Page 8 of The Teras Trials

I don’t know what I’m doing but I leave the apartment. I hunker down in my coat, huffing away, barely tasting the tobacco. The motion is a tic now; raise up, inhale, exhale, down, repeat.

London is safe. There are no crimes in these streets, not unless you want a hanging and your family cast out. Maybe it's the lingering laudanum in my bloodstream, a phantom of paranoia above my head, but I feel exposed. Eyes watch me stalk through the lanes. I know my feet are heading to the wards, but I don’t know what to do when I get there. I’ve been out before, of course, but never alone. Thaddeus always leads, and the guards know his face alone. We’ve never had to show our identification, never been scrutinised by the guards. They see the Hunter insignia and Thaddeus is lifted from every grounding shackle I endure; my youth, my desires, my very nature.

I am so focused on smoking I don’t realise how far I’ve walked until I’m there.

London has seven gates. The Romans built them, and once there was talk of tearing them down, growing the walled city to accommodate the influx of people. The teras meant it never happened—and I thank God for that, or we’d all be dead.

The entire city is backed against the River Thames which is consequently the last thing enveloped by London’s wards.

I’ve walked to the east of London, to the big gate there.

Aldgate flickers with torch light and the eerie and supernatural glow of the ward stones, so that blue-and-orange light warps over the gate. Two circular towers sit on either side of the gate which is fortified with portcullises and chains. Usually, it’s busy, but night slows down the traffic. The most exciting thing is a few members of the Cult of the Rift, those who, in the last decade, have started to worship the very tear that let monsters from myth spill into our world. They mill about at gates, waiting to worship the carcasses or teras if Hunting parties ever return with trophies; every act driven by a prophylactic aim to avert destruction. Worship of the threat is instituted to avert it.

The church lets them, but only because it spins tales about their order as an extension of God. Individuals called to a higher purpose. No matter that they wish to propitiate the teras themselves, like how the Romans would bribe mildew to avoid blighting their crops.

The procession pulls my gaze. There are six of them, in strange yellow robes. They look like priests on feast days, though they are markedly more excessive with their decoration. They wear embroidered robes, wide-brimmed hats. Some wear patchwork cloaks made from the scales of pythons or hydra - D or C-tier teras. One wears the skinned skull of a python as a headdress. It looks gaudy, like a trophy, but the cult believes this is a form of worship. They won’t waste the teras bodies. I watch as good Christian men and women sign the cross as they pass.

Some of London think of them as devil-worshippers. But they are baser than that. More human. More ancient in their practice.

I turn my gaze back to the gate and wonder if the cultists expect a Hunting party to return.

I think about walking out beyond the wards. I have my tag, and I have the sadness that spurred me here, but I don’t truly have the guts. Nerves get the better of me. I veer suddenly to the right to a bustling taphouse and think about drinking myself to oblivion. But God has other plans.

The first step I take, before I’m even across the threshold, is apparently condemned by the heavens. A bell rings. There are shouts. For some reason the first thing I think of is the teras. They’re attacking, I think. I reach for my gun. Then there’s commotion at the gates. A stream of guards run in and out of the circular towers like panicked ants. Hastily, the portcullis is pulled up and then shudders down. I don’t know why I feel nervous about it, but I press myself against the wall of the taphouse, hiding in the shadows to spy. Horses are braying outside. A high moan creaks from someone’s throat. Gooseflesh erupts over my skin as I shiver, right hand closing tightly around the gun.

But it’s not teras. A group of mounted Hunters stream in, with three riderless horses. I see several bodies strewn over their mounts’ backs. City guards run to pull them free. I watch as two men haul a young woman off a horse, only for her stomach to burst apart. Black, sloppy entrails hit the ground with a wet squelch. She’s dead. One of the guards drops her with a surprised shriek. It’s chaos. I don’t see Thaddeus. My stomach twists.

I don’t see Thaddeus.

I run from the shadows. For the second time that night, I start to pray.

“Thaddeus Jones!” I howl. No one is listening. People are crying, people are panicked. A crowd trickles out from the taphouse to watch. The horses are so terrified one rears up as I run at it. I sidestep and tug on the mounted Hunter’s arm. “Thaddeus Jones!” I say again. She shakes me free with a yell. I move to the next one.

“He’s a hunter!” I say, stumbling between the horses. “He was on patrol. Where is he? Where is he?”

Someone grabs me. I can barely make out his face in the shadow.

“Son,” he calls me. I try to wrench myself away, but he holds me fast. “Son, I’m sorry.”

“No.” Thaddeus isn’t here. They didn’t retrieve a body—maybe there’s no body at all. I spin for the nearest horse without a rider and try to haul myself into its waiting saddle. The Hunter puts himself between me and the gate.

“You can’t, son,” he says, too calmly. Far too calmly.

“Where?” I shout. “Where did it happen?”

“Road to Southend,” someone whispers. “Huge thing. Could barely see it.”

They trail off. I imagine the teras, some hulking thing tearing the Hunters limb from limb. And then I see Thaddeus. We are children. Nothing bad has happened to us. Thaddeus is calm and sweet, and our father is at sea and his anger is never around to seep into us. No one screams at us. No one beats us. I am six and Thad is eleven and he tells me he will always look out for me. He will be the man who protects the Jones’ family.

I know Thaddeus is no longer this boy. He is angry and violent, but he has given his whole life to protect me. I am softer than him because he took the brunt of it all—every bad thing in this world has always gone through him first. Am I meant to leave him to die? I can’t. I won’t. We share the trauma of being the sons of Mr and Mrs Jones. There is no one else in this world who understands.

“Is he dead?” I scream. The Hunter stares at me; he doesn’t know. They just fled. They left my brother in the snow.

I think he sees it in my eyes because he steps out of the way. The ward stones are still down, but their field is flickering as they power back up.

Now or never. I choose now.

It is my turn to save him. I ride.

---