The pig grease on my lips turns to poison. The feast is over.

  Behind him, two more. The ground hardens beneath their boots.

  My hand finds Pip's small shoulder.

  Gwendolyn pushes through the frozen crowd. A slash of blue in a world of grey. She offers a smile that is all teeth. "Welcome to the new Greyhollow," she says, her voice loud in the dead air. "We have cleansed the rot from our roots."

  A man in the crowd shouts, "No more!"

  Before the words are gone, a Collector is on him. A glide. One clean motion. A hand on the man's shoulder, a twist. A wet, tearing pop of bone and sinew. The man crumples, his arm a useless, dangling thing.

  No one moves. No one breathes.

  Reginald shuffles behind Gwendolyn, his bladder letting go. A dark stain spreads on the red hem of his robe. The sharp stink of urine hits the air.

  The Collector in the skin cloak pivots, his whole body turning to face Gwendolyn. He says nothing. He dismisses her with a flick of his wrist.

  The bright colour drains from her face, leaving a pale, sagging thing behind. Her hands, which had been clasped, fall to her sides, empty.

  His hands lift to his mask. Scarred knuckles against dark metal. A hiss of air, sharp as a drawn breath. He pulls it free. The metal comes away from the flesh with a soft, wet sound.

  The face is a ruin. Scar tissue, pale and waxy, pulled tight over bone. A battlefield where the flesh lost. My eyes trace the damage. The right ear, a fused lump of cartilage melted to the side of his head. The teeth, visible through a gap in the scar tissue of his cheek.

  Then it stops.

  On his cheek, a small island of skin survives. A perfect, untouched circle. And in its centre, a single dark mole.

  A memory surfaces. My thumb traces the curve of a small boy's cheek. The skin soft as a new leaf. The boy's laughing face. The tiny mole.

  I blink. Once. Twice. Trying to force one of the images out. The boy's face. The man's face. But the boy is still there. The man is still there. They are both looking at me. They are both true.

  A high, thin ringing starts behind my ears. The world goes flat, a faded painting of a doomed feast. My legs simply unlock. A sudden, boneless collapse.

  My knees hit the ground. The sharp edge of a loose cobblestone digs into my bone. A small pain. And then it is gone. Swallowed by the rest.

  A wet, tearing sound rips from my throat. A choked, guttural thing. It is the ugliest, most honest sound I have ever made.

  The sound dies in the dirt. No one heard it. The villagers are a graveyard of statues, their eyes all fixed on the ruin of my son's face. They did not see the old woman fall.

  He did.

  His eyes, sweeping across the crowd, snag on my crumpled form. The sneer on his lips goes slack. The muscles in his jaw unlock.

  For a single, impossible second, the monster is gone. There is only a boy, his eyes unguarded, his mouth a soft O of shock. It is the face of a child who has just heard his mother cry out in pain and does not know how to fix it.

  The moment lasts no longer than a breath. Then the monster returns. He blinks once, a hard, resetting motion. The muscles in his jaw tighten again. He looks away. He has to.

  But I saw it. The boy is still in there.

  A warmth floods the hollow space in my chest. It is a sickening, beautiful heat. The Echo of a mother's love.

  It feels like hope.

  And hope is the poison.

  His eyes sweep over Gwendolyn. He lingers for a beat on her trembling hands. Then he almost, but not quite, shakes his head.

  Under that quiet, heavy scrutiny, the spine of her authority snaps. She is a puppet with its strings cut. A heap of blue cloth on the ground.

  "Noise," he says. "I heard you from the swamp."

  He doesn't say another word. He simply holds her stare until she is the one who has to look away.

  He lifts a scarred finger. The two Collectors step forward, flanking Gwendolyn and Reginald. They look at the crowd. At the exits.

  He approaches Gwendolyn, his scarred face inches from hers. "You have ambition," he says.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Her chin lifts, a small, almost imperceptible tilt of arrogance.

  "But you think with your blood. Messy. Inefficient."

  Her jaw locks, the muscle bunching under the skin.

  He walks a slow circle around them, a butcher inspecting new livestock. A smile cracks the waxy tissue of his lips. "You will continue your work."

  A small, shuddering breath escapes Gwendolyn, the first she has taken in a minute.

  He pauses, watching the blood return to their faces.

  Then he snuffs it out. "Under new management."

  "This village is a resource. Not a family." He pulls back, the smile vanishing. "You will learn the difference."

  He speaks one quiet command. "The robes."

  The Collectors remain still, their silver masks reflecting the failing light. A long, terrible silence. Then Gwendolyn's trembling fingers find the clasp of her robe.

  A click. The blue wool slides from her shoulders and lands in the dirt with a soft thud. Then the fine linen of her under-robe.

  Her skin meets the cold air, pale and soft. It is a white, doughy thing. A body shaped by wine and comfort, never meant for this kind of light.

  Reginald's is the colour of old parchment, his frame brittle as a dead leaf.

  His hands come up, trying to cover himself. They are small, trembling things against his skin. Her hands are fists at her sides.

  Gwendolyn folds her under-robe into a neat square. Each crease is a small, contained piece of her fury, folded and put away. She places it on the ground.

  A Collector steps forward. He tosses two bundles of roughspun grey cloth at their feet. The smell of old sweat hits me even from here. They kneel to take them.

  Gwendolyn yanks the coarse, stinking fabric over her head. A single, brutal motion. Her face emerges. A weapon waiting to be aimed.

  Reginald just weeps, his shoulders shaking as he fumbles with the cloth. His sobs are small, wet sounds. The sound of a man drowning in the open air.

  Then he stumbles. He reaches for Gwendolyn. She glances down at his hand on her arm. She moves away, her eyes never leaving his face. His hand falls through empty air. He hits the ground.

  Gwendolyn watches as he plants a palm in the filth and pushes himself, shuddering, back to his feet.

  They stand shivering in the grey cloth.

  His voice is low, meant only for Gwendolyn, yet it carries across the entire square. "You have an eye for quality."

  He lifts a finger. A Collector steps forward. A cold click as a set of iron callipers is presented.

  "You will measure their flesh," he says. "Every man, woman, and child of age. Turn them into numbers. Nothing more."

  He turns to Reginald. The old man's face is a slack, empty thing. The other Collector presents a heavy, leather-bound ledger and a piece of charcoal. A puff of black dust rises from the charcoal as the Collector offers it, and the scent of it, dry and earthy, catches in my throat.

  The air in the square goes thin. My hand over a small, warm hand. Guiding his fingers as they formed the first, clumsy letters of his name. Max.

  "And you," he says, his attention on Reginald. "You will record what she finds."

  He surveys them in their new uniforms, two new gears in his machine. He points a scarred finger, first at her, then at him. "The Assessors."

  "You will go door-to-door," he commands. "You will be my eyes. This village is full of useless feelings. You will find their worth. If they have any."

  Gwendolyn's pride sparks one last time. "You cannot do this. We are the Council—"

  "You were the Council," he cuts her off.

  A smile cracks the ruin of his face. "Now, you are my clerks."

  Reginald doubles over, his body convulsing. A thin stream of bile spills from his lips.

  He turns his back on them. "Begin."

  Then his attention settles on Vera in the crowd. "The loud one," he says, his voice flat. "Start with her."

  Gwendolyn and Reginald stumble forward. Their bodies, shaped by years of robes and command, have forgotten how to walk. They hold the callipers and the ledger, their new tools of shame.

  As they approach, the two Collectors detach and move forward. They look past Vera, at her son, Billy, who stands at her side. A boy old enough to be measured. They flank them.

  Vera's hand finds Billy's. His fingers are trembling. She squeezes once. The fire in her eyes does not go out. It narrows to a cold point of light.

  The walk to her cottage begins. We all watch them go. The shuffling grind of their six sets of boots on the cobblestones is the only sound in the world. A slow, uneven, terrible rhythm.

  You must break the callipers and burn the ledger, or

  A part of me, the old, bitter alchemist, sees the scales balancing. Justice.

  But I look at his face. My son's face. At the empty space where his smile used to be. This isn't justice. This is him pulling the wings from a fly because it makes him feel big.

  The door to Vera's home is left open. Gwendolyn glances past Vera, at the audience in the square. A small, sad, and entirely false smile for their benefit.

  Vera stands by the hearth, her son shielded by her body. Her hand closes on the iron poker.

  Gwendolyn inches forward, the callipers extended. Her voice is a thin, reedy sound. "Vera, please." Her eyes are on the open door, on the silent, watching village. "Don't make this harder."

  The quiet click-click-click of the callipers.

  Reginald opens the ledger. To the first blank page. He cannot meet Vera's eyes. He speaks to the floor. "Ailments?"

  A sharp laugh tears from Vera's throat. Her eyes, two chips of blue ice, lock onto his. "The village is sick, Reginald," she says. "Write. That. Down."

  My son turns from the open door, his demonstration complete. He is about to leave, then pauses, as if remembering a final, mundane detail.

  "Ah, yes. The Flesh Tax."

  He picks a dried husk of a fly from the dead skin of his cloak. His scarred fingers are delicate. He rolls the small, dead thing between his thumb and forefinger, his focus a cold, dissecting curiosity.

  Then he opens his hand and lets it drift to the floor.

  "Winter approaches. The payment will be collected soon. I require one worthy offering."

  He looks from Gwendolyn's controlled fury to Reginald's slack-jawed terror. "I don't care who. That is your decision. Settle it amongst yourselves."

  He walks away. He does not look back. His shoulders are relaxed. It's a familiar posture, one from his childhood. The quiet calm of a boy who has just put the last of his wooden soldiers back in their box.

  The square empties, leaving the wreckage of our feast. We had one day of hope. This is what remains of it.

  Doors close. Shutters are pulled. The scrape of a bolt is a lonely, final sound. Then another. And another. The hope is gone.

  The corpse-light on the tables strengthens in the growing dark, casting a sick, green glow. It paints two moving figures in its light.

  Gwendolyn and Reginald, walking through the empty streets.

  Her pride is a new, harder spine. She does not look at Reginald. She does not look at anything but the path ahead. He is a hollowed-out thing, a shadow dragged in her orbit. They carry the ledger and the callipers. A book and a piece of iron.

  They are walking to the next house. To the Miller's house. I have known John Miller since he was a boy with a gap in his teeth. A scuffed knee. A stolen apple. The proud day he first held a hammer. He helped me mend my fence last spring.

  Gwendolyn knows this. Reginald knows this.

  They are walking to his door with a book and a piece of iron.

  Just like any other day.

  ? Featured Web Novel