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Authors: Jackie Morse Kessler
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look look my God look this is so damn COOL—
—and as the nighttime air kissed her face she let out a jubilant shout, which the warhorse matched with a trumpeting whinny.
And then both Rider and steed took off into the night.
Chapter 7
Melissa Miller, the most powerful sixteen-year-old in the universe, rode through the skies atop her fiery red steed. Bruised from the wind, Missy grinned wide enough to split her face. This was roller coaster giddiness and freefall elation—better than ferociously defending the goal in soccer, or acing a test, or even that magical first kiss. This was the epitome of exhilaration, all white bubbles tickling her skin. This, in other words, was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to her. They soared, and beneath them, the world waited.
Missy wanted to see more. The warhorse, either intuiting or understanding its Rider's intent, swooped lower, giving Missy a bird's-eye view of a slumbering city. Pinpricks of light pierced the nighttime darkness, illuminating occasional houses and the rare open business. Parked cars littered the roads like children's toys, scattered and forgotten. Wherever they were, it was too late to be night and too early to be morning. Missy blinked, and they left the city far behind. Ares climbed higher, and soon the world was once again a smudge beneath them.
Missy's laughter was eaten by the wind.
They thundered across the sky, shredding clouds, galloping faster than time itself. All too soon, Ares banked and dropped low, spiraling quickly, with Missy clinging to the reins and shrieking in terrified delight. Another cityscape bloomed beneath them, this one beating back the nighttime darkness with numerous streetlamps. Cars moved like sluggish beetles. People in the street were nothing more than fleas, nearly invisible but still present.
Now along with the sheer joy of flying, Missy felt the stirrings of something else, something more viscous. It rose up, congealing the white bubbles of exhilaration into thick blotches of red anticipation. She bottled her heart and reaffixed her dead face. Thus girded for battle, Missy opened herself up to the power of War.
This time, the emotions didn't hit her; they nibbled at her, taking tiny bites and attempting to burrow under her flesh like ticks. Here, a bit of joy; there, a mouthful of sorrow. She felt them all, felt their pain and pity and excitement and boredom, and she relished the sensations along her skin, even as she plucked them off and singed them in ghostly fingers.
It was the small wars, though, that rippled pleasant shocks through her: kisses of domestic violence, shivers of gang activity, thrills of verbal abuse. That last in particular left her trembling in ecstasy: the barbed tongues and heated lashes, the snide comments with their blistering aftermath, all of it thrummed along her skin, leaving it tingling. She let out an "Ummm" as, in one house far below, someone drank and drank to dull the agony of overwhelming heartbreak.
Adam's voice, all silky perfection:
Let me make it up to you.
She growled, the sound filled with the promise of bloodshed. Oh, he'd make it up to her, all right. She wanted her pound of flesh.
"Take me to the party," she told Ares, and then she gave her horse the address. The steed whinnied in response and took off like a gunshot. In her building rage, Missy didn't realize she was trailing emotional flotsam. Even if she did, she wouldn't have cared. Missy was in the Red, in the place where pain was pleasure and mouths were lined with razors. She streaked away, leaving behind feelings of cruel determination that fell upon the city below like acid rain.
Her casual disregard would prompt six cases of vandalism, eight muggings, two car crashes, and thirty-one trips to the emergency room.
Melissa Miller would have torn out her heart if she knew she was the cause of such violence. War, however, would have shrugged it off either as collateral damage or as part of the job. The
—and as the nighttime air kissed her face she let out a jubilant shout, which the warhorse matched with a trumpeting whinny.
And then both Rider and steed took off into the night.
Chapter 7
Melissa Miller, the most powerful sixteen-year-old in the universe, rode through the skies atop her fiery red steed. Bruised from the wind, Missy grinned wide enough to split her face. This was roller coaster giddiness and freefall elation—better than ferociously defending the goal in soccer, or acing a test, or even that magical first kiss. This was the epitome of exhilaration, all white bubbles tickling her skin. This, in other words, was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to her. They soared, and beneath them, the world waited.
Missy wanted to see more. The warhorse, either intuiting or understanding its Rider's intent, swooped lower, giving Missy a bird's-eye view of a slumbering city. Pinpricks of light pierced the nighttime darkness, illuminating occasional houses and the rare open business. Parked cars littered the roads like children's toys, scattered and forgotten. Wherever they were, it was too late to be night and too early to be morning. Missy blinked, and they left the city far behind. Ares climbed higher, and soon the world was once again a smudge beneath them.
Missy's laughter was eaten by the wind.
They thundered across the sky, shredding clouds, galloping faster than time itself. All too soon, Ares banked and dropped low, spiraling quickly, with Missy clinging to the reins and shrieking in terrified delight. Another cityscape bloomed beneath them, this one beating back the nighttime darkness with numerous streetlamps. Cars moved like sluggish beetles. People in the street were nothing more than fleas, nearly invisible but still present.
Now along with the sheer joy of flying, Missy felt the stirrings of something else, something more viscous. It rose up, congealing the white bubbles of exhilaration into thick blotches of red anticipation. She bottled her heart and reaffixed her dead face. Thus girded for battle, Missy opened herself up to the power of War.
This time, the emotions didn't hit her; they nibbled at her, taking tiny bites and attempting to burrow under her flesh like ticks. Here, a bit of joy; there, a mouthful of sorrow. She felt them all, felt their pain and pity and excitement and boredom, and she relished the sensations along her skin, even as she plucked them off and singed them in ghostly fingers.
It was the small wars, though, that rippled pleasant shocks through her: kisses of domestic violence, shivers of gang activity, thrills of verbal abuse. That last in particular left her trembling in ecstasy: the barbed tongues and heated lashes, the snide comments with their blistering aftermath, all of it thrummed along her skin, leaving it tingling. She let out an "Ummm" as, in one house far below, someone drank and drank to dull the agony of overwhelming heartbreak.
Adam's voice, all silky perfection:
Let me make it up to you.
She growled, the sound filled with the promise of bloodshed. Oh, he'd make it up to her, all right. She wanted her pound of flesh.
"Take me to the party," she told Ares, and then she gave her horse the address. The steed whinnied in response and took off like a gunshot. In her building rage, Missy didn't realize she was trailing emotional flotsam. Even if she did, she wouldn't have cared. Missy was in the Red, in the place where pain was pleasure and mouths were lined with razors. She streaked away, leaving behind feelings of cruel determination that fell upon the city below like acid rain.
Her casual disregard would prompt six cases of vandalism, eight muggings, two car crashes, and thirty-one trips to the emergency room.
Melissa Miller would have torn out her heart if she knew she was the cause of such violence. War, however, would have shrugged it off either as collateral damage or as part of the job. The
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