The Serpent and the Wings of Night

There was no room for weakness in the Kejari, but mine was entwined in my own human flesh. I blinked and saw Ilana’s body, so easily destroyed. I fought back the wave of nausea, the stab of pain. Those were weaknesses, too. Instead, I made my grief into anger. I made it steel.

I loved it—really, truly loved it—when they underestimated me.

He offered his daughter no comfort, no tenderness. Why would he? The world would offer her none, either. She should learn this.

She was so, so young. Hard in some ways. Softly naive in others. She did not truly understand, yet, that vampires shone as the silver teeth of traps shone. Their beauty was a beckoning hand, promising sweet caresses. The little serpent was so very lonely. She slithered right into those lovely, elegant fingers. She did not even see the claws.

My tone was downright vitriolic. It was undeserved. He had done nothing but be kind to me. But I only knew how to fight.

He stepped closer, the shadows in his gaze growing deeper, fiercer. “Do you want to change this world, little serpent? Then climb your cage until you are so high no one can catch you. Break its bars and make them your weapons. Nothing is sharper. I know because I did it.”

I found something oddly comforting in the way the greenery wrapped me in an embrace. The plants were fragile and alive and impermanent—just like me—and yet, they’d still managed to reclaim the ancient structure. It was a little inspiring.

“The others will underestimate you,” he went on. “Use that. It’s a powerful weapon.”

But one had to learn how to hear what lingered in between the words. Just like he never told me he loved me, but I heard it in every stern instruction.