The blow was so sharp his arms jerked and his hands released the kittens. His vision faltered, blackness washed over the garden. He felt himself being shaken, hard. The porch and garden warped and swam before him. He was jerked around, hands biting into his arms.
He was facing the black woman; she held him in a grip like steel.
Morian slapped him. Her eyes blazed. His fear of her was so complete and debilitating he wet himself.
Morian tried to control her rage; she didn’t want to injure him, just terrify. Whoever this boy was, he needed to experience the terror of quick retribution. She shook him until she was afraid she would do him damage, then she held him away, staring into his white, frightened face.
She knew this could not be Tom. Tom would never harm an animal, he was too strong inwardly. The real Tom had a deep, sure core of lightness that would not allow him to do something so weak.
She tried to see physical differences between this boy and Tom, in the set of the boy’s eyes, in the shape of his brows or mouth, his round chin. As she watched him, a shiver of vertigo touched her, a swarming dizziness that puzzled and alarmed her. She held the boy tighter, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
“If I ever see you near any cat, if I see you
“I wasn’t going to hurt them. What makes—makes you think I would hurt them, Mor? I was petting them, picking the kittens up to pet them.”
She jerked him up off the steps, bringing him close to her face. “If any cat, in this garden or near it, is harmed in any way—even if you are not responsible—I will make pudding of that white, pasty little face.”
His stare told her that he would like to crush her, just as he had meant to crush the helpless kittens.
She shook him and twisted his ear until tears spurted from his glaring eyes. “Do you understand me!” she shouted. “I will twist your face like I am twisting that ear. I will twist your body like that, and break it.” She dropped him and held up her hands. “These black hands could kill you, boy. If you touch any cat again, these hands will break you in little pieces.”
He backed away from her. And she saw as he turned away from her something distant and cold crawling out of his eyes.
Then he was gone, into the Hollingsworth house. She stood looking after him, wondering who, or what, this boy was.
Chapter 53
The Harpy cupped her little mirror in her hands and watched with interest as Morian shook and slapped Wylles. She was perched alone on a ridge of black rock far north of Chillings, catching her breath. She opened her beak wide as, in the flashing light of her mirror, Morian dealt with Wylles. She liked the black woman’s style. The prince deserved whatever he got.
She felt that the fates were working now in a fascinating way. The events in the two worlds were linking, meshing together. Even Wylles’ role was notable. She had begun to think that, after all, the powers of good would triumph.
She surprised herself that she cared.
She was a Hell Beast. She should be rooting for Siddonie and the dark forces. She had tried, but she could not. She felt drawn to Melissa and to Mag and the rebels. Her fondness embraced, as well, the inhabitants of the upperworld garden—Braden, Olive, certainly Morian. All of them had a passion for life that warmed and excited her.
She realized that she was, for all practical purposes, no longer a true Hell Beast. She had, in becoming drawn toward the most spirited living souls, abandoned the flames of Hell. Win the war, that was the first order. After that—maybe she would move in with Mag and raise pigs.
She shook her tired wings, and let them droop and rest. Every muscle ached. She had been flying for days, moving endlessly beneath the Netherworld’s skies and sometimes running through tunnels too narrow for flight. She was the only flying beast willing to help the rebels, willing to gather together the ancient folk. How many miles she had flown she didn’t count. She had routed dwarfs from deep cave communities, and had summoned small dark men from clefts so remote they had no green sky of wizard light, only spell-lights. At her call, shy bands of white-skinned elven folk had scaled down sheer cliffs to gather in valleys their races hadn’t seen in generations. Goat-hooved urisks small as rabbits had come carrying immense spears, and a tribe of dorricks with twisted backs had joined the rebels.
Under her recruiting, the small, disciplined rebel army was swelling into a formidable band, taking on so many troops it was becoming cumbersome and unruly. She had even routed out the last few dragons, though they were puny beasts. She had brought into the rebel camps folk so long forgotten that no one knew what to call them. But all were warriors, or soon would be, though they might be armed only with picks and axes and sharpened shovels and with fighting spells not used in generations.
