>>6207868“<span class="mu-i">With the entrails of the last king,</span>” the Captain mutters, biting into his finger until he draws blood, “<span class="mu-i">we’ll hang the last priest.</span>” But not even the Frigéian motto seems to offer any comfort.
The angel floats thirty feet above the deck, surrounded by a halo of crystals in the shape of wings, which burns a dark and ominous red, like someone strung boiling blood all around her — bathing her naked body in a sunset glow. Her golden eyes shine like the sun at Midday, and her hands are crimson red.
Dripping blood.
“<span class="mu-i">Shoot!</span>” The Captain screams. “Her body is softer than your mother’s tits! Shoot at it!”
Every man with a bullet in his rifle does as he’s told, some even reaching for their pistols instead. For a moment, the deck is enveloped in bursts of light and smoke and sparkles, while the crystal feathers buzz around Carnaval’s body, as if she were surrounded by a cloud of angry bees. Each bullet, from the small lead pellets of the pistols to the heavy cannonballs, hits one of the feathers, and it’s like they crush upon a mountain.
When everyone has spent their load, they stand like frozen banners in an ice storm, looking at the Angel of Ansàrra, surrounded by the tinkling pieces of her wings and thin ribbons of smoke.
Then, with a slow movement, she puts one of her fingers in her mouth, and her plush lips lick it clean, smearing the stained blood all over them. Her eyes gleam like those of an owl spotting a colony of naughty, <span class="mu-i">naughty</span> mice.
The Captain whines.
<span class="mu-i">It’s her turn, now.</span>
Without even moving a muscle, one of her feathers wheezes through the air, nailing one of the mariners to the deck, cutting through metal and meat like nothing. He gurgles, letting go of his rifle to grasp at the feather holding him in place like a butterfly in some sicko’s collection.
His companion immediately reaches for him, trying to pull it out—
“Idiot!” The Captain shouts. “Get away from—”
Carnaval snaps her fingers.
The blood inside the feather bubbles, broils like boiling water and then the feather shatters, sending off its fragments flying across the desk, hitting the other mariners with the strength of a musket. Three men fall to their knees, holding their legs, their stomach, starting to bleed out.
They are the lucky ones.
[cont.]
