Enough," Octavian snaps. "I have had enough of this discussion.  Elizabeth and I are going to pay our dues to the Old Ones, and then we will be on our way. Come, Elizabeth."
        I stand slowly. There are a dozen eyes on us; the Advisor and the rest of the Council are watching as we make our way to the first trough. We kneel. Octavian pulls a dagger from his belt, and I silently extend my hand. He takes it gently, gazing at me hard as he slashes open my palm from middle finger to wrist. I don't flinch. The Old Ones are here; their presence is strong as they observe us once again declaring our loyalty to them. This is a ritual that I have gone through so many times that the pain of the gash does not startle me. I slip my hand into the water. Blood pours from the wound and mixes with the pink of past contributions to the trough. I gaze up at the first painting, the first Old One: it is the woman with the many arms. Her story I know well. 
        Octavian cuts his own hand and pays what he owes to the first Old One. We make our way along the line, squeezing our hands to coax out more blood, declaring our loyalty, giving away ourselves again and again.
        There is one painting that I don't watch. When I pray to this Old One, I avert my eyes, watching red ribbons rise away from my palm and dissipate into the water. It is the disfigured man with the black eyes, surfacing from the pool of blood. His hands are reaching up through the surface, red riverlets racing down his pale, scarred skin, his chin is tipped up, mouth desperately searching for air, a pocket of blood caught in his throat. It bubbles from his lips, scarlet and foamy. His hard, flinty eyes plea to the observer for help. He unsettles me in a way that I cannot pinpoint. I am eager to move on to the next paintings. 
        Our cuts heal quickly. Octavian snuffs his cigar and tips his head to the Council. He clasps Brutus by the arm, which is about as far up his bodice that Octavian can reach. 
        "Brutus, you old warlord, you know I admire your counsel."
        The massive man sneers, but he drops a tree-like arm across Octavian's shoulders. "And I know that you'll never listen to a damned thing that I say. Take it into consideration, please. I fear these times ahead, my Leader."
        "If a brave man like you fears, then maybe I'll actually listen to my Advisor. I'll come to you again soon. Elizabeth and I have urgent things to speak about. Until then." Octavian takes my elbow and leads me back to the window in which we entered. As we are about to clamber out, Brutus calls Octavian's name. We turn. 
        "I forgot to tell you, Leader. Urgent news from Kristoff up in New York. Ora is coming back."
        Octavian stumbles on the lip of the window. My eyes widen.
        "Ora?" he echoes, his voice trembling.
        "Ora," I whisper. 

Author's Note

Go ahead and leave all critique. :)

Reviews

[Dante Carlisle]

I enjoyed this. Sorry it took me so long to get to the review. I have to wonder when we'll get more of this story. The story worked well, in that I'm wondering now who these characters are, and what their place is. What has happened to the world, and what kind of setting we are in. Perhaps, if you were to make this an entire story, I would add in a lot of that beforehand. What are your intentions with this? If anything, since it's been so long since you wrote any of it.

[Coyote Poetry]

I agree with Chris. I liked the story. Not my kind I would buy. I'm old. You create interesting places/characters and situation. Thank you for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote

[MomzillaNC]

This one has a really good flow and the form and language of the copy is relatable.

NOTES: "…as far up his [body] that…"

[Falling Leaf.]

Thank you!

[MomzillaNC]

yw :)

[Chris]

To me it read fine...a good story in the making. Young adult material.

[Falling Leaf.]

Thank you!

[Valentine]

My niece would love to read this as she is into this type of a story. I see that you do have talent but need some editing. Kathie

[Falling Leaf.]

I agree, editing is always important, although most of the time I need someone to point out the mistakes or else I won't see them. Thanks!

[A Ghost of Myself]

The window is busted in, all [the] glass long since knocked out. (You may want to rework this line as I stumbled through it.)

 I have sat in this room perhaps a hundred times before, but I will never fail to be both frightened and [in] awe(d) at what I find when I drop through the window.

There are a dozen eyes on us(;) [.] [T}he Advisor and the rest of the Council are watching as we make our way to the first trough.

The Old Ones are here (;) [,] or [.] [T]heir presence is strong

damned (damn)

I enjoyed this story, it was well told, your descriptions worked well, and you kept the pace going strong. I would have liked to have seen this written in the past-tense rather than the present, but it doesn't take away from the story.

A few notes.

You may want to inform the reader earlier that they are not human, as it wasn't until the third paragraph when you hinted, “The humans bustle past without a second thought.” This caused me to pause and go back and re-read the opening again out of confusion.

Your narration is done very well and your cliff hanger works great. I am now asking myself, “Who's, Ora?” A few of your lines are long-winded, you make want to break them down to be more concise.

Overall it's a very entertaining story, and one of the better ones I've read in while. I'll be looking for your next installment.

[Falling Leaf.]

I haven't had such a thoughtful review in a while. I appreciate the editing help; I'm often blind to my own mistakes. The only thing I can't/won't change is the tense. I literally cannot write in past tense. My errors will triple. As for the issue with realizing they aren't human: I've tried making it clear from the get-go, but it all comes out awkward, feeling like "Hello I am Elizabeth and I am a demon girl." Thank you, again!