“Who’s the girl you were playing with?”
“Trying to change the subject? That’s a new one for you.”
His voice turned to water, slow and broken. Choking tears, he said, “You looked happy with her, the Messah girl.”
“What are you getting at?” Jezebel snapped, no patience for weakness.
But the pain was too sharp hide away. “It made me think,” Cain started, “of what it’d be like if we—”
The singer hissed, “Don’t you dare. Not now, not in front of everyone.”
“I’m sorry,” he said knowing full well it meant nothing to her, that no amount of regret could cure the singers’ curse.
Nothing would fill the void between them, they knew that when they made the bond. But they were young and blind those years go. They could not believe a song would leave her barren nor understand what that would mean for them. He’d thanked the gods every night since then, for their mercy, for saving them from what might have been if not for the witch’s son.
Cain was reluctant to take him on when Bianca first asked, being little more than a man himself and too in love with his reputation: the Lion of Eemah, the Witch’s Beast, the Blackened Sun—the most lust-after singer at his side. He’d not the time nor desire to train up a child and would have refused anyone else. But the sacrifice owed that woman his life, and seven years later, his debt was no less. Adnihilo had become as much their son as Bianca’s. A fledgling at the edge of his nest, nearly a man grown, soon gone off on his own. What will become of us then?
Cain brooded over the question as they walked north toward the market’s edge. There, the faces grew dark and store fronts became pavilions. Ratholes. The only brick and mortar was Amsah’s Place, the sole brothel to survive Messaii chastity. And it thrived in isolation. Even during the day, the streets surrounding Amsah’s den wreaked of whores, drunks, beggars, and thieves. It took some effort for Cain to catch the sweet scent of smoked meat and follow the aroma to Shaka’s butchery.
“Ten shekels, skin and skewer!” bellowed the owner under his ragged canopy. He was nearly invisible—save for his tawny teeth—behind racks of salt-cured chevon and smoked strips as thick as his knotted locks. “A shekel a strip! Get it right here!” The butcher kept talking, though no patrons approached. “Three for a steak! Come on, people, treat youselves!”
“Three shekels?” the sacrifice shouted. “Who the fuck do you think I am?
“You think I give a fuck who you is?” started the butcher, throwing up obscene gestures with half a right hand and the two remaining fingers on his left. Then he saw who was teasing him, and his wrinkled face stretched smooth as he said, “Cain! Why didn’t you say who you was? And Jez! How you been? I seen your mother come passed here a couple days ago. She’s worried bout you, you know. You should go see her.”
“And intrude on her precious church service? Does she still go every day?”
Shaka nodded. “Sol, Vent, and Lun; and she’s been working in the kitchens too. You should ask David if he still needs help. It’d be a chance to patch things up.”
“God’s got enough harlots to suck his cock. I wish she’d just give it up and find herself a new man.”
“You starting to sound like Cain, talking like that.”
“And what do I sound like?” the sacrifice japed, but the butcher responded seriously.
“Look, I been around longer then you two been babes. I seen worse, I done worse, and if I learned anything, it’s that you got to make peace.” He aimed his remaining pointer at Cain. “You can hate all you want, but the only one you hurting is you.”
“The Old One—”
“The Old One’s dead, Cain. He’s dead and gone, and you know why? Cause he seen that there was something more. Look around. You think we was doing better before the war? And Jez, the same goes for you. She’s you mother. You got to let go of this feud.”
“It’s not like I haven’t tried. It’s her that won’t let go. How many years has it been since Father died? I’d bet she still blames me.”
“Blames us,” added Cain.
“Times change, youngblood; you’ll learn like I did. But enough of that. Did you two stop by just to talk, or is you going buy something?”
“Yeah. I need a steak for—” The sacrifice started, pausing at a cracking in the distance. “Did you hear that?”
“That?” the meat merchant replied. “I think that’s you boy and his friend. I see them practicing with sticks out behind Amsah’s all the time.”
A wry smile slipped on Cain’s lips. He’d been waiting for this moment for nearly a year, ever since the rumors trickled down to the southern altar. The Brothers Babylon, the pastor’s and witch’s sons had become gang of two. No one knew what it meant, but they speculated: coexistence, coalescence. Worthless sentiments to Cain. For him it was a test of dominance, a contest of faiths, a chance for small revenge against their tyrants. So he’d feigned ignorance and left Adnihilo to sharpen his fangs on the Messah spawn. Now, he would finally see the cultivation of all their training. He didn’t need to convince Jezebel. She was already gushing her own elations about the half-blood’s secret friend, leading her lover around the bend behind Amsah’s brothel where the whores and voyeurs were roaring.
And there they were, two youngbloods—younger than the one Cain killed that morning—shirtless, panting, and slick with sweat. The pastor’s son, Adam, stood to their left, a head taller than Adnihilo, and by the glistening-pink crucifix scarring his chest, a year older as well. That would make him sixteen—the year when Impii took to branding themselves—though without the
