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Authors: Freda Warrington
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a sky of purple flame.
The sky drew her. She climbed a coil of cloud that frayed into nothingness under her thin, taloned hands. Black, her hands, with skin like a lizard: each scale a flake of jet. She felt as thin and hard as a whip, weightless.
If my body is so changed
, she wondered,
is my face that of a demon, with eyes like red braziers? I can never see my own face here!
She let go of her thoughts as she climbed. She was all sensation, a dancer. Her hair writhed like Medusa snakes.
Raqia was not a true sky but a strange multi-layered dimension. Mountains sailed in the void, but they were insubstantial, dissolving and reforming like clouds. Tonight they were bruise-coloured, racing on a mad wind, crimson light pouring down them like blood.
Occasional lightning bleached the void from indigo to pale amethyst. She heard thunder.
How cold it was. Desolate, vertiginous. All this sweeping emptiness without a soul to be seen. So much beauty and energy wasted. The emptiness chilled her.
She struggled to climb above the storm, but wind currents flung her around like a twig on the ocean. She stretched out on a cushion of air and closed her eyes, giving herself up to the rise and fall of turbulence. She was frozen to the bone, but didn’t care.
In the Crystal Ring she could forget her thirst.
The trance came swiftly. Floating in Raqia gave immortals respite from perpetual consciousness. At least, that was how it should be – but Violette experienced a leering carnival of memories. She could remain alert and fight the blood thirst, or rest and face her visions. The choice crushed her between millstones and ground her flat. But she chose the trance.
At first she was on stage, dancing, carefree. The green cave of scenery was a self-contained world, while the audience, unseen beyond the spotlights, did not exist. This was her solace and her purpose. Her addiction. Dancing took away her pain.
But three shadows waited in the wings.
She danced harder and faster but could not drive them away. Her chest ached with exhaustion. She couldn’t breathe. There were hands on her throat, a distorted male face glaring into hers.
Her father’s face, his rasping voice. “This black hair is from the Devil, Vi. All women are bloodsuckers. All women belong to the Devil.”
She couldn’t answer this injustice. His belief infected her as his hands squeezed out her life… then suddenly he was torn away. She watched him borne into the distance by asylum attendants, but the horror stayed inside her.
He metamorphosed into someone else, another man whom she’d driven mad. Not intentionally, never that. It happened without her willing it. And this irascible and obsessive goat, a self-styled magus named Lancelyn, had called her Goddess.
Goddess, devil… no one knew who she really was.
Her father, Lancelyn, Janacek and others… they loomed over her, these men of power; covetous, possessive, lustful. She cowered and obeyed, hating them… until something inside her lashed out, a reptilian tongue of flame to scorch them and free herself.
Can’t I have freedom without destroying them? Why could they not love me without making me hate them? Yet it couldn’t be otherwise. They needed to control me but I am too strong. A demon.
The three shadows watched and smiled.
Violette stood by her mentor Janacek’s grave and saw a woman watching her from the trees… Charlotte was demure in mourning black, her eyes clear and steady under the brim of her hat.
Come to me, Violette
, said her eyes.
I’ll change you into what you are meant to be. I killed Janacek to free you!
Charlotte came out of the shadows to lure Violette into darkness… but Violette’s soul was already darker than a vampire’s. It was she who swallowed Charlotte whole.
She was dancing again, but struggling now. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t feel the stage beneath her toes, and with every step she stumbled. Looking down, she saw that her feet had become owl claws.
Violette
The sky drew her. She climbed a coil of cloud that frayed into nothingness under her thin, taloned hands. Black, her hands, with skin like a lizard: each scale a flake of jet. She felt as thin and hard as a whip, weightless.
If my body is so changed
, she wondered,
is my face that of a demon, with eyes like red braziers? I can never see my own face here!
She let go of her thoughts as she climbed. She was all sensation, a dancer. Her hair writhed like Medusa snakes.
Raqia was not a true sky but a strange multi-layered dimension. Mountains sailed in the void, but they were insubstantial, dissolving and reforming like clouds. Tonight they were bruise-coloured, racing on a mad wind, crimson light pouring down them like blood.
Occasional lightning bleached the void from indigo to pale amethyst. She heard thunder.
How cold it was. Desolate, vertiginous. All this sweeping emptiness without a soul to be seen. So much beauty and energy wasted. The emptiness chilled her.
She struggled to climb above the storm, but wind currents flung her around like a twig on the ocean. She stretched out on a cushion of air and closed her eyes, giving herself up to the rise and fall of turbulence. She was frozen to the bone, but didn’t care.
In the Crystal Ring she could forget her thirst.
The trance came swiftly. Floating in Raqia gave immortals respite from perpetual consciousness. At least, that was how it should be – but Violette experienced a leering carnival of memories. She could remain alert and fight the blood thirst, or rest and face her visions. The choice crushed her between millstones and ground her flat. But she chose the trance.
At first she was on stage, dancing, carefree. The green cave of scenery was a self-contained world, while the audience, unseen beyond the spotlights, did not exist. This was her solace and her purpose. Her addiction. Dancing took away her pain.
But three shadows waited in the wings.
She danced harder and faster but could not drive them away. Her chest ached with exhaustion. She couldn’t breathe. There were hands on her throat, a distorted male face glaring into hers.
Her father’s face, his rasping voice. “This black hair is from the Devil, Vi. All women are bloodsuckers. All women belong to the Devil.”
She couldn’t answer this injustice. His belief infected her as his hands squeezed out her life… then suddenly he was torn away. She watched him borne into the distance by asylum attendants, but the horror stayed inside her.
He metamorphosed into someone else, another man whom she’d driven mad. Not intentionally, never that. It happened without her willing it. And this irascible and obsessive goat, a self-styled magus named Lancelyn, had called her Goddess.
Goddess, devil… no one knew who she really was.
Her father, Lancelyn, Janacek and others… they loomed over her, these men of power; covetous, possessive, lustful. She cowered and obeyed, hating them… until something inside her lashed out, a reptilian tongue of flame to scorch them and free herself.
Can’t I have freedom without destroying them? Why could they not love me without making me hate them? Yet it couldn’t be otherwise. They needed to control me but I am too strong. A demon.
The three shadows watched and smiled.
Violette stood by her mentor Janacek’s grave and saw a woman watching her from the trees… Charlotte was demure in mourning black, her eyes clear and steady under the brim of her hat.
Come to me, Violette
, said her eyes.
I’ll change you into what you are meant to be. I killed Janacek to free you!
Charlotte came out of the shadows to lure Violette into darkness… but Violette’s soul was already darker than a vampire’s. It was she who swallowed Charlotte whole.
She was dancing again, but struggling now. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t feel the stage beneath her toes, and with every step she stumbled. Looking down, she saw that her feet had become owl claws.
Violette
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