Hymns of Terror

Part Five of the Sonata in Red series.
Part One: A Song of Glory
Part Two: A Choir of Intrigue
Part Three: Etude in the Sun
Part Four: A Requiem in the Dark


That half real voice sets my heart to race, and reflexively the grey encompasses me and clouds my vision. As if standing underwater I feel my body grow heavy and all sounds assume a languid quality. I remain hidden behind the wall for minutes until long after the unnatural stillness given way to the sounds of people returning to this section of The Day. Searching cautiously I sense neither the baronet’s son nor the angel with the haste I race for the gate as fast as my legs will carry me.
The dull waterlogged grey carries me unseen through the sunlit streets. I do not slow down or reveal myself until I am within mundane sight of the second gate. I allow Aiden to see me, through he may have been able to regardless. He is skilled enough to sense the change in my disposition and familiar enough with my personality to be suspicious at my uncharacteristically stony silence. At the same time he is smart enough to know it best not to know any more. With the write returned I descend into Night Town, immediately heading for the nearest tavern to drink away the trembling in my hands.

An angel. A bloody angel. They aren’t supposed to come down from from the Firmament. Not ever. Except that’s not quite right, my cooler mind reminds me. The angels serve The Royal Family. But everyone knows The Queen is on crusade in the marches, leaving only a handful of royals still in Caelestis. Whoever it is that controls the angel, their involvement changes everything. It makes absolute sense now as to why Sophia would be interested in the son of a Baronet. The biggest hole in the story is what he could have to bring to such a lofty alliance.
I’d been lucky. If the angel had spotted me there, I doubt I could have made it back to Night Town in one piece. The grey terror abates at last, the world swimming back into focus around me. The barkeep is standing at the other end of the bar, avoiding my eyes. Perhaps I had let something slip in my panic. Just in case, it was time to leave.

While I’m lifting up from the bar stool half turned towards the door, I’m interrupted by a loud voice from behind me.
“Hey freak,” the hyper masculinity of the insult immediately lets me know that I’m dealing with an idiot trying to impress a bunch more idiots. I complete my turn to be faced by a large thug with another four backing him up. Shit. The ringleader steps up to me, easily a foot taller than me he gives me a menacing glare I suspect he’s been practising. Quickly I take in my surroundings, looking for any advantages I can use to get out of this situation.

“Your kind aren’t welcome here,” he growls at me through his beard. His stance is pure posturing, completely open. But it’s not him, I’m worried about. Two glasses behind me, stools, nothing incredibly useful in my pockets.
My silence apparently frustrating him, the brute shoves me back into the stool. I go down  in a heap and he continues from above me, “I said. Your kind. Ain’t welcome here.”
I throw myself backwards at the last moment before his kick lands in the centre of my ribs, the movement dissipating some of the force though not preventing the wind from being knocked from me. I roll away knocking some chairs about. Laughter erupts from his companions further encouraged by the sight of me struggling to my feet. The big calloused hand grips me roughly by the back of my shirt and half dragging half walking me, he shoves me out into the street. With a deep chested wretch, a glob of hot spit lands on the back of my head,

“Don’t come back, freak. Or there’ll be worse for you.”

I lay in the dirt for a moment longer, waiting for them to return to the bar. Hearing them go I climb to my feet and dust myself off. Looking back I glance at the devil man staring at me from the end of the street. Cursing my luck, I walk in the opposite direction wondering what vengeful star I’d been born under.
An angel and a devil in the same day, what were the odds. I might have enjoyed handling those idiots without the devil man watching. They’re enforcers down here in Night Town, no friends to us shadows. They aren’t good men, just like their name implies. Nothing but enhanced thugs used by the cartels to keep order where it suits them.

Tired, sore and and angry I trudge back towards my darling Amelia’s house though I expect she will be working now, I still have this writ to return. Sure enough, when I arrive the home is empty again, though my note is gone and in its place is another in Amelia’s hand which read,
“Dear Lucas,
I would remind you that stealing from one’s family is a sin worthy of hell if I thought you might listen. As I have no illusions that you will, and that you are reading this while I am not there to say it in person, I shall instead urge you to be careful and pray for your safety. Whatever it is you’re obsessing over, it isn’t worth this.
Love, Amelia”
Folding the note and placing it in my pocket I replace it with Elijah’s writ. A familiar cloud of guilt covers me on my walk home. I regret the stress my ambition inflicts upon my darling Amelia, but at last I have come so close I can finally see the light. I swore I would find Sophia at last I know where she is.

Author: Zairron

I'm writing to build a habit, practice, and be creative.

15 thoughts on “Hymns of Terror”

  1. Pingback: Writing Regularly

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