Nicastro Diary Entries
[Written in a spindly hand with mottled purple ink.]
Niece,
Your Initiation Day approaches. When the red tide blooms and the waves froth with blood, you will be taken to Assumption House. There, you will prove yourself a Nicastro, as I did when I came of age.
Success will bring you adoration, and power, and a name to call your own. “Zorana,” like your mother’s mother—a good, strong name.
Failure will see you mangled and discarded, just as my brothers were. A filigree of meat to anoint the Deepslayer’s lair.
And so, my sweet, show courage. Remember your hymns and couplets—the Gospel of Salt, the Brinewater Verses. If you fill your heart with the Pelagic Maw’s beauty, His proxy will not harm you.
But your devotion must be genuine, child. Lies will not protect you from the perils of the deep.
Attend my words and prove your worth, and you will take your place at your mother’s side.
It would break my heart to forget you, child. I pray that you succeed.
—“A Letter from Lucrezia Nicastro,” The Lamplighters League
[Written on water-warped paper in a sharp, ardent hand:]
Tonight I hunted hated prey. A soft little man with a deck of cards.
The catspaw of a sad, lonely candle that should have guttered out long ago.
I stalked my quarry through the Marseilles streets, and it was delicious and decadent and right.
The pursuit was languid. The courier was awkward in his terror; he hobbled like a hamstrung lamb.
My head swam with raw Nectar, the gift of my Devouring King. I felt the air turn liquid against my skin, and I slid through it with a predator’s grace.
All too soon, the pursuit was done, and I rammed my blade through the courier’s ribs. Dark blood spilled and spiraled, twisting to embrace a limpid sky.
It was murder, yes—and yes, for a purpose. A play for the Undrawn Hand.
But it was also a dance, a sonnet, a ritual. A hymn to my Devouring King.
—“Reflections of Zorana Nicastro II,” The Lamplighters League
[Written on water-warped paper in a sharp, ardent hand:]
I remember the first time I saw it—the delicate dance of blood and sky. My aunt Lucrezia towered above me, crowned with crimson, her blubbery lips spread in a rictus of joy.
I placed my blade where she had taught me—just below the Adam’s apple, at the hollow of the policeman’s throat. When I pressed my weight against it, his flesh parted like a mermaid’s purse.
And how to describe what happened next…? Words fail. For what tongue can dream of capturing the divine?
The ecstasy of spilled blood intertwining with liquid night?
It was a miracle. One that repeats itself with every drop of blood spilt.
More than enough reason to crave the King’s favor. More than enough reason to open throats in His name.
—“Reflections of Zorana Nicastro III,” The Lamplighters League
[Written on water-warped paper in a sharp, ardent hand:]
I stepped into the sea this morning, yearning for metamorphosis. Yearning to feel my Devouring King’s embrace.
I cannot surrender myself to the change. Not when the Tower looms so close.
And so I refused the sublime bliss of transformation. Refused the calls of my mother, and aunt Lucrezia, and so many Nicastros before them.
In refusing, I beckoned them to me instead.
When they arrived I fed them tributes, live and squirming.
I slid my hand down the muscular tract of my mother’s gullet. Felt the razored caress of her pharyngeal jaws as they snatched the wriggling morsel from my hand.
Their hunger sated, my forebears sank beneath the waves. Hot tears burned my cheeks as I watched them go—my mother, and Lucrezia, and the rest.
When the Tower is mine and our Devouring King has been reborn, I will shed this body like an old coat. At long last I will accept my birthright, and my family will welcome me home.
—“Reflections of Zorana Nicastro IV,” The Lamplighters League
