eternity is boring.

i could go back to sleep but i have been sleeping for so long and i have been waiting for you my darling my sweething fleshthing baby child baby boy

child tells me to be patient but i am tired of being patient and patience and waiting i am tired of

speaking in riddles and waiting and of you oh do not be angered my little emperor my bloodthing warmthing softthing hollowthroated bag of bones in a fleshy envelope ill get you out

but i get tired of words and words and words and coherency and waiting and moving and playing and scaring and devouring

so i must

look somewhere else.

look somewhere.

look where.

look

her

SIXTEEN HOURS TWENTY FOUR MINUTES AND THIRTY TWO SECONDS AGO AND QUITE SOME DISTANCE AWAY FROM JAMES BISHOP HADLEY:

TAMARA FINDS THAT she never seems to have a choice when it comes to things that absolutely bore her.

Of course, she doesn't have much of a choice in anything these days, but the assembly is just downright redundant. She knows that they're going to talk about last night's attack. She knows the speech that's going to be recited—hell, she helped write half of it. And she knows that she's going to be assigned to some clean-up unit at the end of the day, instead of doing anything of actual help, because—as the Magisters put it—she was too much of an unpredictable variable, too much strangeness, too much potential bait. And then they'd say something about the common good and serving the people.

How convenient, to call her inhuman and then demand she work for the betterment of humanity.

She drums her fingers on her armrest, earning a look from an uptight looking young woman sitting right next to her.

Tamara gives her a polite smile, and a look of recognition dawns on the woman's face. The woman doesn't smile back. She frowns, gets up, and sits down two seats away from Tamara.

"Well, fuck you too," she mutters under her breath, and starts drumming her fingers against her armrest again.

There's a few hundred people in the auditorium, and this had surprised Tamara when she first walked in, considering how many people had been sent out to deal with the nyx last night. Of course, they all look tired and harrowed, and here and there Tamara can see a few of them with injuries, but this is still a decent turnout, all things considered. And all things considered, something is off.

It's been fourteen minutes since they'd all been gathered here, and there's still no sign of anyone on the stage, let alone the podium. Despite the absolute monotony of these assemblies, someone should've been on by now, droning on about something or the other. This is unusual.

And just as Tamara has the thought that something is wrong, he walks on stage.

Everything about him is smooth and unruffled, despite last night's ordeal. Not one thread out of place. He is young and powerful and it shows, in the way he carries himself. He walks to the podium with an animal's grace—sure-footed, never wrong, every step precise. And he's smiling too, that easy, charming smile of his. Like nothing is wrong, and if it is, he's the last person you'd expect to worry.

Which is wrong, Tamara thinks, as she watches him slowly make his way to the podium. He's the most worried out of all of us.

"Hello," he says, like his voice doesn't reverberate through the room. "As I'm sure you've all already noticed, there has been a change in the status quo. My presence here, today, at this podium is proof enough."

There are some murmurs in the audience. Tamara is clenching the armrest. If he's up there—

"Some of you," he says, "may have already heard, but Magister Darren—who was the one supposed to be standing up here, speaking to all of you—has been—well, I can't say injured, because that's just wrong. If he was injured, he'd still come up here and talk and lecture. Guy's got a hell of a constitution, I'll give him that."

There is some scattered laughter, but Tamara's unease only grows.

The smile slips from his face as he continues. "There's a reason Magister Darren isn't with us today, and it's not because he's dead." He pauses, and glances around the room. "There is no easy way to say this. Magister Darren led the charge on the nyx containment, and he has done his duty admirably, but at a cost." There is a slight, very slight tremor in his voice and Tamara doesn't know if it's for show or not. Knowing him, probably.

"Magister Darren has been taken by the nyx. The man you know as Darren Whitfield no longer exists," he says, slowly. "He is alive. But he can no longer—" he takes in a breath, as if steadying himself—"he has been nulled."

There is a second of silence so thick Tamara thinks she might choke on it. This wasn't in the plan.

"He is no longer able to perform in his duties as a magister, because the nyx has taken that ability away from him."

The murmurs grow louder, and Tamara can feel her blood drain from her face. This wasn't supposed to happen.

For a moment, he looks at his right hand. He clenches and unclenches his fist, as if lost in some far-off memory. He closes his fist again, and in an instant, he is back.

"There is more," he says. "This attack was not unprovoked. A nyx of that size does not simply tear through the planes, not without some help or some very strong motivation. I'm going to be truthful—as of now, we don't have any leads. But someone has done this—" and for the briefest of moments, Tamara swears he looks right at her—"and we're going to find out who, eventually."

He allows himself a pause, for his words to sink in. Tamara needs, desperately, to get out of here.

"Let me be frank with you all, brothers and sisters," he says. "I think this is a threat. Not just to us, not just the Coven. Not just those of us lucky enough to be hiding behind walls and darkness. The last time a nyx happened to tear through the barrier, it left a town burning in its wake. And last night's nyx is—it's unpredictable. It is not following any patterns, any sort of behavior we'd normally associate with those of its ilk. In fact, I'm hesitant to call it a nyx at all. It is too big, too sentient, too clever. It isn't right, that we continue doing idle work, breaking curses, chasing down likhos and horsemen of the night, not when we have something like this on our hands."

In the front row, where some of the Magisters are seated, Tamara can see some of them shifting around in their seats.

"Believe it or not," he says, smiling, "none of this is a speech. I'm just saying whatever comes to mind. Keeps me honest, I think. And I don't think we've had enough honesty, really, not from the council—"

One of the Magisters stands up from her seat, and the murmurs have grown much, much louder.

"—and I think it is time for us to change. The council hasn't been entirely willing for that change to occur, has it? We've already lost Darren and the entire unit that led the charge—yes, that's why we haven't seen anyone from that team—"

There is havoc all across the first row, and someone is shouting, and Tamara doesn't understand why they can't just climb up to the stage and drag him down and it occurs to Tamara that they can't because he's done something to prevent that from happening in the first place. Clever fucking bastard.

"—and they haven't told you about the four other units that went missing, have they? How much more are we willing to lose to inaction, to tradition, to dishonesty?"

Someone is trying to get in backstage, their efforts in vain.

"Times are changing," he says, with that easy smile of his. "I think the coven should change too, or we're going to suffer for it." He leans his head forward, tipping his head at a conspiratorial angle. "And have a Merry Christmas."

He waves and walks off-stage, just like that.

And then all hell breaks loose. People are talking, shouting, yelling. All around her, Tamara hears variations of the same questions. Where did he go? and Was he telling the truth? There are a few Magisters on stage, trying to get the audience to sit back down in their seats, but it doesn't seem to be working.

And—despite feeling like she's going to throw up, like the world is slipping out from under her feet—for the first time in a very long time, Tamara lets herself laugh.

Oh, Grant is going to absolutely love this.