The more she searched, the more the void of sky pressed her body to a speck, until she felt so small and alone that without a sister to cling to she thought she was dying. When her body lifted on a wave of acrid air, Flora soared crazily and saw that it came from a huge black bird high above her—
A crow! Her alarm glands fired and she sped away from it in blind panic.
Devotion, Devotion, Devotion—Flora searched the air for the smallest scent of Holy Mother and scanned down at the foreign shapes and colors below her to try to reorient herself. Massive green and beige fields dulled the air with their vast, monotonous scent and she veered away to glean any clue to home. With a surge of relief she picked up the scent of the orchard and then of her sisters—never more beautiful. Their mingled scent grew stronger as Flora entered the air corridor back to the hive, and her joy in flight was nothing compared to her gratitude in homecoming. The little green ruffle of the orchard came into view, and then the tiny gray square of the beehive. Not until this moment had Flora known how much she loved it and all who lived there. She could not wait to fold her wings, run into its warm depths, and press wing to wing with her sisters in the sacrament of Devotion.
At the thought of the Queen, Flora scented the precious molecules of her divine fragrance, poised and spinning like jewels where the air currents converged. Her heart filled with passion and confidence, but as the hive came nearer and the earth and trees raced past below, she saw foragers streaming back through the orchard, racing for the landing board. A new scent mixed with the homecoming scent, and as Flora began her descent her venom sac swelled hard in her belly and her dagger unsheathed.
The code was alarm, and the hive was under attack.
Nine
LAID AT CLOSE INTERVALS ALONG THE LENGTH OF THE landing board, the alarm pheromone flashed its message across the orchard air. The last foragers rushed to get in as a foul alien scent mingled with it, sweet and corrupt like rotting fruit. It came from the lurid straggle of wasps hovering near the hive, drunk and jeering. Flora could hear her sisters yelling at her to hurry, but as she descended through the smeary marker trails the wasps littered in their wake, they turned their black gazes on her and sizzled their stings in welcome.
Flora curved up again on a blade of air and the wasps shrieked with laughter at her cowardice—before she hurtled at one of them and knocked the vile creature out of the air into the apple leaves. The touch of the wasp’s body against hers enraged her and she drove herself up higher, looking for another. But the wasps were already above her, buzzing high and furious as they swayed on their points of air, not to be taken like that again.
“Dirty fiends!” shouted one of the Thistle guards to the wasps. “Infidels!” But her trembling antennae undermined her brave words. Flora dropped down onto the landing board between the sentries. She smelled their flaring war glands and knew her own streamed as strong, but a wave of fear came from within the hive.
“What did we expect,” muttered another guard in a low voice, “leaving honey on the board? Advertising our wealth to the Myriad, no one to clean it, everyone rushing out crazed as soon as the sun shines—”
She sprayed another jet of her war scent into the air and the wasps laughed shrilly. They flung back the challenge with a hard gust of their own harsh smell, and its oily particles settled on the landing board.
“Closer!” yelled the first Thistle who had spoken, her antennae rigid with rage. “I cannot smell you until I stick my dagger between your filthy plates.” She buzzed more of her war gland at them.
“Oh, you fat and useless creature,” called back one of the wasps, pirouetting to show her tiny waist. “What pale squirt was that? I doubt you can even fly.” Her friends reeled in the air, hissing with laughter.
“Stay!” warned another Thistle, holding back her colleague. “They try to draw us.” She motioned to Flora. “You’re big and brave—get back inside and hold the line.”
SISTERS STOOD DENSELY PACKED and silent, their battle glands flaring and weapons at the ready. The smell of fear trickled up here and there, but every sister pointed her antennae forward and none gave in to it. Flora waited in the vanguard as the Thistle pumped out wave after wave of war scent, but the orchard was silent.
The bees waited. Murmurs began. Perhaps the wasps had gone. The bees’ wings were crushed, the heat was rising, and a tide of irritation seeped through the crowd. And then—a hard beat of acid air rushed in and every sister’s feet felt the heavy, alien vibration as a great wasp settled on the landing board. There was the sound of a hard scuffle and then a crack. A Thistle guard screamed, then another. Standing right at the front, Flora saw it all.
The wasp was a huge female with bands of acid yellow and glossy black. Her head was as large as three sisters’ and she used her slashing claws to catch the guards one by one, killing each with a snap of her heavy jaws. Then she flattened her long antennae, crouched down, and peered inside the hive.
Spasms of fear shot through the bees at the sight of her glittering, malevolent eyes, but not one of them moved. Flora stared back at the wasp and felt her dagger slide out again. The wasp smiled at her.
“Pretty, pretty . . .” She drove a whip of her acid scent down the passageway; it wrapped around the antennae of dozens of bees and made them yelp in anger and disgust. She pushed her huge face closer, blocking the light.
“Greetings,” she hissed softly, “my sweet, juicy cousins.” Her claw flashed into the hive, close enough for Flora to see the entrails on its tip and smell the Thistles’ blood. To stop herself from running she dug her claws deeper into the comb. Deep within the hive, a faint vibration pulsed toward her. It spoke in her mind.
Keep still. Hold firm and wait.
Flora gripped harder into the wax and held the wasp’s stare. The wasp gazed softly into her eyes, willing her closer. The scent of malice rose stronger.
Draw her in, spoke the thought in Flora’s mind. Lure her, lure her—
Flora stepped backward and all her sisters moved with her. The vibration in the comb became stronger and they felt it too. She kept her gaze locked with the wasp’s.
Lure her. Draw her.
Flora let her antennae tremble and the wasp pushed in closer.
“Are you the one, shall it be you?” Her voice had a soft singsong cadence, but her gaze was hard and calculating. “What a fat feast you will make, little cousin . . .” The wasp eased herself deeper into the hive entrance, and Flora could not hold in her fear, for her sisters were dense behind her and there was no retreat from mortal combat.
The wasp’s body rasped on the hive floor. Four of her six elbows were in, and the only light was the yellow striping of her face. Flora dug down into the wax again but the voice in her mind had stopped. She would be the first to die, but she would fight for her sisters’ lives—for Holy Mother’s life. She unlatched her wings and heard the sound of every sister doing the same.
“No,” the wasp crooned, pulling her last pair of legs into the hive. “We should not fight; all I want is to take you to meet the chillldren, all the hungry . . . little . . . children—” A claw slashed out and she laughed. “Forgive me, you’re too delicious.”
DRAW HER.
The voice was clear and strong in Flora’s mind. She whimpered and backed away, and the wasp crawled in after her. The smell was suffocating and her soft hissing struck terror into Flora’s body. She felt that all her sisters had crept around the edges and their numbers had filled from the back. There was no more room to move. The monster gathered herself to spring.