the child crept like a ghost through corridors of stone. she was something small in a sacred place, approaching the altar at an empty church. the ceiling came to an arching point here, and shafts of dusty light filtered through cracks and holes in the walls — far from stained glass, but dramatic nonetheless.

damask was mapping these hallowed chambers, a project in progress that developed further with every passage. when she shuttered her eyes, she saw their architecture in vivid detail, every little room and walk, drawn to scale in all their ragged edges. in the space of barely half a cycle, she and the cave had become intimately acquainted; she'd recorded every nook and cranny she could find, skirting around the bones that populated them. maybe canis was a sort of surrogate, she admitted, for souls she hadn't seen. she had her father, of course, and his guidance and companionship were invaluable to her. but his nudges about meeting the other bonebound had grown less and less subtle, and still she held firm. her reasoning was simple and singular: she wasn't ready yet. words came easily inside her head, but somewhere between there and thin air, caution stopped her from letting them out. she couldn't be sure enough, not just yet, that no mistakes hid in their midst — and that was a problem. she'd spent enough time with auré to notice a pattern. he'd offer airspace, a clear opportunity, and in the moment she chose not to fill it, dismay would flit across his features before he scrambled to tuck it away. she wanted to speak, for him and herself, truly she did, and speak she would; but until then, silence wouldn't do for her family-to-be. and besides, well ... she'd seen her reflection. she had grown a little, yes, but she was still a downy, big-eyed mess. that wouldn't do, either.

she had to be better first. set herself up for a good first impression. now was the time to grow, learn, explore.

and she had something special in mind today. auré had been showing her how to hunt insects, and although she recognized the practicality in it, she was also painfully aware of how it must have looked. picture it: her ridiculous little self, snapping at moths like an absolute fool. the image brought a cringe to her face. come on, kid. you can do better than that. much as she appreciated the scraps of meat her father brought for her, they tasted ... weird, wrong, like ... owed favors, and the word rat. but what had really made up her mind was a growing sense that more was off than just the meat: auré was treading lightly, avoiding something, and specifically around lessons and mealtimes. that she would ferret out for herself.

damask paused, listening. a steady drip of water echoed throughout the cave, as it always did — but otherwise, nothing. not too easy, then, she thought, trembling softly in excitement. there was a spell she'd been experimenting with, very cool, a whole other beast from her usual fare. if only she could get it to cooperate ... she drew a slow breath in, feeling for a flare; but her connection with the new magic was too weak, too finicky, and it fizzled premature in her chest.

she let it out in a sharp exhale. all right. we can work with that.

she pressed on through the chambers, tiptoeing, listening. the failure of the spell was disappointing, but not surprising. working with the animal element was like trying to tame an unbroken horse, skittish and instinctive and much, much stronger than she was. mastering it would take another kind of skill entirely than her natural command over pressure — even now, damask felt the wind flowing easily around her in its confines of stone, eager and playful as an imaginary friend. but then ... there was the other, the magic that had borne her vision (no) of (stop) azazel's (don't think about it) death.

that one frightened her.

it smiled, whispered, beckoned to her, and with every pull of its grasping fingers, she hissed and danced away. it had much to offer, spells that tempted her; but she would not touch it, not until she knew what the devil asked in return.

she focused on the here and now. coming up was a split in the hallway, one route dim, long, and winding, and the other more open; air flowed softly onto her face as she considered her decision. that one empties into the outside. what she sought might be more abundant there, but with lesser cover, her black-and-white plumage might give her away. the chambers offered shelter to other lives as well, places they could congregate in presumptive safety when what they really were was contained. she would have better luck in here. she chose the darker corridor.

tiny nails skittered nearby, and her senses zeroed in — only to discard it. no rodents. damask wanted something else, and a few cleared corridors and rounded corners later, that something's presence strayed forth in music: a beautiful choir of songs multiplicitous, woven into perfect synch. a blue-gray tongue swept around her lips. that's it.

a slinking path down this hall, and then she crouched down, ears swiveling like satellites to triangulate the sound. it was faint, hollow, but rapid mathematics told of its source, some two hundred feet away through winding tunnels and pockets of space.

she had to be careful, now. her chances were limited. another spirit held in her body might have relied on its abilities alone — it had the tools, quick feet and sharp teeth and a clever set of claws — but this one chose magic, knowing its power. she concentrated on the avian chorale. it wouldn't do to replicate the whole; she would act as one lost singer, calling for her flock. pinpointing a single thread, she filled her lungs and hoped for a spark. yes — ! there it was — and a melody of her own pulsed in her throat, bright and high as a much smaller bird's.

damask's mimicry sang true with success, rising, falling, lovely in her mouth — but a retroactive bloom of doubt flowered in her chest, causing the sound to waver. every bird's song is unique. no two are the same. what if they knew she was faking it, flew away from the uncanny caricature? no, they can't be that smart. can they? her voice withdrew to a gradual hush. in the silence that followed, she realized that the others, too had waned away into stillness. she held her breath, awaiting their verdict.

and there it was: a bubbling stream of trills and chirrups, slowly snaking its way in her direction. she gave a huff of satisfaction. good. they'd swallowed the hook. auré had told her about lessers, explained they were different, not exactly cognizant. most existed moment to moment, automatons of instinct and necessity. she had to think from their perspective, not hers. a flockmate had strayed, and it was in their best interest as a unit to retrieve her. the birds would search a few spare minutes, but likely not for very long. they lived fast, thought little, could only care so much; anybody's altruism only went so far. and they're always singing. without the music baiting them nearer, they might suspect danger and turn back, if they didn't simply forget. just a few heartbeats had passed; the spell hadn't yet fallen away. she picked up the tune where she'd left it — this time, in motion, prowling ahead on featherweight feet.

let's try something ...

damask reached down deep, focusing hard on the jasper knife at the bottom of the well. two spells at once could be asking too much, but if she was going to push her limits, she would have to find them first. come on, come on — and her stone rose gamely to the challenge. rivulets of wind stirred at her back, spurring her on with playful kisses as it passed. it quickened her pace, lightened her step to near-total silence. slinking, stalking, she glided through the hallway and counted down the seconds. she had mapped this maze well enough to formulate a plan; she just had to time it right, run the numbers, her speed against theirs.

ten. a few more corners and the distance would close.

nine. she let the song sink back into nothing. melded melodies bounced alone off the walls, giving away the flock's position: almost on top of her.

eight. a pair of wings flashed blue-and-white in the faraway black —

and she slipped away into a crevice, crouching flat to conceal herself in shadow.

the roof of the overhang scraped against her spine as she pressed herself beneath it, turning deftly in a circle to face the outside. in the time it took to position herself, the sound of wingbeats burst into a storm: the flock dissolved, dispersed, converged, and repeated the ritual in a tumult of swirling feathers and powdery, free-falling down. damask watched their wheels and figure-eights, a pang for flight striking deep in her chest. this would be much easier if she could join them up there, pluck them from the air like a falcon, but weeks would pass before her wings were ready. until then, she would have to resort to subtler methods.

still their tempest scattered and whorled outside her crevice. with some difficulty, she singled out and counted them, nine birds in all. she'd seen their kind before — it was hard not to, given how plentiful, how colorful they were — but never this close. they'd seemed so small from afar; some of them must have been fully half her length, her tail and theirs in equal proportion. they're so … similar, to me. even their faces. if it weren't for the beaks, all that blue, one more leg … she wondered if they had names, and of course they did as a species, but maybe in that melodic language of theirs, each song its own unique specimen — no. even if we looked the same, they don't think the same, not even close.

after some time, the flock eased into a collective chorus, then alighted and settled on the walls, as though slowly forgetting the loss of their imaginary companion. (or maybe just waiting for her.) damask observed, head snatching this way and that for greater acuity, as they began to dance and display for one another. one of them found a jutting overhang of rock and swung back to hang upside down, wings swishing for a smaller bird nearby. a male — big, strong, showy; a prize, a challenge.

and just like that, she had her target.

it took a concerted effort to keep the air she drew in from shuddering aloud. even then, it whistled high and cold in her throat, gulped down like a strong draft. finally she had arrived at the climax. she could have gotten here with trial and error in magic's stead, but if this spell failed, her hunt was lost.

a red razor's edge nicked at her lungs this time — cast after cast, breath after breath, each one sapping a little more of the child's developing wellsprings of energy — but the wind before her shimmered, brought to hesitant life in alignment with her wavering heart. seemingly unimpressed, her quarry's hopeful amour took off, and he chased after her in dogged flight. jealous thunderheads darkened damask's eyes. they do it so easily. they can, and i can't. power drained from her stone and built in the atmosphere, collecting a cost she didn't yet feel.

now.

she sent the breeze up in a fluid rise of her chin — gathered it up, coiled it into a tight, bursting ball — and, with a sideways snap of her head so violent it hurt, slammed the bird hard against the wall.

she came out like a hurricane: stalking, storming, talons clicking with deliberate intent against the floor. the flock scattered overhead like an interrupted shoal — leapt around the shark that was her. damask glanced up as they fled down the hall. a smirk of predatory satisfaction lifted one side of her mouth, a crocodilian peak around the canine tooth. the hard part was over; her prey lay prone before her, ready for the taking. she deigned to lower her eyes to him — (no, it, don't think that way) — this construct of flesh and feather before her, and found ...

a downed singer thrashing with panic. its wings punched backwards at the stone in a frenzied effort to right itself and take to the air, singular leg curling and kicking, beak gaping open and shut with every ear-splitting cry. a brief wave of dismay washed over her, stole the smugness from her face. damask had meant to knock it out, not to merely stun it. the spell had definitely done that much; the bird's movements swam as if through water, dulled and dampened by the force of its fall — but it was still, clearly, conscious. she couldn't know if it would come to its senses, whether it was intact enough to fly, how long she had to act.

she approached and pinned it down, her claws a snare around either side of its flank. it wasn't much smaller than she was, and while it was much lighter, keeping it in place was a tremendous challenge. the bird was starting to come to, now: its flailing worsened into rolling eyes and wings that beat too fast to follow, downy confetti spinning around her. her grip slid down towards its tail, and she picked her foot up to press her quarry back into place. hold still! the other slammed down on the strut of its wing; she pushed harder, harder, harder, sinking every ounce of weight into it with heavy counter-flaps of her broader, stronger sails. hollow bones snapped, scarlet blood bled around her talons, and she thought she felt something rupture inside, as though squeezed into bursting. this body a bubble ready to pop.

and its singing changed, too — not that it could be called that anymore. even its early wailing had carried a certain music, a rhythm, undulating from crescendo to crescendo. this was not that. instead, the same scream tore through the air — high and haunting — over and over — identical intervals (one, two, three, four seconds and a half ...) between them.

her face crumpled into a cringe. even with her eyes shut, she couldn't avoid the sensory onslaught beneath her: it had all her other faculties cornered. when she gave up the blackout, she found herself staring straight at the wall ahead, the holes in her head twin cornerstones of a sagging, crumbling wall. this was what auré had been dancing around. what she had to do. the carnivorous cost of the meals she lived on. but it was only a lesser. right? its pain wasn't real. right? this was the only reason it existed. to be eaten. right?

right.

the body she occupied was nothing more than a series of metal pulleys and puppeteers' strings, and it needed fuel. not hers. just a machine that she worked. leaden, dead-eyed, abruptly exhausted, the child surrendered: not to desire, or hunger, or anything but necessity. with tightened talons and wide-open jaws, she coiled her neck in a serpentine twist — struck — and snapped her maw around the songbird's neck, the force too weak for mercy, fighting against skin-muscle-bone resistance until her teeth met.

silence. four and a half seconds flatlined into infinity; dark eyes hardened, glassy as fishbowls. the bird's leg twitched once, fly-like, and went still.

damask stumbled back, quicksilver brimming in the sockets of her skull, fixed on the lifeless creature lying before her. its stare didn't waver, and neither did hers for a laudable moment — but in this contest, she was doomed to lose; no gaze, mind, or spirit could best that immortal opponent. blurry images flashed before her, so vivid she could all but feel their light on her face: slicing blades across her throat — a long, long fall punctuated in stone — the solemn judgment of her grandfather's bones. no escape from those memories now. she inhaled sharply and crawled her way forward.

without color to delineate iris from pupil, the departed singer seemed to follow her approach. watching her. she grimaced, emitted a sound somewhere between a whine and a growl, and reached out to flip the bird over with her foot. it started to turn, only to topple back over her toes, which she quickly withdrew. too heavy; not possible. the noise in her throat rose in strangled frustration. she climbed onto the body and eased stiffly down to her heels, careful to face away from its head, tremors coursing down her spine. the feathers were — not edible. damask knew that much from preening her own. so she would have to ... remove them, then, before she did ... anything else.

blue streamers drifted around her and collected in a haphazard circle: faintly forlorn, like the leftovers of a party long abandoned. quill by quill, the bumps and wrinkles beneath were exhumed until the entire torso lay stripped and shrunken. her eyes, throat, head hurt — stung, burned, ached — but she had to finish this, and ... okay, yes, there, she'd plucked it. it was ready. still hot, still bleeding. she chose a point around its breast, closed her incisors around the skin, and tugged it open. a treasure of tissue rested inside, pale and smooth. she nipped at it; chewed. the meat tasted ... nice. correct. not the tough, stringy flesh of a rodent, but a tender sort of texture that came gently, juicily apart in her teeth. this was what she was meant to eat. she pitched her head back and swallowed, forcibly. see? it's good. you'll feel better soon. have another bite.

she managed two more mouthfuls and then that was it. her face screwed tight in a tidal wave of tears; saltwater rivers leaked down her cheeks, mixing with blood, spittle, snot. she stopped mid-bite, spat it out, and hunched over the body, coughing and shuddering, wracked up and down with the sloppiest kind of sobbing. "stupid!" the child hissed to herself, and with that rebuke came an irrepressible surge of nausea — the sour taste of vomit in her throat — and heaving, rippling convulsions at her sides: all the contents of her stomach, gone and dribbling over her toes, back to the cavity whence they came.

how had she not made the connection that in order to eat, she had to kill, and killing was this? it's just a lesser, she told herself, panting, it's just a lesser, but didn't it look just like her?

a butcher. that was what this made her.

with difficulty, damask lifted a wing and scrubbed it back and forth to clean up her face. it was soiled in short order; she replaced it with the other. a deep, snuffling breath, and she drew herself upright. her shoulders couldn't seem to stop shaking. she staggered down to the floor, now. took a second. this would get easier. do it enough times, and she could get used to anything. flood, expose, desensitize — that was the ticket. she would get away from here. she would find the clearest water canis had, and she would pull herself together. and then, she would go to her father and lose herself in his embrace.

but in the present, the child ran as fast as she could. help, please? she asked of the wind; but it countered her steps, swept her off her feet, and sent her tumbling to the ground, as if to fling back her request. it was all she could do to pick herself up and forge on alone, save for the spectral flock that still sang in her ears: a chorus of ghosts to the drumbeat of her pumping heart.