Page 61 of The Teras Trials

I have followed an order from my superior.

“Si non paruissem, punivissem.”

If I had not obeyed, I would have been punished.

The harpy opens its mouth and cackles. Its head turns unnaturally, like an owl’s, until it’s staring at me with a twisted neck and glistening eyes. “Cuius mandata secutus es et cur non curo sed modo te id fecisse.”

I am momentarily stumped by the length and speed of the sentence. I need a fucking dictionary.

Cuis mandata.

Whose orders.

Secutus es—perfect participle of sequi, to follow. Secutus es—you have followed.

Et cur non curo.

And why (you followed them) I care not.

Sed modo te id fecisse. Fecisse, perfect active infinitive of facere, to do. Fecisses, to have done.

Whose orders you followed and why you followed them I care not, but only that you did it.

When I do not reply quick enough, the harpy chitters happily, a staggering sound, a haunting sound. Something primal in me quivers. My body knows itself to be prey.

“Vivo ut te concelebram et prosequar, quod mihi voluptatem dat.”

Vivo. I live.

Ut te concelebram et prosequa. Ut, in order. Concelebram is trickier. It can mean celebrate, to make known—but in this case I suspect it means frequent. To haunt. I live in order to haunt—and prosequar, to hound, to pursue.

I live to haunt and hound you.

Quod mihi voluptatem dat. Voluptatem, pleasure.

Which gives me pleasure.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bellamy hisses from the bushes. The harpy spins to face him, then back at me. The spell is broken; it stops its slow approach and rears up with a screech, launching off the ground and into the air. Talons outstretched, it dives for my face. I point the flintlock gun and fire.

The harpy screams, a primitive and near-demonic sound. An arterial spray of black blood blasts my face and my mouth. I taste the metal in it, and something else, how I imagine sewage. Rotten, putrefying meat coursing in the beast’s blood. I howl and stagger backwards, blinded, and around me I hear a shot ring out, then the sound of a metal pole landing, then curses. The harpy still chitters and shrieks. When I finally wipe away the blood, the harpy is gone. Leo has the gun raised to one of the cast-iron columns. I look up to see the harpy preening, digging in its own flesh with a talon and sucking at its wound.

“Shit,” Bellamy says. “Shit.”

Victoria is crying, I think—I don’t turn to check. But Fred and Silas have slipped out of their cover to join us.

“That was very stupid, Mr. Jones,” Silas informs me. “It’s playing with its food. You’re only doing what it wants.”

Intermittently between his words, I hear the arrhythmic chittering and suckling of the harpy tending to its meal. The noise keeps sparking my anxiety. I can’t keep my eyes on Silas. They keep drifting up to the attacker overhead.

I wet my lips. “If we can get out of this with information—”

“We need to kill it,” Fred says sharply. “Not let it toy with us. Not let it tear us to shreds.” I notice now, for the first time, what the harpy has done to her arm. A deep gouge is in her shoulder and forearm, where she raised it to defend herself. A trickle of blood streams from the wounds. Silas looks furious—like it’s my fault.

“Can it speak English?” Leo whispers. I shrug, unsure. All of us huddle closer, luring Bellamy and Victoria out momentarily. I keep my eye on the harpy as it suckles at its wound; one eye lolls towards us, watching carefully.

“It’s too quick,” I say. “The wings are a problem.”

“Well, we have no net,” Bellamy says. “What do you suggest?”

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