“Thanks for meeting me here.” She twisted the ’band around her wrist.
“For certz,” he said, smiling wider. It was that cocky grin he’d worn before she’d gotten to know him. Endearing. But not entirely genuine. “I couldn’t let this opportunity fall.”
He stepped toward her, reaching out for a handshake, the gesture he’d hated so much, but she stepped back. The skin around his eyes tightened, and he let his hand drop. He swallowed.
If Andra didn’t know better, she’d think he was disappointed. But no, it was just wishful thinking. Fishes and wishes.
“Why did you want to see me?” he asked.
“I have a favor to ask you.” Andra twisted her ’band so hard it snapped. She held it limply in her hand.
“A favor,” Zhade repeated.
“Yeah . . . I, uh . . .” She put the ’band in her pocket. “I need to ask you about your mom.”
Whatever Zhade had expected her to say, that wasn’t it. He blinked and took a step back. His shoulders seemed to tense.
“What bout her?”
“Did she . . .” Andra swallowed. She should have planned this out. “Did she teach you anything about cryo’plating?”
“Cryo what now?”
“It’s the . . . the stuff my ’tank . . . my grave was made out of.”
Andra winced. She wasn’t explaining herself well. She couldn’t make eye contact. She was just. So. Awkward.
Zhade scratched the back of his head, his bleached hair falling into his face. The light in the room was turning golden as the sun set. Dust and nano’clouds danced in the air.
“She skooled me how to open the grave. Gave me a spell but didn’t for true explain it. Why?”
“It’s just . . .” Andra wished there were something—anything—in this room. Something she could stare at or play with or sit on. Instead, there was only Zhade, watching her, waiting for her explanation. Pretending like he cared. “. . . the rocket? Her notes say to use cryo’plating, but I don’t have any, and I don’t know what to replace it with, because obviously I can’t use the cryo’plating in the Icebox, and—”
“You have notes from my mam?” Zhade’s voice was small.
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Andra looked away. “I mean, they’re not to me. They’re just files I found. Recordings from . . . before . . . all this . . .”
Zhade was quiet for a moment before letting out a breathy laugh. “It’s kiddings, marah? You imagine she had this purpose, this . . . plan for you to set out and accomplish, but she didn’t leave you any clues to follow.”
Andra frowned. “I don’t imagine she had a purpose for me. I know. She programmed me.”
“Firm,” Zhade said, crossing his arms again. “Soze you say.”
“Soze . . .” Andra breathed in through her nose. “She knew what my purpose was. She . . . created my purpose.”
“Certz. But she’s dead.”
“Yeah, I know.” Andra ran a hand through her hair. “But I was hoping . . . do you have anything of hers? Maybe some . . . magic she left behind or . . . do you remember anything she said? Like why she sent you to find me? She must have given you instructions.”
Zhade shrugged. “Just to find you and . . . protect you.”
“Anything else?”
“She was a bit busy trying not to be murdered.”
Andra swallowed.
“Sorries,” Zhade mumbled, scratching the back of his head. “It’s mereish . . . she didn’t tell me much, not even where to find you. She handed me that dagger and your necklace and fin was fin.”
“Hmm.” Andra had watched the memory Griffin had left her in the holocket over and over, and hadn’t seen anything that would hint at her purpose. As for the dagger, it was just an update tool and had now served its purpose, and though it had briefly shown Andra hers, it hadn’t moved that code into her conscious thought patterns, and she didn’t know how to retrieve it. “What do you mean she didn’t tell you where to find me? You said she was the one who hid me.”
Zhade shrugged. “Who can reck why she did anything? She probablish mereish wanted to make things diff for me. To make me figure it myself. Maybe that’s what she purposed for you too. For you to figure it yourself.”
“Maybe . . .” Andra conceded, but she wasn’t convinced. Something was off. Why wake Rashmi and not Andra? Why hide Andra at all? Andra hadn’t been in danger while in the ’tank, especially since no one knew how to open it. And then why send Zhade to go get her without telling him where? Maybe she was just that sadistic, but Andra didn’t think so. The Griffin she’d watched from afar, her mother’s boss, had been anything but capricious. She had been efficient and intentional. There must have been a reason she hadn’t told Zhade where Andra was.
The light was growing dimmer, the few rays of sunlight that made it through the boarded windows haloing Zhade’s white-blond hair.
He uncrossed his arms, took a step toward Andra. “I can look for some of her old magic conduits. Maybe they’ll have more clues bout the rocket. If I find some, can I bring them to you?” he added, almost shyly. “Bringing you conduits, mereish like before?”
Andra bit the inside of her cheek, remembering their deal: tech for goddess lessons. It was the deal that had initially bonded them, led to them dancing in this very room.
She should tell him no, to just send them through Kiv or Mechy. It was risky for him to the leave the palace too often. But the fact was she wanted him to visit. If he wouldn’t do it to see her, she didn’t mind if he had another reason.
She hesitated too long.
“No shakes,” he said. “I’ll send Kiv.”
Andra shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Good. Good idea.”
“Firm.” Zhade ruffled the back of his hair. The Crown glinted in the light from the orbs. “I’ll . . . see you . . . sometime.”
Andra didn’t stop him when he turned to leave, but she wanted to. She wanted to throw her arms around him and to cry from exhaustion and relief and let him make her laugh until her stomach hurt. But that was just the human part of her talking. The AI part knew she should let him go. There were certain things she could want but couldn’t have because of what she was. It wasn’t fair, but apparently human life wasn’t either.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Sometime.”
FOUR
THE ROGUE
Zhade’s head was throbbing.
He sat on the velvet sofa in the guv’s suite, sipping on one of the many alcohols Maret had stashed. In between sips, he held the glass against his forehead, cooling the headache that hadn’t subsided since that aftermoren.
Try as he might, Zhade couldn’t shake the image of the angel choking the life out of Dzeni and the kiddun. He couldn’t banish the powerlessness, the impotence he’d felt.
Zhade should have been the one to save the kiddun. He’d tried using the Crown for small things ever since—bringing up a scry he passed, sensing nearby angels—but all he had to show for his practice was a pain in his temple. He’d tried again in his quarters with an angelic guard. Nothing but a sharp ache. Then there’d been a moment with Andra when he’d considered trying to convo her through the Crown, like he’d done that day in the throne room. But Andra didn’t want him in her life, much less her mind.
The angel’s attack made it crystal to Zhade he couldn’t ignore the Crown any longer. If he wanted to remain guv, to hold his people safe, he needed its power.
How could he have ever imagined this would all be so easy? He was a fraughted fool.
Once, in one of the meetings with Andra and the Schism, he’d suggested waking the gods and integrating them into Eerensedian society. Andra had called it “horrendously idiotic.” Zhade didn’t reck the words, but he figured they purposed “full bars stupid.” He’d liked the way the words had sat on her tongue an
d wanted to hear her say them again, even if it purposed she was insulting him.
What he wouldn’t give to have her insult him again, instead of the awkward discomfortistic way she convoed him this afternoon.
When he’d gotten her message that she wanted to meet—in the place where they’d had goddess lessons, no less—he’d started to hope that it was because she wanted to restart what had been growing tween them before he betrayed her and took his brother’s face.
Fishes and wishes, marah?
He imagined the past moon of looking at her with this face, through these eyes. There had been two costs when he took Maret’s place. The first was his face. The second was Andra’s trust. As much as he missed looking like himself, he missed Andra more.
But she was right to be disgusted with him. He’d been playing guv, considering himself better than Maret, assuming the city was better off because of him. He imagined once he took his brother’s face, his throne, everything would be so simple. But now he was facing an unnamed enemy, and the sole thing that could stop it was the Crown.
A knock jolted him out of his imaginings. Before he could answer, the door whooshed open and Tsurina strode in. Her brown hair was pinned up in an elaboristic do. Her gown was leaf green, her sleeves and its hem dragging the floor. Gryfud rushed in after her.
“The Grande Advisor is here to see you, Guv,” he said, breathless.
It was full obvi Tsurina had strode past him without waiting to be let in.
“Thank you.” Tsurina smiled through her teeth. “Gryfud, was it?”
Gryfud nodded, shooting Zhade an amused look. He’d been at the palace nearish a moon, assigned to guard Tsurina most of that time. She recked his name.
He bowed and winked at Zhade over Tsurina’s shoulder, and left.
Zhade set down his glass. It was empty anyway.
“Hello, charling,” she said, sweeping toward him.
“Mother,” he greeted her, standing to get himself another drink, but she pulled him into a hug before he could.
He’d watched Maret do this routine enough that he recked how to play the dutiful son—at least Maret’s version of it. When he pulled away, Tsurina brushed his cheek with her thumb, as though she were rubbing away a smudge of chocolate. Then her fingers trailed cross the Crown.
It was a dangerful game Zhade was playing. He’d spent close attention to Maret and Tsurina’s interactions since returning apalace after his exile, but he’d never seen them in private. Soze he wasn’t certz what Maret’s response would have been in this situation. Should Zhade feign confidence? Should he show annoyance? He needed to act as Maret would, but he also needed to play this politic game with Tsurina. She needed to believe he was Maret full long for him to wrest power away from her.
“Evens, mam,” he said, pulling away and heading toward Maret’s liquor cabinet. “What reasons for the meeting?”
Tsurina frowned, mereish a wrinkle of her lips, a dart of her brows. “Do I need a reason to convo my son?”
Zhade held back a groan. He didn’t have time for this. He had to figure what to do bout the Crown. Had to practice using it.
“You’ve been so distant latish,” Tsurina said. “It feels likeish . . .” She placed a sharp-nailed finger to her lips, imagining. “. . . likeish you haven’t been yourself.”
Zhade’s heart beat franticish as he tried to train his features into something bland and nonchalant. But neg, that was what Zhade would do. How would Maret respond to this accusation?
He pinched the bridge of his nose, giving himself time. “I’m mereish tired, mam,” he said, adding a whine to his voice, going on the defensive as Maret would. “This turn has been long and diff.”
Tsurina’s face turned down into a pout. She slinked into a nearby chair, her fingernails caressing her cheek. “Oh, I reck, charling. And now, with the angel attacks . . . I believe they’ve gone rogue.”
Zhade swallowed, hand trembling round the liquor bottle. “What? Angel attacks? How many?”
“Sands, who recks?” Tsurina waved a hand.
Soze, this moren hadn’t been a flute. Someone was doing this. But who? He looked at Tsurina, who was carefulish watching him.
“No shakes, son, this is all evens. No one’s died. The citians will complain, and you can make some vague promise to investigate, and fin will be fin.” She leaned forward, looking up at Zhade over her long, clasped fingers. “You’ve had full bars to worry bout. After the gods’ dome and the . . . goddesses.” She spat the word.
Zhade didn’t respond.
“You did the right thing, marah?” Tsurina said, voice steady and pointed. “Killing the goddesses. You reck what I’ve always said bout difficult decisions?”
Zhade had no clue what she always said, but he nodded anyway and unstoppered a clear bottle of some brown liquor.
Tsurina’s fingers tapped against the armrest. “Did you love her?”
Zhade stiffened, freezing mid-pour. He had to shake himself to attention to hold from overflowing the glass. He turned to Tsurina.
Half a smile curled her lips. “You were full time so tenderhearted. I’m not surprised. But you have to reck your feelings for her weren’t real. Have memory who you for true are.”
Zhade stared at her. Did that purpose Maret had feelings for—had loved—Andra? Something hollow and panicky swelled low in Zhade’s chest. He let out a bark of a laugh and hoped it didn’t sound like a sob.
“Neg, mam. I didn’t love her.” He swallowed. Took a breath. “She was a means to an end. A bargaining chip.”
Tsurina’s smile turned angelic, and she canted her head. “That is an odd phrase. Where did you hear it?”
“I don’t have memory,” he lied quickish. “Her death placated the people. Fixed the gods’ dome. Freed us to rule.”
Lies upon lies upon lies. He hated it. Lying. Pretending to be someone else. But he would do whatever it took to remain guv. To skool how to use the Crown. To protect his city from rogue angels and worse.
He smiled at Tsurina. “I’m glad the Goddess is dead.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Tsurina said, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. “Zhade.”
FIVE
THE DIVINE
Zhade’s heart was pounding, his palms sweating as he looked into Tsurina’s smug face. He swallowed and forced his voice to come out steadyish.
“What do you convo? Why did you call me that?”
Tsurina stood. Zhade’s muscles tensed.
“Did you imagine I wouldn’t reck you?” she asked. “You may have Maret’s face, and you may do a decent imitation of his voice, but you’re much too arrogant to pass as my son.”
Zhade edged along Maret’s liquor cabinet, scanning the room for some type of weapon.
“Too stubborn. Too optimistic. Too ruthless.” She stalked toward him.
He could smash one of the glasses.
“How did you do it?” she asked. “Take his face? What magic is this?”
There was a gun on the wall next to him.
“I’m assuming my son is dead.”
Why didn’t he wear a sword?
“What confuses me is why you killed that goddess of yours.”
Zhade tried not to let the relief on his face show. At least she didn’t realize Andra was alive.
“I was certz you were in love with her,” she continued.
Zhade felt on the cabinet behind him and wrapped his hand round the nearest bottle.
“Did becoming guv import to you so much that you were willing to sacrifice her in that endeavor?”
Zhade swallowed and tightened his grip on the bottle as she approached. “She was a means to an end.”
Tsurina’s smile almost appeared genuine. “There. That ruthlessness. That’s how I recked you weren’t Maret. Seeya, if you want to be guv so badish, I won�
�t stop you.”
Zhade relaxed mereish a tick.
“As a fact, I could use someone for true so ruthless as to murder the girl he loved for something as petty as power.”
She was now an arm’s length away from him.
“Power is dull, and too easyish lost, as you will soon discover. What I want, no one can—”
Zhade smashed the bottle against the cabinet and swiped it across Tsurina’s face. She screamed, flinching back and bringing her hand to her cheek. Zhade took sole a moment to see streaks of blood begin to darken her skin before turning and grabbing the gun off the wall.
He didn’t take the time to imagine if this was a good idea, to consider the consequences for murdering Tsurina, to weigh his options. He simplish turned, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He pulled the trigger again and flinched at a faint static in his brain.
Tsurina straightened, pulling her hand from her face. The northhand side was streaked with blood. It dripped down her gown, from the tip of her sleeve. When she grinned, it limned her lips.
“You fool,” she sneered. “Just because you wear the Crown doesn’t purpose you reck how to use it.”
Zhade scrambled back, circling the room til he found another weapon. This one was a lightning dagger. Even if the magic inside it didn’t work for him, he could still stab with it.
He flipped the lever on the side to ignite it, but nothing happened.
Tsurina laughed hollowish, approaching him as blood still pulsed from her wounds.
“Maret was useless in many ways, but at the least he could sorcer his weapons.”
Zhade tried again to access the Crown, feel its connection to the weapons round the room, but all he achieved was a headache.
Tsurina moved closer. What was she going to do? She had no weapon, except for her dangerfulish pointed nails. She wasn’t calling for help. She was losing blood. For true, Zhade should be winning this fight, but Tsurina was grinning like a kat who’d caught a skirl, and that scared Zhade more than anything.
Devil in the Device Page 5
