It was hours past morning, it had rained, but the sky was still dead, thick, sullen gray over Saint Elara's Orphanage, as if the sky refused to breathe. The odor clung in the air, damp wood and wet earth, a storm that passed in darkness, leaving the air heavy and still.
Inside, the children squirmed, their pent up energy contained behind the walls. The babies tapped worn wooden tables with little fingers, wiggle in little chairs and the bigger children just stared blankly out the grimy windows with their minds probably a thousand miles away during the dry math lesson.
Reese, a rumpled haired, slouching, gaunt fourteen year old with a stubborn jaw. He was not even listening to the lecture of Sister Olma. He drew on the edge of his slate with a little bit of chalk, and his fingers trailed the lines.
The vision of heroic, fierce shape, stern and disdainful, clutched a smoldering sword, victorious over the convulsed corpse of some giant titan. The hero bore Reese's face, though he'd never admit it. A boom, a thunder of the front gate shook the numbing uniformity of the lesson.
Sister Olma stopped midword, her brow creased into a frown as she spun on the noise. The children halted, their faces turned to the door to wide questioning eyes. Saint Elara's was not one place one called, surprise callers less frequently still. And then, quite unexpectedly, came a knock. Insistent, not tentative, charged with purpose. Sister Olma sighed, then motioned the children to stay where they were.
"Just keep practicing your calculations," she said, her voice taut with something. Her habit creaked as she went behind out of hearing, leaving a room full of muted talk.
Reese leaned against Mira, his fellow orphanage denizen. She was little for her age, but her eyes shone and her even brighter gleaming mind pierced his bluffing. "Perhaps it's some family adopting us," he said with a faint smile and also with an hope that he tried to keep hidden.
Mira laughed. "Or perhaps some trader with wormy carrots.".
Reese smiled, though it faltered at the trace of tension creeping up her shoulders. Mira was no woman to be intimidated, but the knock could reach her.
Sister Olma stood in her tiny, cluttered office facing a man chiseled of steel and shadow. He stands tall, his whole build dressed in a robe of silver and gray that glimmered pale in the candlelight, his eyes were cold.
"You're certain?" Sister Olma asked quietly, her fingers tightening around the wooden cross at her waist.
The man jerked his head into a brusque nod. "He bears the mark in his blood." He spoke in a deep, full voice, stretching each word out. "He is the last remaining member of House Evermere, one of few select individuals blessed by the stars."
Sister Olma's scowl deepened. "He's a child, innocent, untrained."
"I know," the visitor continued. "But if he stays, one day sooner or later, he will be hunted by others jealous of his talent, or worse, he will be killed by the draughnir.".
She winced back, her gaze sweeping across the desk to the little photo that rested on it, smiling little Reese, taken on the bench with the other orphans on his first day at Saint Elara's. She brought him in like them, fed him, scolded him, tucked him into bed at night. She never wanted it for him.
"I'm not forcing anything," the man said, as if reading her thoughts. "I'm offering a place at the Academy of Armathane. A safe haven for training and purpose."
Sister Olma hesitated. She has heard that name, how can she not, after all that place are first institution in history to accept anyone with talent regardless of where they come from.
"Let me go ask him first, whether he wants to follow you or not." she said at last.
"Very well." The visitor answered without even looking worried in the slightest.
Two of the boys had snuck out on an errand, by the woodshed.
Jak and Pell, younger than Reese, had been instructed to go get some firewood. But when Mira went out to check on them, they had vanished, having simply vanished into thin air.
She spotted Reese coming with the well water, his tired arms twisted under the weight of the heavy bucket. "Reese!" she shrieked, her voice pulled in with a sniff of terror. "Jak and Pell are gone! They were just there a minute ago!"
Reese dropped the bucket on the ground with a splat, water sloshing over his boots. "Where?"
"By the old goat trail!"
Reese ran for his life along the destroyed path that was the woods behind the orphanage. The trees closed in quick, their twisted branches crossing overhead to shut out what little remained of light. The wind picked up, and it carried the wet sting that tickled the hair on Reese's arm.
And they waited there,
Jak and Pell stood rigidly, in a tiny clearing, not wincing, eyes open, empty.
There were puddles between them, dark, heavy, unnatural. Not mud, not water, but something else. Bubbles speckled the surfaces, alive, shuddering with things that didn't compute. Shreds of bone, teeth, eyes, matted clumps of hair, slivers of broken glass. All huddled together in a quivering, tar-like mess.
Reese choked his breath.
His instincts were all crying out upon him to break and run.
His fists were clenched.
In any case, heroes get through.
He took a step forward.
The air closed over him, pushed against him like cold unnatural hands. The vats of dark balm churned, sensed him. Jak whimpered softly. Pell trembled.
And then—
Reese's right hand flashed in light.
Red flame burst from his hand, curling around his wrist in lashing red and gold. It wasn't little sparks he'd created by mistake before, it was real fire, untamed and smoldering. The pain pushed him to his knee, his eyes unfocused.
The puddles curled up. The puddles hissed and writhed, steaming violently before dissolving into coils of black fog, retreating from the flame like beasts in pain. Jak and Pell hit the ground.
Reese stumbled, holding burned hand, teeth clenched in pain.
The boys gasped in innocence. "Ahh. Reese…?" Jak growled, blind eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Reese struggled to breathe, shaking. "You guys okay?"
They shook their heads dazedly. Alien black smudges disfigured their shirts and arms, splattered ink-like, but they did not realize or care.
Reese helped them up, forcing a grin. "Come on. Let's get back. The Sister'll tan our hides if we're late."
Back at the orphanage, Sister Olma and the visitor stood beneath the cloudy sky, waiting.
When Reese returned, smut-streaked, scalded, and with three starry-eyed boys in his wake, the visitor's face darkened.
"We were near the woods," Reese cried. "There were these dumb puddles. But I saved them out!" He grinned, wiping soot from his face. "I saved the day."
The visitor glanced over at Jak and Pell's streaks of black. Then with a flash of lightning speed, he drew a gun.
It was a black handgun, its finish remaining shiny bright on its darkened receiver. The metal shone with gleaming silver runes, inscribed on the face of the weapon. He was standing holding it pointed, pointing straight at the crown of Jak's head.
Sister Olma shrieked in horror. "What are you doing?!"
"They are infected," said the man, frankly. "Black Essence possession. It is not smears of dirt, it is anchors. Vessels, it is time to clean them up or the whole orphanage is spoiled."
Reese stepped between him and the children, arms wide. "What are you saying?! They're okay! I've got them back, they're okay!"
"You don't understand," the man declared coldly. "You don't know what you're dealing with."
"No!" Reese roared. "You're not going to harm them!"
Sister Olma remained steadfast at his side. "You're not welcome here with guns drawn. Leave."
The man's gaze focused on the black marks. Then, incrementally, he allowed the pistol to drop.
"So be it," he growled, jamming the gun into his coat. "You've made your decision."
Later, after a gray day, the visitor just stood among trees and gazed at the orphanage.
He leaned a thumb against the gun on his hip, thoughtfulness on his face.
"I can force it," he breathed. "Force the kids out, rescue the boy, burn the bad stuff before it infects the rest of them."
But he shook his head later.
"No, let the stuff run wild. Let him discover what this power is worth."
His lip curled. Then he was gone between the trees, leaving tattered leaves blowing and a gasping shiver of wind.
This night, the black mist came back.
Thicker.
Hungrier.
It crept against the glass of the windows, bucked at the cellar doors, crept into the wall crevices. And at the back, kids who slept behind Reese, woke up screaming out in some inaudible sounds.