Between the Blade and the Heart

by Amanda Hocking

  “Good to know,” I said under my breath.

  “Do you guys wanna go over a plan or anything?” Atlas asked.

  Quinn motioned to the people sitting around us. “I think it’s best if we wait until we get where we’re going.”

  “Right. Of course.” Atlas turned back and sat down in his seat, but a few moments later, he craned his head back around to look at us. “I have snacks up here, if any of you guys want any.”

  “We’re good for now, but thanks,” Oona told him with a smile.

  Atlas finally settled into his seat, and Oona pulled out a thick, heavy book that smelled of dust and burnt sage, with the title Sorcellerie Grimoire embossed on the front. It had been a gift from her cousin Minerva, and she was studying up on it to prepare for what lay ahead for us.

  Meanwhile, Asher was on his tablet and looking up maps of the labyrinthine city of the Gates of Kurnugia. It had been deliberately designed to be confusing and maddening, to keep immortals from escaping and to keep mortals from invading their space.

  And at the far end of the row, Quinn had put her earbuds in and stared down at her phone, presumably watching a movie.

  With everyone otherwise occupied, I was finally able to relax for a bit in my seat, knowing these might be some of the last truly peaceful moments of my life. I looked out the window at the decrepit, overcrowded landscape of the city as the Overland whizzed through the south-end slums.

  Eventually we escaped the shadows of the skyscrapers, and as the buildings started thinning out, so did the smog that shrouded the city. The darkness of the metropolis gave way to deserted plains, cracked dry earth that had been overfarmed and underwatered.

  The vast wastelands that stretched between the various megacities were virtually uninhabitable, leaving the several billion mortals, immortals, and various creatures that lived in the United States to overcrowd the cities.

  Through the skylights above, I watched as the dark clouds moved in, blotting out the orange sun, and they rumbled loudly with the threat of an oncoming storm. I closed my eyes against the world and tried to get some sleep while I still could.

  I awoke sometime later with stars twinkling above. I yawned and lifted my head, blinking to focus, and I was startled to find that I had been sleeping with my head resting on Asher’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, glancing around the dim carriage of the Overland Express. “Where are we?”

  “You were out for a while,” Asher explained in a hushed voice. “We all kind of moved around so we could get more comfortable.”

  He motioned to a row over, which had been filled with passengers when I passed out, but now only had Quinn. She had lifted up the armrests and spread out, napping with her coat bunched under her head as a pillow.

  In the seats right in front of me, I could hear Oona—her voice soft and excited as she argued with Atlas about the proper ways to fight a demon.

  “Where are we?” I asked, since it was dark and the carriage had obviously emptied out quite a bit.

  “We’re almost to our stop.”

  I sat up sharply and looked out my window, at the night landscape and the dark desert outside that had subtly begun to shift to waving fields of grass under a full moon. “This is Mexico? How long was I asleep?”

  “No, our express stops just short of the border, so we’re spending the night in Sugarland, and we’ll catch the next express down to the Gates first thing in the morning,” he told me.

  “So tomorrow.” I took a deep breath and settled back in my seat. “Tomorrow we’ll get there, and hopefully, soon, this will all be over.”

  Asher took my hand in his, sharing his quiet comfort with me. I cuddled up next to him, resting my head against his shoulder, and he kissed my temple.

  I relished the brief moment of affection before turning my attention back to avenging our mothers. “What were you working on?” I asked, gesturing to the tablet resting on his lap.

  The screen had gone black, but he tapped it to reveal detailed floor plans of a building that reminded me of a cathedral, almost, except the entire structure appeared to be made out of bones, if the designs were to be believed.

  “This is the Bararu Mutanu Ossuary,” Asher explained, and he swiped away from the blueprints to show me a full-color picture of the exterior.

  “It blocks the entrance of Kurnugia,” I said. I’d learned about it in school, but I didn’t think I’d ever really seen pictures of it, not like the ones that Asher was looking at.

  “Right.” He started scrolling through the pictures, flipping past one skeletal room after another. “It’s rumored to be impossible to get through, but if Tamerlane is trying to get into Kurnugia, he’ll have to go through here.”

  “But I thought he was just hiding out nearby. Why would he want to get in?” I asked. “I mean, he could’ve just let my mother kill him, then.”

  “Maybe he didn’t think she could kill him and he just wants to find a way in on his own,” Asher offered, then paused. “Or maybe he’s not trying to get in—maybe he’s trying to let someone out.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The view from the motel window was of a crowded parking lot. We were on the fourth floor, and it felt too close to the ground, the skyline too short without towering skyscrapers surrounding us. Sugarland looked as if the mega-cities I was used to had been squished down and compacted, with a thinner layer of smog allowing the stars to shine through.

  We were in an older motel, with paint chipping off the stucco sides and an outdoor walkway to the rooms. Our room was on the highest floor. The walkway outside was lined with a rust-covered railing. The doors, at least, had microchipped keys, so it would be harder for anyone to break in. Hopefully.

  “That sure is a weird-ass painting for such a small-ass room,” Atlas commented behind me, and I turned back to survey the room.

  The hotel room was two narrow queen-sized beds jammed against the wall with a door in the corner leading to an economy-sized toilet/shower combo. Above the beds was a massive drawing of a woman, framed with ornate obsidian.

  We’d gotten another room as well, one door over, but we were all packed in this one like sardines now. I’d wanted to pace—my legs were restless from the long ride and anxiety was kicking in, electrifying my skin. But there wasn’t enough room.

  Atlas’s hulking frame blocked the door, while Oona sat cross-legged on one bed with Quinn sprawled out beside her, letting her shirt ride up and her jeans hang low on her hips.

  “So what now?” Oona asked.

  “We could sleep,” Asher suggested, barely suppressing a yawn, from where he leaned against the slim dresser beside me.

  Quinn took her hair down, slowly shaking her head to set her long silver locks free. “We shouldn’t have slept so much on the train.”

  The large framed drawing above the beds was photorealistic and managed to be both completely captivating and totally unnerving. It showed a gorgeous woman with dark brown skin lying back, with her hair shaved on either side of her head, leaving her with a short curly Mohawk. She was naked except for the fur blanket that swathed her.

  At the bottom, larger and more centered than the artist’s signature scribbled in the corner, was the title:

  Ereshkigal in Repose

  The air in the room began to feel thinner, and my breath came out shallow. I had the strangest sense of vertigo, like the entire room had pitched to the side, only my gaze fixed on the painting keeping me upright.

  Suddenly I felt hot—not just flushed with warmth, but burnt. The heat rose from the soles of my feet, scorching my skin as it traveled painfully up my thighs, and the scent of fire and smoke filled my nostrils. My mouth tasted of fresh blood—metallic and warm—as panic surged through me.

  I was terrified and in pain, but I couldn’t move or scream or do anything. I stayed totally frozen, my eyes locked on the woman in the painting.

  Then I heard a voice like satin in my ear: “Remember that we all must die.”

&nb
sp; “Mal?” Oona was saying—almost yelling, sounding afraid—and rather abruptly everything stopped.

  The heat. The fear. The taste of blood. It all fell away. I was just standing in the hotel room with four concerned faces staring at me. Asher touched my arm, meaning to comfort me, I was sure, but I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Malin?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just … I think I need to get some fresh air.”

  “We could grab something to eat, maybe?” Atlas suggested, and his voice was cheery, but his dark eyes were anxious. “It might be good to get out and move around for a while.”

  I motioned to all our bags and gear piled up on one bed, including the one from Samael filled with irreplaceable weaponry. “But we can’t just go out and leave all the stuff here.”

  “I’ll stay and watch the stuff, if you’re worried,” Asher offered; he was still close to my side, in case I might need him to steady me or pull me from another trance.

  “You sure?” I asked, but really I didn’t want to wait to hear his answer. I didn’t want to stay inside a second longer. I needed to get out, to move, to breathe.

  “Yeah,” he assured me with a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  I wanted to look at him directly, to see if there was any hesitation in his eyes, but I didn’t trust myself to look at anybody. Everything still felt strangely off-kilter, and so I just nodded, taking his word for it, and stepped out to the hallway balcony.

  A few moments later, Quinn, Oona, and Atlas followed suit. Quinn said she considered staying behind to help Asher, but she felt as pent-up as I did. Oona didn’t want to leave me on my own, and it sounded as if Atlas was essentially my bodyguard at this point, even though I did not need a bodyguard.

  “What happened in there?” Oona asked me, her voice low as we descended the stairs toward the street below, with Atlas and Quinn a few steps ahead.

  “Just exhaustion and stress, I think,” I replied vaguely.

  I shook my head, and I wasn’t trying to brush her off, but the truth was that I didn’t really remember, not exactly. It was like, waking from a vivid dream, when you tried to tell someone about it, you only had a few fragmented images to hang on to.

  So I had to chalk it up to my own mind playing stress-induced tricks on me, because what else could it be?

  The weather in Sugarland was cool, but it lacked the crispness of back home that I so wanted right now. At least the streets were less crowded here—you could take three or four steps before bumping into another person. But it was still busier than I expected for an outskirt town like this.

  We’d only walked a couple blocks when Quinn stopped short. She’d been leading our small group, since the rest of us didn’t feel like taking charge. After she stopped, I could see why.

  Across the street from us was a large adobe building, where a small crowd had amassed trying to get in. They looked much like the clientele I would see at the Carpe Noctem bar back home, but with more cowboy boots and hats.

  The bright pink and green neon sign in the front read DEL SUDOR Y PECADO, and it featured an animated demon with horns and a forked tail taking off his hat and saluting the patrons as they entered the bar below him.

  “How about this place?” Quinn suggested, hooking her thumb at it.

  “This doesn’t exactly look like a restaurant,” Atlas said.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t need food to help me sleep,” Quinn muttered, and without waiting for the rest of us to respond, she walked ahead into the bar.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “Shots?” Quinn suggested with a raised eyebrow, her eyes darting between the three of us.

  We stood at a high-top table next to a table full of squealing Nephilim celebrating a bachelorette party, and discarded peanut shells and sawdust crunched underneath our feet. A strange fusion of country and death metal blasted out from a high-tech jukebox that glowed red in the corner, and everything smelled vaguely of sweat and wood chips.

  “Hunting a demon with a hangover doesn’t sound ideal,” I said, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.

  “He’s not a demon—he’s a draugr,” Oona corrected me as her gaze followed a waitress walking by with a tray of brightly colored drinks, and I could almost see her salivating.

  “That changes everything, then,” I said with a sigh.

  “Nobody’s getting drunk. Just one shot,” Quinn promised, holding up her index finger. “Just to take the edge off.”

  Oona was staring at me hopefully, and I knew her belief that alcohol made everything better was very skewed, to say the least, but something to calm my nerves did sound necessary at this point. Especially after my weird freak-out at the hotel.

  “Fine,” I said, and the words had barely escaped my lips before Quinn was off, flagging down a waitress to procure the shots.

  A few minutes later she returned, carefully carrying our tiny cups of red liquid with bright orange flames dancing out of the tops.

  Atlas took a shot from her and wrinkled his nose. “What is this?”

  “Who knows? The waitress says it’s the best, so blow out your drink and swallow it down.” Quinn raised her glass and waited for the rest of us to do the same. “To saving the world!”

  We clinked our glasses, blew out the flames, and I tossed my head back, gulping down the sour liquid as fast as I could.

  “There,” Quinn said, smiling at me as I grimaced. “Isn’t that better?”

  “Maybe. Give it a second to kick in.”

  While I waited for the liquid to do its job and soothe my frayed nerves, I noticed Oona eying a guy at the bar. He was shirtless, which actually didn’t appear to be out of the ordinary for this bar, and he looked like he’d been chiseled out of marble. He leaned against the bar, casually sipping a beer with his cowboy hat cockeyed on his head.

  “Wow.” Oona leaned forward, resting her arms on the high tabletop as she ogled him.

  “He’s an immortal. Maybe a demigod?” Quinn guessed.

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t recognize his lineage, so he’s something lower-level. Maybe a warlock?”

  “I didn’t realize you guys read people that easy,” Atlas said, looking at us both with bemused amazement. “I usually don’t get to hang out with Valkyries outside of work.”

  “It’s something we just … know.” Quinn shrugged, because there really wasn’t a better way to explain it.

  “Can you tell if he’s gay?” Atlas asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Or straight?” Oona chimed in hopefully.

  “Nope,” Quinn said. “You’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”

  Oona and Atlas exchanged a look, and apparently decided to give it a go. Oona grabbed one of the brightly colored drinks from a waitress as she and Atlas made their way over to the ripped immortal, presumably hoping to come back with a better understanding of which one of them had the best chance with him.

  “You wanna dance?” Quinn asked, looking at me with that crooked smile of hers.

  “I don’t know if I should.” I tried to decline, but the drink was finally starting to kick in, making my muscles feel loose and easy.

  A warm relaxation had settled in over me. My smile came easier, and saying the word no suddenly felt so much more arduous than it had a few moments ago. Even the music that had seemed so grating when we first came in actually made sense, and I found myself swaying with it involuntarily.

  “Will another shot get you to dance?” Quinn arched her dark eyebrow.

  “Maybe, but I definitely won’t be doing that,” I said, using all my willpower to refuse. “I need to be clearheaded for tomorrow.”

  “A dance it is, then.”

  She took my hand, leading me through the bar to a clearing in the center. I wasn’t sure if it was really a dance floor, exactly, but several folks were dancing there—a few drunk young ladies on their own, and a few couples grinding against each other.

  At fi
rst Quinn and I danced much like the drunk girls—our only connection being where our fingers were linked loosely together as we moved and swayed. But when the song switched to something melodic, less angry and more electronic, Quinn pulled me to her.

  She looped one arm around my waist, pulling us together, and I wrapped my arm around her neck. And I didn’t know if it was her or the shot, but it all hit me at once. Her skin was so soft against mine—how was her skin so soft, how was it even possible?—and she smelled of lilacs and alcohol in a way that seemed to be so perfectly Quinn.

  Then her fingers were on my face, gently caressing my cheek and jawline, and I looked at her. I wanted her to kiss me, and she knew it, so she didn’t. Not right away. She just held me to her, letting her hand trail over my skin underneath my shirt.

  I couldn’t take it anymore, and I pulled away a bit. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

  Hurt flashed through her eyes like lightning, darkening her face, and she stepped back from me. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I just meant dancing,” I said lamely, and the fog of the drink and her touch was making it hard for me to argue.

  “Did you? Or did you mean you’re not drunk enough for me?”

  “Come on, Quinn.” I ran my hand through my hair. “When we were together, you were the only thing that I was ever really drunk on.”

  “Is that why you ended things with me? You didn’t like the hangover the next day?” Her husky voice was quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the music, and pain made it tremble slightly.

  “It’s not like that,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say, but the truth was that she wasn’t far off the mark.

  Being with her was wonderful and exciting, but she never gave me space to breathe, and after we’d spend a weekend together I’d end up feeling exhausted and drained. She cared too deeply, too fiercely, and I could never keep up. I could never be who she needed me to be.

  “Why did you end things? You never explained it. Everything was so good. We were so good.”

  “Were we?” I asked, almost plaintively. “It wasn’t all roses.”