“There is no need, sister. I have already regained control.”
Sydney tilts her head up. The rain of fireballs dances now, swirling down and around each other, leaving behind a graceful braid of smoke. It tightens until a single molten rock pirouettes toward them.
“Let me go!” Sydney shrieks. Her talons try to knife through Nomvula’s skin but her hug is too tight. “Minions!” she calls.
All four beasts spring upon them, but Nomvula pushes into their minds now, easy as pie. Do you hear what she calls you? Minions. Is that freedom? Save my friends, and you shall be granted your freedom. Real freedom.
The beasts roar out with affirmation and flap up toward the top of the building that grows more unstable by the second. Nomvula can only hope there’s time to save them all.
The light from the giant fireball blinds Nomvula as she flies up toward it, faster and faster, heat blazing against her skin. She ignores the pain and pretends it’s a game, like the one she played with Mr. Tau, flying higher and higher to see who’d be the first to reach the sun. Nomvula tightens her embrace and imagines that Sydney’s screams and cusses are laughs and whispers and double-dog dares . . .
All those things that loving sisters do.
Chapter 55
Nomvula
Darkness whispers, beckons her forth. She is nothing but shattered bone and spilled blood. Nothing remains of her except the
dullest of sparks, swirling in the nothingness, fading. She clings onto it, coddles it, knowing that it could not possibly
be enough to save her, but believing it so anyway.
Chapter 56
Stoker
Councilperson Felicity Stoker doesn’t understand how this huge rhionhawk problem landed in her lap. She oversees the Department for Economic Affairs, Environment, and Tourism, not animal control. But she’s worked miracles all throughout the past six months of her term—helping Port Elizabeth deal with the aftermath of the destruction, pushing for stricter bot labor laws, curfews, and mandatory R.A.P.I.D. Turing screenings for every device with an on/off switch. Plus she’d gone to ZenGen Industries herself, seeing that every single section of its labs was shut down until a full investigation of its business practices could be conducted. The media had attributed the destruction to a combination of an eighty-foot rogue military bot rampaging through the streets and a half-woman/half-eagle Zed hybrid who’d been spotted escaping ZenGen Industries. There was no mention in the headlines of vengeful demigoddesses or talking trees, and anything that couldn’t be written off as an evil corporate science experiment or an exposed robotic military conspiracy was pawned off as hallucinations and mass hysteria.
But the people, they have short memories, and something needs to be done about the rhionhawks. Part rhino, part lion, part hawk—and they’ve got a keen appetite for dik-diks, cutting the population by a fourth already. For the most part, the adult rhionhawks keep out of humans’ way. Their cubs, though, they’re the cutest things on four paws, and sometimes you can even catch them at the park purring as kids scratch at their stomachs under the watchful eyes of mother rhionhawks perched atop the bowing lampposts ill-equipped to hold their weight.
Insurance rates have gone through the roof, though. It’s not pretty what rhionhawk droppings can do to the hood of a car, which unfortunately, Felicity knows from experience. And there’s been some backlash from the few incidents where family dogs were mistaken for dik-diks. Felicity has to admit, the attraction and mystery of these mystical creatures has been quite a pull for tourists from overseas, drawing in the millions of rand that Port Elizabeth needs to rebuild, so Councilperson Felicity Stoker supposes that these rhionhawks actually are her problem.
A knock comes at her office door.
“Enter,” she says, then smiles as she sees Gregory Mbende fumbling with an oversized portfolio tucked under his arm.
“They’re here, sir. Ma’am.” Gregory clears his throat and eagerly opens the portfolio onto Felicity’s desk, nearly knocking over the vase resting near the ledge.
“Careful, Gregory!” Felicity says, patting the vines back safely into place. They’re rooting nicely. Soon, she’ll have to move them into soil.
“Sorry, sir. Ma’am . . .” Gregory says, blushing straight through the brown of his skin. He smiles and carefully spreads out the campaign poster proofs all in a line.
Felicity stands, pressing the wrinkles out of her smart skirt, then leans over to take it all in. Stoker 2069, A Race for Hope, President of a New South Africa the campaign posters read in varying fonts and layouts, all a patriotic red, yellow, and green. Felicity pulls her three favorite designs toward her, savoring the slickness of the paper and the stark smell of ink. She remembers a time not so long ago when she would have done this all via bot—virtual projections—and shudders at the thought of being deprived of holding her future in her hands.
“This one,” Felicity says. She flips it around for Gregory to see.
“Nice choice, ma’am. Sir. Ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He clears his throat again.
Felicity doesn’t think Gregory will ever get used to the flashy dress suits, the makeup, the new name. But he’s the kind of man Felicity will need by her side as they engage in the longest, toughest political race of her life. There’s so much rebuilding that needs to be done, and she’s not about to blame it all on the recent devastation and destruction in Port Elizabeth. It was there before, hidden and buried under social malaise, one that had infected the entire country. So Felicity had decided it wasn’t enough to try to heal just the Eastern Cape. The whole country needs to work as one. There won’t be a spare moment to waste from today forward. All eyes will be on Felicity Stoker, wondering if she has what it takes to lead the nation. Focus, passion, innovation.
“Do you think we have a chance at winning this?” Felicity asks as Gregory packs the proofs back into the portfolio.
“A chance is all I’m asking. Though it might be stronger if we can figure out a humane way to get rid of the rhionhawks.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. What if we’re going about this all wrong? I mean, would it really be so bad if they stayed? They’d be a symbol for the country—a perfect blend of cultures, working as one.”
Gregory is quiet for a long moment, with that passion Felicity loves so much about him brimming in his eyes. “We could put that on T-shirts! And hats! And buttons! The rhionhawk could be the official mascot of the Stoker campaign!”
Felicity scribbles a crude rhionhawk in the corner of her campaign poster, then passes it back to Gregory. “Get these mocked up and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”