“An orphan.”
Erra’s fingers slid across the black ribbon. “What happened?”
“She died.”
“Children often do.” She turned and nodded at the kitchen. “It’s cold. Do you have anything to drink?”
“Tea.” This was surreal. Maybe if I fed her some cookies, she would postpone turning Atlanta into a wasteland.
“Is it hot?” Erra asked.
“Yes.”
“That will do.”
I went into the kitchen, made tea, poured two cups, and sat. Slayer was waiting for me on the chair. I slid it on my lap and looked at Erra. She folded herself into a chair across from me and dumped half a cup of honey into her tea.
Of all the people I knew, I had the best shot at taking her down. I wasn’t at my best right this second, but we don’t get to pick the time to fight for our lives.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
Thinking that you have better reach but I’m faster. “Why a sword and not a spear?”
“The spear is good to pin things in place. Swords tend to break under the weight. I’ve seen you fight and you deserve a sword.” A corner of her mouth crept up. “Unless you plan to stand still while I skewer you.”
I shrugged. “The thought did cross my mind, but I have a reputation to uphold.”
Erra chuckled. “I figured out who you are. You’re the lost child Im carries on about, when he gets his attacks of melancholy.”
Melancholy, right. He mourns the fact he failed to kill me—how charming. “Im?”
“A childhood nickname of your father’s. Do you know who I am?”
“The scourge of the ancient world. Plaguebringer. City Eater. My aunt.” Roland’s older sister.
Erra raised her cup. “Shall we celebrate our family reunion?”
I raised my spoon and twirled it in the air a couple of times. “Whooptidoo.”
She smiled. “You’re too funny to be his. His children tend to take themselves absurdly seriously.”
I sipped my tea. The longer we chatted, the more I rested. “You don’t say.”
“You’re much more like my brood, but I only woke up six years ago so you can’t be mine. Too bad. Another time, another place, I could possibly make you into something suitable.”
I couldn’t resist. “What were your children like?”
“Impulsive. And violent. I mostly made boys, and they tended toward the simple pleasures in life: drinking, whoring, and fighting, preferably all three at once.” She waved her fingers. “Im’s offspring stare at stars and make clocks that calculate useless happenings like the angle of a hawk’s claws as it strikes its prey. They demonstrate their contraptions and everyone marvels. My children get drunk, confuse a herd of cows with an enemy regiment, and slaughter the lot, screaming like lunatics until the entire army panics.”
That sounded like big Ajax, one of the Greeks who besieged Troy. Must’ve been during her “Greek” period.
Erra took a drink. “One dimwit dragged the city gates up a mountain. I asked him why he did that. He said, ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ ”
I blinked. “Did he also refuse to cut his hair?”
Erra grimaced. “He was balding. That was his master plan: grow out a mane so nobody would notice. His father was gorgeous. Dumb as a pigeon but gorgeous. I thought my blood would compensate for his lack of brains.”
“How did that turn out for you?”
My aunt grimaced. “He was the dumbest child I ever produced. Killing him was like curing a headache.”
I sipped my tea. “You killed your own son?”
“He was a mistake, and when you make a mistake, it must be corrected.”
“I thought he committed suicide.” At least according to the Bible.
“He did. I just helped him along the way.”
“Ajax killed himself, too.”
She sipped her tea in a gesture so similar to mine, I had to fight not to stare. “You don’t say.”
That’s my family for you. Oh, so pleasant.
I refilled my cup.
My aunt glanced at me. “Do you know what your father does when his kids disappoint him?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“He calls me. Im’s too sentimental to remedy his mistakes. He’s done it a few times, but they have to do something truly asinine for him to kill them personally.”
“I’m excellent at asinine.”
She smiled, sharp enough to cut. Like a sword coming out of a scabbard. “That I can believe.”
We looked at each other.
“Why the Pack?” I asked.
“Five half-breeds are easy to dispatch. Throw enough troops at them and they will be overwhelmed. Fifty halfbreeds will slice through five times their number. They’re fast and those they don’t kill, they panic. Five hundred half-breeds can take on an army ten times their size and triumph.” She sipped her tea. Her face turned cold. “I saw it happen thousands of years ago. This new kingdom of the half-breeds is in its infancy. It must be crushed before they learn to walk.”
I looked into her eyes. A ruthless intelligence looked back.
“Why call them half-breeds?”
“It’s a convenient term. It drips with contempt. You’re a soldier who faces a monstrosity. It’s stronger and faster than you, it looks like a nightmare, and when it takes a wound that would kill a normal man, its fellows push you back and fifteen minutes later the creature you wounded is back on its feet. Where will your courage come from?”
I leaned toward her. “But if you think the creature is an abomination, a half-breed, who is less than you, you might reach deep inside and find a pair.”
Erra nodded. “Exactly.”
“Why not just declare them unclean and turn it into a crusade, then?”
She pointed her spoon at me. “You want to stay away from religion. Once you bring prayers and worship into it, your troops start thinking you’re a god. Faith has power during magic. You begin getting urges that aren’t your own. That’s why I warned Babylon that if they ever built a shrine to me, I’d raze the city down to a nub and salt the ground it stood on. In any case, the half-breeds must be scattered. They’re too organized and they have a First.”
I toyed with my cup. “What’s a First?”
“The First were there first. They have more power, better control, and the rest of the half-breeds flock to them.”