The Rot

by Siri Pettersen

  Hirka nodded. Don’t touch. She understood that.

  Stefan steered her into a seat and strapped her in. He slipped something over her head. Small cushions that covered her ears. Everything went quiet. Muffled, like she had a cold. Nils started pressing buttons as he mumbled to himself. She heard his voice in her ear like he was standing right next to her. Hirka didn’t understand what he was saying, but she was sure it wasn't anything nice. She was glad he hadn’t taken a closer look at Naiell.

  Stefan sat down across from her, and they started to glide over the waves.

  “Five hours, and we’ve got some thinking to do on the way,” Nils said. “What would you do if I didn’t have connections? Eh? Just asking.”

  “So I take it she’s not happy?” Stefan answered without looking at Nils.

  “That’d be putting it mildly.”

  Stefan looked out the window. “It’ll be worth it.”

  They started picking up speed, and suddenly they were in the air. Hirka gripped the armrests. A plane! She was in a plane! She’d seen them in the sky above the city. Father Brody had told her about them. Hirka leaned toward the window and saw the coastline disappear behind them.

  I’m flying. Like the ravens.

  But without the Might. Maybe they had something similar here? Something that worked in the same way? In any case, it wasn’t unlike how she’d felt when she and Rime had soared above Mannfalla. That had been the middle of the night, too. She’d been weightless. Dizzy. Enveloped by Rime. And in that moment she’d realized she loved him, more than she’d ever dared admit.

  It hurt just thinking about it.

  “You don’t scare easily, do you?” Stefan looked at her. “I mean, you’d never seen an elevator before. And if you are who you say you are, being on a plane ought to scare the red out of your hair.”

  She knew all too well what he was doing. He was looking for signs that she was lying. Searching for an explanation other than the actual one. One that was easier to accept. Hirka expected he’d be doing it for the foreseeable future. She had to give him the time he needed. She’d needed time, too.

  Hirka shrugged. “I’ve had worse experiences.”

  “And him?” Stefan nodded at Naiell, whose head was tipped back like he was sleeping. Hirka smiled. Naiell had been flying for centuries.

  “Yeah, him as well.”

  The droning of the plane reverberated through her body.

  “Where are we going, Stefan?”

  “We’re going to see the tooth fairy.”

  “Okay,” she said and gave him a thumbs-up. You could never go wrong with that, Father Brody used to say. Stefan looked at her as if she were the strangest creature he’d ever seen. Despite the fact that there was a deadborn sleeping in the seat in front of him. Or maybe he wasn’t sleeping. Maybe he was just saving his strength. She should probably do the same. She had a feeling they were going to need it.

  KARASU

  “Has it occurred to you that you might be overestimating your own allure?” Graal asked. He smiled at the raven skeleton in front of him. The beak opened again.

  “I’m yet to have that experience,” Damayanti replied, clearly affronted.

  “There’s a first time for everything. So has he sought you out?”

  “Not yet,” she replied, before quickly adding, “But he will. Trust me.”

  “I trusted Urd. Not my finest hour, was it?”

  The beak hung open as she hesitated. The silence was tedious. He surveyed his claws, giving her the time she needed to come up with a good response—which she usually did. Damayanti was a clever woman. Passionate yet unsentimental. She had a knack for understanding people’s motivations. He couldn’t have found a better contact in Mannfalla. Why she wanted nothing more for herself than to dance was beyond him.

  “The boy’s no fool,” she finally said. “No power-crazed idiot crippled by fear. He’s the Ravenbearer. He’s not even seen twenty winters and he’s more of a man than Urd could ever have dreamed of becoming. He can serve you as no one else can. And he’s seen me. Trust me, Rime will come to me.”

  “And it doesn’t worry you that he’s toppled a council, refuted a faith, and put an end to a war?” He was taunting her now.

  “It doesn’t take much to bring down a monolith. He’s mine,” she replied.

  Graal laughed and she purred with satisfaction. He knew she felt every word he said in her body. But she wasn’t like Urd—that was for sure. He’d been able to control the councillor with pain. Damayanti had to be controlled with pleasure. But at that particular moment, he didn’t have time.

  “You’ll be hearing from me, Damayanti. In the meantime, I’ve got an appointment with a needle.”

  He closed the raven’s beak. The sense of endless space dissipated. He was alone once more. He locked the fossilized bird back in its box. Rumors could start anywhere, even in hotels of this price range, where one was generally given carte blanche. There were other options, of course, but he had a soft spot for the Shangri-La suite. The elegance. The terrace. The location, right next to the floodlit Eiffel Tower. The palace had retained the charm he remembered from long evenings spent with Prince Bonaparte, discussing developments in various fields. Botany, music, philosophy … 1898? Had it been that long?

  Graal glanced at the clock. One of the things he’d spent a human lifetime getting used to. He’d been born with all the time in the world. He’d always had time. Human lives were fleeting, whereas his went on and on. Through generations. Through epochs. Right up until Hirka had arrived. Since then, he’d been rushed off his feet. Pressed for time for almost seventeen years.

  He looked in the mirror to check that he hadn’t forgotten anything. It had happened before. He’d gone out without his contact lenses and scared the life out of the man at the newsstand. It wouldn’t have mattered as much in the past. This world had been easy to live in, once. Until technology had exploded. Far more effort was required to move unseen among people now. The only planes he could take were his own. He’d been forced to establish a network of companies just to do something as simple as spend his own money. Companies that did nothing more than move numbers from one place to another. Not exactly a gentlemanly pursuit.

  He did up his top button. Pulled on his coat and leather gloves. Dark glasses completed the ensemble.

  He was ready for a meeting with the needle.

  The studio was above the Chinese tea salon on Premier Rue Saint-Médard, within walking distance of Notre-Dame. It was a nice neighborhood, but the area didn’t really matter. The key was always the artist, and he’d searched a long time to find her.

  Graal pressed the buzzer. The lock clicked straight away. He opened the door and went up the stairs. The door stood ajar on the second floor. He went in.

  The room was dimly lit. The evening light squeezed in through the blinds, landing in strips across shelves full of books, boxes, and pictures. It was a classic artist’s loft, but clean. Her previous work was displayed on the walls. The usual dragons and koi carp, but a lot of abstract patterns as well. She worked exclusively in black, and she was extremely talented—for a human.

  The table stood in the middle of the room on a concrete floor. An altar to beauty and pain.

  The artist was sitting on a stool at the counter, cleaning her needles. She was Japanese. Petite with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Gray T-shirt. She got up and walked over to him. “I’m Mei.”

  He took her hand. “Joshua Alexander Cain.”

  She had an unassuming countenance, but beneath that he could smell passion and strength. That boded well, because they would be spending many evenings together, and sooner or later she’d realize he wasn’t human. They almost always did, and he’d lost count of the number of tattoo artists he’d had over the years.

  He knew what was coming. It was always the same. Like some kind of dance. Graal draped his coat over a chair by the door. First she would say something about the technique they both preferred.

&nb
sp; “Not many people ask for work by hand,” she said, as if on cue. “Tebori is both more time-consuming and more painful.”

  He smiled. “Call me a traditionalist.”

  Soon she would ask him to undress and lie on the table. She’d say it might get warm and that he could take his gloves off.

  Mei gestured to the table. “Please. Would you like a glass of water?”

  She surprised him. Considerate. Attentive. A good sign. This could be fun.

  “Yes, please.”

  She filled a glass and put it on a smaller table next to the one he would be lying on. “You won’t need your gloves.”

  He took them off. Over the years he’d developed a singular ability to keep his fingertips hidden until he wanted them to be seen. He also took off his sunglasses and set them aside. It was dark enough in the room that she wouldn’t wonder about his eyes. The contact lenses did the job, except in daylight, when they were too lifeless.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, all the while waiting for her to say something about continuing the work of others.

  Mei looked at him. Stared for a moment, like they all did. It was a blessing bestowed on the first, a body that couldn’t help but impress. Inspire fear. Simple enough to achieve when you could ingest the sustenance you needed and discard the rest.

  She lowered her eyes again and readied the ink. “I rarely continue the work of others. Can I see?”

  He lay down on his stomach and tucked his hands under his head. Let her look at his back. Moments passed before she said anything.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. This must have taken—”

  “Yes, it’s taken some time. Can you make sense of the pattern?”

  “Yes,” she said hesitantly before rallying again. “Yes, I understand. From the center outward. This is … these lines? They look like Horiyasu’s work.”

  “Horiyasu the first. You have a good eye.”

  “The third, you mean. Horiyasu the first died over half a century ago.”

  Graal smiled. He didn’t bother correcting her. “I need fifty new marks. No more, no less. Understand? And get some paper so you can keep count.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll forget. Trust me.”

  He heard her do as bidden. Find a pen and paper. Then he felt her hands on his skin. This was the moment of truth. Some people asked whether he’d been a bodybuilder, or had implants, but most wouldn’t let themselves notice how different he was. Humans had an unparalleled ability to ignore what they couldn’t explain.

  It was quiet in the room. Mei ran her fingers along his spine as she considered where to make the marks. She reached the strange muscles. The folds around his shoulder blades. The smell of the room changed as her emotions shifted.

  She grew more uncertain. Tense. Then he felt the needles in his back. Pain that made his blood start pumping. His skin was pierced, prick by prick. He listened to the rhythmic sound, the needles being removed. After a while, he started to smell sweat. And fear.

  She knows.

  Mei’s fingers had started to shake. The needles were pushed in slower and slower. Then he felt something drip onto his skin. He turned his head to look. A tear ran down her cheek. It hung from her chin for a moment before letting go. Interesting.

  Graal sat up, which put them eye to eye. “You’re hesitating.”

  She didn’t reply. The stinging in his skin started to ease.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She lowered her gaze. “Karasu …”

  It was only a whisper, but the word sounded familiar. “Crow?” he asked, more gently this time. This was clearly one of his good days. He wanted to draw out the passion he smelled in the artist.

  “A legend,” she said. “An urban myth among those of us who work with ink. Karasu. A demon with wings. He only comes to the best. Karasu always asks for something simple. He is beautiful and pays well, they say. But those who agree to work on him are taken to the kingdom of the dead once the job is done.”

  Graal smiled. He rested his fingers on her chin. Let her feel his claws. “So being one of the best makes you sad?”

  Her face was a sight to behold. A study in change. First, utter shock. Then disgust and desire, a heady combination that would result in her either kissing him or stabbing him. Sometimes they even did both.

  “Fear and prejudice give rise to many legends, Mei. This job will take years. Will you help me?”

  Her gaze faltered. She wanted to. He knew she wanted to. But she was struggling to accept it. He liked her. Still waters that ran deep. So much untapped energy. He wanted to go deeper. And he wanted to get there without laying a hand on her.

  “I think only the best of you,” he said. “You needn’t think the worst of me.” He got up. Tilted her chin. A tiny movement. It only took her a fraction of a second to come to him. Her lips found his throat, and she grabbed hold of his belt. Fumbled with the buckle and tore at the buttons on his pants. She pushed her hand down toward his groin. He let her. She’d find nothing.

  She soon realized. Her hand groped around, looking for something long gone. She froze. Gave him a questioning look.

  “I haven’t had one in a thousand years,” he said. “It was one of the things they took, but I’m pleased you wanted to.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. More disconsolate now than when she’d thought death had come for her.

  THE TOOTH FAIRY

  The morning was gray, with domes and towers partially effaced by fog. Hirka dangled her feet between the bars of the railing, looking out over the new city. It made her feel heavy with longing. It was as if someone had heard of Mannfalla and tried to replicate it. And if she squinted, it almost looked like they’d managed, though Venice was a mere shadow of it.

  Hirka hadn’t heard a single car since they’d arrived, which made her feel even more at home. Cars couldn’t drive here because the streets were made of water. There were boats, but she didn’t mind them as much. Boats she understood. She could imagine Lindri’s teahouse just up ahead, where the canal branched off. Jutting out into the river, with a view of the fishermen’s isle and the houses on the opposite shore. Maybe he was sitting there now, sipping tea. Lindri. Did he ever think of her? Or had they all forgotten her?

  Rime. Has he forgotten me?

  She wrapped her arms around herself. It was chilly. Though not nearly as chilly as inside, where Stefan and Naiell watched each other’s every move, waiting for her to call. The tooth fairy. The woman Stefan claimed could help. Hirka was too tired to doubt him.

  After they’d gotten off Nils’s plane, she’d slept nearly the entire day. Then she’d snuck out for an evening stroll. Along canals, over bridges, until she wasn’t sure where she was anymore. She knew she ought to be careful, but it seemed pointless. What did getting lost in a city matter when you’d already gotten lost in a world?

  People had walked past in the rain without paying her any mind. It was a lovely feeling. Eventually she found her way back, where a furiously pacing Stefan told her she was lucky to be alive, the way she used her head.

  Hirka’s bum was cold. She got up and went back inside. They were staying on the top floor of a house right next to the canal. The house belonged to the lady, who clearly hadn’t called yet, if the restless tapping of Stefan’s feet was anything to go by.

  He looked out of place, sitting there in his worn old trousers on a pink velvet sofa. He got up. Brushed some imaginary dust from where he’d been sitting. Stared at the phone on the table.

  The remains of Naiell’s dinner were on the table. A bowl of sludge and bone that had once been a whole chicken. No matter what he sunk his claws into, he always left behind something unidentifiable. Hirka had asked whether he missed the taste of food, and he’d asked whether she missed not smelling like spoiled meat.

  Stefan’s phone rang. He gave a start and grabbed it. Got up and paced around the room while he talked.

  Naiell came in from the kitchen. The black of his eyes was becoming mor
e and more pronounced, but it was still impossible to tell whether he was looking at her or not. There was something odd about seeing him in Stefan’s clothes. Not just because they didn’t fit, but because it was clear he wasn’t made for them. Something about the way he held himself. He was straight-backed and strong, like Rime. Striking. Made to wear armor. But if anyone asked, he’d probably say he was made to go around naked.

  Stefan put the phone in his pocket. “She wants us to come now.” He looked at both of them as if at a loss.

  “Should we be worried?” Hirka asked.

  “You would be worried if you had any sense, girl.”

  Naiell looked like he was ready, but then he always did. He leaned closer to Hirka. “This woman … she knows something about my brother? What’s he waiting for?”

  “I think he’s scared of her,” Hirka answered, glad Stefan didn’t speak ymish.

  Stefan put on his jacket. She knew he hated it when he couldn’t understand what they were saying. “Come on,” he said. “And for God’s sake, get him to put his sunglasses on.”

  They went downstairs and came out onto the street. The ground was wet. The water in the canal was high, and the boats were sloshing it everywhere. Stefan put his hands in his pockets and kept glancing behind them. The street jutted out onto the canal, where a group of people were getting on a boat. They hurried to join them.

  Hirka sat as far away from the other people as she could. Naiell remained standing, until Stefan pulled him down. Then they started to move. The boat made stops in a few places, but they didn’t get off. They chugged past a row of wooden boats. Open, with snow on their gunwales.

  Hirka poked Stefan and pointed. “Why don’t we take one of those?”

  “They’re for tourists. Overpriced and overhyped.”

  “I’m a tourist,” she tried. She knew that word. A visitor. Someone who didn’t belong.

  “You’re not a tourist, you’re devil bait.”

  Stefan was clearly not having a good day.