Seconds to Midnight: A Maiden of Midnight Prequel
Cain

Cain

I didn’t dare say anything to Destiny as we climbed the tunnel and entered the Fae settlement, leaving Demetrius’ body behind. Nor did anyone who encountered us, passing under the thick wooden archway that upheld a handcrafted sign depicting what I assumed was the town’s name. It was in Faereveyn, and clearly a word that either amused or irritated my cousin, since she snorted as she read it, sauntering in without a care in the world that she was covered in a Faery’s blood. The people that didn’t immediately flee were wary, hovering in doorways as if to reassure themselves they could slip inside before either of us could strike. I doubted they could outrun either of us. Des clearly thought the same, an arrogant smirk on her face as she flipped Inferos in her palm. I elbowed her, hissing in Demonic, “Wipe that look off your face!”

She glared at me, but replaced it with a too-calm, almost ethereal smile, flicking more of the blood onto the dirt, replying in English, “You could remove the stick from your ass, cousin. It might help you someday.” Nearby, at the sound of the unknown language, more Faeries darted inside, slamming and locking their doors.

“You could remember that you just killed a man who had a wife and children. An innocent.” I made sure to speak in Demonic, praying none of the nearby Fae heard and understood.

Rolling her eyes, she said, “We’re Assassins. He tried to kill us.”

“He was doing his job! You would have done the same if someone tried to break into the Manor!” She barked out a laugh, cold and cruel.

“I wouldn’t have gotten caught!” was her standing argument, her eyes narrowing at me when I replied in a teasing tone, “You didn’t even get any information about what was down there.” I wouldn’t win this fight against her; she was too set in her way of thinking that she’d done the right thing by killing Demetrius to ever consider another option. Better to joke about it, rather than make her hate me even more than she already did.

She twisted, facing me and lifting her chin, snarling, “I saved your life, you ungrateful asshole!” In a lightning fast movement, I gripped her face, squeezing just enough to get her attention. She slapped my arm, hissing when I pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek, cooing, “And I thank you for it, but you still did the wrong thing.”

“Bleugh!” She mimed throwing up, wiping the kiss off her cheek and turning away, surveying the street to hide the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips.

“I should have pushed you down there,” she muttered coldly. The words would have stung if it weren’t for the smile I could see her still struggling to fight back.

A constant battle between emotion and the Manor; that was what my cousin survived every time she rose from her bed. She fought the instinct to be real, to be humane, to try and fit in with their bullshit. I hated it, even if I had no way of saving her from it. Not yet.

Other than trying to draw that humanity out of her, even if just for a second. A smile now and then, a snicker at a stupid joke, a hiss of anger at my ‘insolence’. Anything- any emotion- to keep her from fading into what Zeella wanted her to be.

A ghost. He wanted to take my bestfriend, twist her up, and make her into a lifeless weapon. I would sooner die than let that happen.

“This place sucks,” she whined a minute later, the street now entirely empty. The Fae who had seen us enter would have warned the others, the settlement fast becoming a ghost town. Even merchants had closed up their small stalls, crafted from sticks and animal pelts, and gone home.

Flames, built into stone braziers that flanked the streets every ten feet or so, illuminated crumbling homes made by Fae hands or magic. They were huddled together in groups of five or six, all with similar scents hanging around them. The groups were separated by ancient stone walls or picket fences made from sticks, many of them sporting piles of firewood outside the houses. Smoke rose from clay chimneys, drifting into the sky.

“Don’t be rude,” I replied absentmindedly, watching a cat dart across the street, its tail puffed up, disappearing down an avenue shaded with trees. It returned with a dead mouse in its mouth, dropping it onto the dusty pathway and licking its paws. Destiny paused, lowering down into a crouch and extending her hand out, blowing quiet kisses toward the cat.

It hissed, abandoning its food in favour of running back into the shadows, hiding behind a tree. My cousin scowled, rose up, and cursed under her breath when I laughed.

“Not an animal person, cousin?”

“I hate this town. It’s small and dirty.”

I pinched her arm, only for the both of us to pause as we passed by one of the nicer homes on the street. It was made from bricks, the windows filled in with actual glass, and the door was made from thick wood rather than cloth. A pebble pathway twisted through the garden, connecting the street and the front porch, where a lantern swung from a hook attached to the wall. Lydiav’s scent was drifting around the wooden gate, like she’d brushed her hand against it. And, around them, Morven’s.

Stalking closer, Destiny peered over the fence, only to hiss, waving me closer. I leaned over, spotting the blush-pink ballet slipper, coated in dried, black blood, buried amongst the carefully curated grass and flowers that made up the lawn. Right next to it, like they’d tumbled from the sky, were two flares. My cousin’s scent flooded with guilt, and she exhaled through her teeth, remembering her final order to her Guardians. “You are my Guardians. Kill your way out of it,” she ordered coldly, prompting me to correct with a wince, “Fire two flares. We’ll come help you. One flare if you replace Morven, two flares if trouble replaces you.”

A sign hung from the gate that warned trespassers of consequences, which was promptly torn down by my cousin as she reached over, unlatching the gate and storming up to the front door. I grabbed her arm before she could bang on it, shaking my head and mouthing, “Think for a second.”

Her eyes lit up, catching my meaning. If whoever lived here had taken down Nym, Lydiav and Bal’gag, all three of whom were skilled Guardians, then the two of us weren’t going to be a problem, or we were going to be sorely outmatched the instant we barged in there and made ourselves a threat.

Straightening her clothes, she brushed more of the twigs and leaves from her hair, and hid Inferos in her belt, using the folds of her cloak to further conceal it. She tightened it around her waist, bunching it up around her shoulders to look like wings, hiding the blood that stained her outfit, shoving her hands into her pockets. She adjusted her posture, giving herself the appearance of a shy, young, Fae woman.

I motioned that I would wait in the street, and she nodded, knocking on the door only to place her hand straight back into her pocket again, calling out in a sweet, innocent voice, “Hello? Is anyone home?”

To my surprise, from where I was crouched behind the gate, hidden by a bush, I watched as her features seemed to shift, making her more Fae-like, her skin getting a flush of colour to it. Her hair seemed almost blue in the lantern light, like the black had been sucked out of it, twisted by the moonlight.

‘It must have been a trick of the light,’ I thought to myself, my cousin again knocking when nobody answered the door.

“Can someone help me? I’m a little lost!” She called out again. The perfect trap.

There was a shuffling sound from inside, and the sound of a match being struck, light blooming from the other side of the curtains, the door cracking open. Morven Getunut, four-hundred-and-sixty-four years old, male, working as a soldier for the Tarvenia Sun Palace, under the reign of Queen Genevieve. Grey hair, blue eyes, six-foot-two with a fighter’s build. He’s proficient in archery, tracking, and hand-to-hand combat. His favourite colour is green, and he has a soft-spot for Fae women with blue hair.

I matched the description my cousin had made to the man standing in the doorway, Morven Getunut now leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over a broad chest, glaring down at my cousin with his sapphire blue eyes.

“Questonal movnir Feyren luslation?” He questioned in a gruff, suspicious voice, his eyes narrowing at Des, who twirled a ribbon of her hair around her finger shyly, letting out a soft laugh, replying in a worried tone, “Feyrena selalagh ayen Daemonil Kelaiv.”

I knew the last two words: Demon Assassin.

My heart skipped a beat in my chest, wondering why she was outing herself, since I was fairly certain Feyrena was ‘I’ in Faereveyn, only for Morven to go stiff, peering over her shoulder to the street beyond. He scanned it, not seeming to spot me, but noticing the street was empty. A worried look appeared on his face, and he placed a hand on my cousin’s back, ushering her in. Why would he let in a Demonic-being if he knew the Manor was after him?

Destiny didn’t let off her confusion, entering the doorway with a polite curtsey, the lantern lifted high to reveal her features. I sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for Morven to realise, only for me to pause.

What? I blinked, double-taking at the sight of my cousin, who, now lit up by the lantern light, certainly had blue hair and Fae-like features. And- Were those wings?!

The tips of sun-kissed, leaf green wings, the same colours as the drawing she’d made me earlier, poked out from her clothes as she removed her cloak, revealing a dress one of the Faeries we’d seen in the street earlier wearing. How the Hell had she done that? I’d watched her for the entire time! There had been mere seconds between her knocking on the door and Morven answering- certainly not enough time to change! Destiny glanced down to untie Inferos, only to jolt, like she’d come to realise the same thing. Was it Fae magic? Did Morven have wards around his house?

When she next spoke, curtseying to Morven, whose eyes were now alighted hungrily on hers, lust flooding his scent, her voice was smoother, more Fae like and sweet as honey, “Feyren aretti…” She trailed off, unsure of the word, Morven’s wings raising. Every Fae around here was fluent in Faereveyn.

Laughing nervously, the sound like lutes playing through a forest, she ran a hand through that blue hair, admitting, “Feyrena amgre lovenna.”

What the Hell was she saying?! Morven was getting more and more agitated, his wings rising behind his back. Destiny took a step back, becoming unsure, her hand going for the first thing to come to mind whenever she fell from her comfort zone- her blade. Morven was no faster than any other Faery when he leapt at her, but my cousin was startled, his blade managing to slice her arm. She fell to the ground with a high-pitched shriek of pain, no longer wearing that Fae form, clutching her arm and fumbling for Inferos, her power sparking around her. It flicked between shield and weapon, my cousin unsure whether to defend or attack first. Damn it all to Hell! Leaping off the ground, I raced for her, unsheathing my sword and swinging at Morven before he could even realise who was charging for him, tackling him into the wall.

We crashed into a tiny entrance table, a glass vase smashing, Destiny quickly regaining her composure, rising and rushing into the house.

She hovered nearby, Inferos in her hand, watching as Morven’s fist connected with my jaw. I snarled, using the momentum of the hit to spin us, scrambling to my feet the instant he lost hold of me.

I swung my sword, slamming it into Morven’s chest, green blood splaying across the walls. The Faery shouted out in Faereveyn, slumping to the ground and reaching with one hand toward the door to try and call for help, Destiny leaping atop him. Her fingers clamped down over his mouth, only for him to bite her. She yelped, slapping him hard enough that his head rocked to the side. Kicking my cousin off his lap, I cut his head off. Grabbing it, I dug my fingers into one of his eyes, ripping it out of the socket and placing it into one of the evidence bags Zeella had sent us with, warding it against becoming ash. After examining his body, I managed to replace a ring with his signet on it, placing that in the bag, cutting off a lock of his hair for good measure. There. That was proof enough of Morven’s death.

“Search the house for Nym, Lydiav and Bal’gag!” I snarled at Des, who nodded, disappearing into the house, whispering her Guardians’ names. I snapped a photo of her blood-stained body as she slipped by, as well as Morven’s decapitated, disintegrating body, and the bag of evidence. I called Zeella, the Sin of Lust picking up on the third ring.

“You better be calling to say you found him.”

“He’s dead. Des finished the job.”

“Do you have proof of that?” He drawled. I clicked my tongue, muttering, “Of course I do.”

“Then send it through, and return home. Oh, and Cain?”

I arched an eyebrow, bending down to brush some of the ash from my boots, Zeella snarling loud enough that I flinched, “Do not ever use that tone with me again!”

He hung up as I tucked the phone into my pocket, exhaling sharply, Des calling out, “Cain? I need help in here!”

I jogged through the house at a brisk pace, ignoring the collection of unusual, handmade furniture that filled Morven’s home, and found my cousin in what I assumed was a guest room, the singular bed shoved against the wall to make space for the three Guardians. Morven had blacked out the window with paint- a rare commodity around here.

Nym and Lydiav reeked of chloroform, the both of them gagged and bound on the carpet, lost to a deep sleep, while Bal’gag was unconscious from fighting, a deep laceration across his forehead. Des was crouched over him, tilting his head in the dim light of the room to study the wound, her fingers gently probing at the sides and back of his head, searching for further injuries. My cousin’s touching seemed to wake him, his eyes fluttering under his eyelids. Her face scrunched up in concern, wringing her hands, she whispered, “Bal’gag? Are you okay?” He let out a long, pained moan, but lifted his hand in a thumb’s up, groaning out, “Princess… S’okay… Fought our way out…” Des winced again, but lifted her chin, stroking the side of his face with her fingers and saying, “You did well.” The male Guardian leaned into the touch, dropping his hand back to his side again.

“Can we sleep, please?” He begged, “Back at the hotel?”

Nym and Lydiav were out cold. The former had the worst wounds, covered in cuts and bruises, like Morven was attacking with a knife, while Lydiav only had bruises.

Nym, who was an archer, normally wouldn’t place herself so close to a fight. The only time she did that was to shield her sister.

“We’ll go back there for the rest of the night,” Des promised. I shot a glance at her, wondering how we were meant to trek our way out with three Guardians who certainly couldn’t walk themselves. We would be better off renting a room at the inn we’d passed by earlier.

“Des, we should stay in the settlement tonight. Nym and Lydiav are out cold, and Bal’gag is barely conscious.”

“I… can walk…” He weakly argued, only for Des to pin him to the floor with the palm of her hand, looking contemplative. She tapped at her hip, before nodding.

“We’ll stay at the inn.” She grabbed her cloak, tying it around her waist again, concealing the blood.

“Take the girls first,” Bal’gag said, his voice starting to sound a little more coherent, “I can wait here.”

Des, taking a seat on the floor at his feet, replied, “I’ll wait here with you.” She seemed genuinely concerned for their wellbeing, remembering her order earlier and feeling guilty over it. We’d missed the flares while sleeping, forcing them to try and fight. I didn’t bring it up, not knowing how she would react to such an observation.

In the end, I managed to secure a single room in the inn. The beds, which were laid out on the floor in front of the crackling fireplace, were no more than padded blankets sewn from wool and stuffed with feathers from various birds, the pillows handsewn as well.

There was a carved wooden table with two chairs against the wall near the door, an unlit candle on it, nails hammered into its sides to use as an alarm clock, and there was a cupboard with rudimentary supplies in it- some soap made from mutton fat, a basket of dried rose petals to use for washing clothes, a washers basket, and some folded towels. The inn had a bathroom that could be shared, with a wooden tub and a metal bucket to collect water from the well in the town centre, as well as a fire to heat it in. The bucket was beginning to rust around the handle, clearly old enough to have been brought by one of the first people to create the settlement, and the bathroom itself was quiet and closed off, with a sign informing occupants that loud noises or conversation were not permitted after sundown in the public spaces. I made six separate trips back and forth to fill up the bath for my cousin, who desperately needed to wash the blood from her skin before someone smelt it on her, and waited outside while she washed, the door cracked just enough that I could check on her whenever she became too quiet. While I waited, I messaged Alishan updates about the mission, including expressing my relief for the concern Destiny had shown toward her Guardians, and sent the photos I’d taken to Zeella.

The former replied with a photo of Lyna flirting with some Demonic-being at one of Zeella’s infamous parties, Alishan’s face entirely unamused while she lifted a glass of wine to the camera, before sending a message that she was glad to hear Destiny was coming out of her shell.

The latter read the message, but didn’t respond, and when Des emerged from her bath a minute later, dressed in leggings, one of my shirts, and a pair of thick winter socks, I made sure to minimise the messages before she could see them.

I’d found the Guardians’ bags in Morven’s home, Des and I changing them into their pyjamas before laying them out on the beds, none of them stirring. She brushed her hair while I treated Bal’gag’s wound. I tried on three separate occasions to ask my cousin about how she’d managed to change her shape, only to replace the words clamming up in my throat. I needed to process it first, before I approached her about it.

I found myself reading a book ten minutes later, the fire still crackling happily in front of us, Des sliding her pile of blankets closer to mine, joining them up and laying beside me, tucking her hand on her face, her eyes shielded.

I closed the book, lowering it down and whispering, “How are you feeling?”

“Morven is dead,” she said in a bland voice, shrugging with one shoulder. She toyed with the Parallel necklace with her fingers, brushing her fingertips over the stones, “The mission is over. We can go back to the Manor.” I watched the flames in the fireplace dance, warming our tiny, quiet room.

The Manor. Never home, for Des. Home was that little cottage on the outskirts of London, with her family back together. Home was lovingly-made breakfasts, nights out with all of us under the stars, or at her mother’s private observatory, paid for by Zeella. It was movie nights with Reanna, and building Dens in the backyard with me.

Home was gone, replaced by death and suffering. Replaced by the Manor.

Eyeing her warily, I murmured, “Do you… want to go back?” Her answering look was ice; was pain and regret all mixed in one, “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.” We didn’t, not really. We could always try running, but then we would end up like Morven- dead with our eyes gouged out for proof. Exhaling, I whispered, “You know I’ll always take care of you.”

“I hate that place.” Her voice cracked, making me look back over at her. It was then that I realised she was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks, lit up by the flames. She buried her face in my chest, the rare show of emotions stunning me.

“Please don’t make me go back there,” she begged me, my heart breaking all over again, “I can’t do it anymore. I want to go home.”

I held her to me, clenching my fists against her back, resting my chin atop her head and whispering fervently, “Des, we can’t run. They would kill us. We wouldn’t make it two days out there, with them hunting us.” Zeella would hunt us to the ends of the Earth, no matter where we went. I didn’t want a traitors death for my cousin; wouldn’t be able to bear to watch it happen.

Her begging became a broken sob, her fingers digging into my shirt, clinging to me like I was a raft in an ocean storm. I felt my own heart burning away, withering in my chest at her tears, like her pain was mine. In a way, it was.

“Don’t cry, please. Look, we can stop by the mall before we head back into the Manor. You liked that dress the other day, didn’t you? I’ll buy that for you, and we can spend some time matching it with some jewellery, hey? My shout.” It was a six hundred pound dress, but what did it matter? I would do anything, buy anything, to wipe those tears from her face.

The cheeky vanity I loved in my cousin shone behind her tears, which I wiped away with my thumbs, and, bottom lip wobbling, she asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said, glad to have the tears stop so my own heart could recover, “Anything for you.”

She seemed to settle somewhat, biting her lip and nodding. I slid my arm underneath her, pulling her against my chest, and she softened further.

“Get some sleep. I’ll take care of you.”

My power locked the door, her eyes drifting closed. A minute later, she was asleep, my own eyes closing…