by S. L. Stacy
“Okay.” I’m liking this deal less and less, but, with Victoria missing in action, I’m not sure I really have any other choice. This is the closest we may ever get to finding the cure to Hera’s moonshade curse. As a guardian, I have to start putting others’ needs before my own—I have to be willing to make sacrifices.
Not for the first time this week, I hear Madam Moira’s chilling voice in the back of my mind: Sacrifices will be made. Prices will be paid. I shove the words of warning aside, taking up the quill and pressing the tip to the parchment. I start to make a C, but nothing happens. “There’s no ink,” I realize, looking to Billy for help.
“In blood,” he instructs quietly.
It takes a moment for his words to sink in. “You want me to sign in blood. Seriously?” He nods encouragingly. Taking a deep breath, I slice my palm open with the sharp tip of the quill, feeling sick as I watch blood well up out of the cut. I set the blood-coated quill to the paper again and sign my first and last name quickly, my scarlet signature gleaming against the parchment like a red hot brand. The paper seems to absorb it, the letters sinking until they’re sealed inside. My hand burns, making me wince, but I know the pain won’t last much longer; the cut is already starting to close up. I set the quill on the counter next to the signed contract.
“Now, for my payment,” Billy says, a perverse eagerness in his voice as he twists open the small black sphere, holding the two halves in his palms.
I feel a telltale stirring at my shoulder blades, shuddering as my wings start to emerge of their own volition, ripping through the back of my dress. Almost as soon as they’re out, they begin dematerializing, an invisible force inside the hollowed-out sphere drawing them in. I watch as clumps of feathers float past me, coming together to form a blur of white energy pouring into the orb. As more and more feathers break free, dissolving, the weight of my wings feels lighter and lighter, until there comes a moment when I can’t feel them at all.
Billy was right. It was relatively easy and painless, except for the pang of regret crippling me as I watch him close the sphere back up.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he says cheerily, pocketing the orb.
I swallow over the lump in my throat, trying to sound indifferent when I tell him, “Piece of cake.” Inside, I feel like a part of me is missing, an ever-expanding void as dark and endless as Pandora. I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again.
“Give me that,” I grumble, snatching the piece of parchment from the counter. Like Billy promised, the words of the contract have disappeared, replaced with instructions for making the “Drink of Restoration.” I eagerly start reading.
By the time I finish, I can feel my mouth hanging open. I read it a second time, then a third, each time hoping that I must have read it wrong, that it couldn’t possibly have said what I thought it did. But no matter how many times I reread it, the words are the same, each one bruising like the punch of an iron fist, knocking all the air from my lungs.
Drink of Restoration:
For the first few ingredients,
You won’t have to look far
To find a pinch of dust from the passion star.
And from the fruit of the immortal tree,
A few drops of nectar is all you need.
Mix these first, but you’re still not done.
To burn the shade, you need the sun,
Then tears to cleanse and blood to bind
Taken from the children left behind.
Don’t let these last items give you hell.
Just add three leaves of ghostly asphodel
And water from the wailing well to restore
Everything to what it was before.
“This isn’t a recipe.” My knuckles are white as I grip the piece of parchment, ready to tear it to shreds. I turn livid eyes on Billy, who is whistling to himself as he happily rearranges things behind the counter.
“Of course it is,” he insists, throwing a patronizing glance my way.
“No, it’s not! I wanted a list of specific ingredients and clear instructions for making the antidote! You know…a cup of flour, a teaspoon of salt. Not…‘a pinch of dust from the passion star,’” I read off the paper. I wave it in front of his face. “This is a riddle. Deal’s off. You misled me.”
He pauses in his work, anger flickering across his face. “I didn’t mislead you. I gave you exactly what you asked for: a way to make the antidote. If you wanted something more explicit, you should have said so.”
“What else could I have meant by a way to make it?” I exclaim, rolling the parchment back up. “You’re twisting my words. I’m not happy. I’m an unsatisfied customer. The deal is off. Give me my wings back.”
“It’s too late for that,” he tells me, voice chilly. “You signed the contract, remember? It can’t be undone. Now, if you would please get out of my shop. We’re closing.” He turns his back to me.
“But the front door says—”
“We’re closing early!” he tosses over his shoulder before disappearing through the maroon curtains.
Instead of leaving right away, I do a quick scan of the shop, looking for a weapon of some sort. I wish I had brought my dagger with me. I don’t want to hurt Billy, of course, but if I could just scare him a little, maybe I could cajole him into terminating the contract. Unfortunately, the merchandise, although weird, isn’t very threatening.
“This isn’t over!” I shout to the empty room, hoping he can hear me in the back of the store. “I’ll be back!” Still fuming, I storm out, the pleasant sound of the bell ringing out as I leave making me even angrier.
“He misinterpreted what I said on purpose,” I mutter to myself, folding the parchment up until it fits in my purse. “No one else would have assumed I wanted anything except a list of specific ingredients and steps. No one…” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. There’s only one person I know who twists words like that—who would use my own words against me. Turning on my heel, I walk back in the direction of The Midnight Shoppe.
“You got me!” I explode, hot, angry words pouring out of me like lava from a volcano, rocking the stillness of the alley. “You fudging double-crossing piece of…crap, you really got me. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on—”
I skid to a stop when I reach the building, my feet landing on smooth sidewalk where the steps leading down to the occult store used to be. Now, there’s no glass door, no window with twinkle lights. Just a solid, red brick wall.
“Me,” I finish with a sigh.
Chapter 10
Sitting on the curb in front of the building where The Midnight Shoppe was mere moments ago, I smooth the scroll out, holding it up to the misty light from a streetlamp.
There’s no need to panic, I tell myself, giving it another read through. A cold wind blows through the street, whipping a lock of hair across my face and agitating the corners of the parchment. I tighten my grip on it. I know what at least a few of these lines mean. And from the fruit of the immortal tree/A few drops of nectar is all you need. A fruit extract that makes you live longer—that has to be referring to ambrosia. Probably. Doubt settling in the pit of my stomach, I read a few more lines. Just add three leaves of ghostly asphodel. Although I don’t know what the heck asphodel is, it sounds like something concrete I could easily look up in one of Victoria’s books.
Victoria. In my daze of anger and confusion, I almost forgot that she wasn’t here like I thought she’d be, and that I still don’t know where she is. Letting out a breath that knocks the errant curl out of my face, I release one end of the parchment so that it rolls back up on its own. Step one, find Victoria, I continue with my inner monologue, jamming the scroll back in my purse. She’ll know better than I do what most of these things could be and what to do next. Assuming I can track her down. Despite the tentative plan of action I’ve mentally outlined, I feel like I’m sinking in quicksand, already barely able to see over the walls of sand rising around me. Forcing myself to get up, I s
tart walking in the direction of my car. I stop in the middle of the street when all I see is empty curb for the next several blocks.
“Where the fudge is my car?” I yell into the night, going over to the spot where I know I parked it. It must have gotten towed while I was in the store, even though I wasn’t away for that long. A growl issues from my throat, and I stomp my feet in frustration. My tantrum ceases at the sight of faint—very faint—yellow paint on the curb and a sign tacked to a telephone pole proclaiming “Tow Away Zone: No Parking At Any Time.” I swear that sign wasn’t there earlier. And they really need to repaint the curb.
“Seriously? There’s no one here!” I shout, my frustrated voice bouncing off the surrounding buildings. After another helpless scan of the area and a grudging sigh, I take off down the deserted street. Once I get out of this secluded part of downtown, I should be able to find a main road with a bus stop. Unfortunately, I probably won’t be able to get my car back until tomorrow.
A heavy mist is suspended in the air, visible only in the patches of light from the streetlamps. Wherever my skin is exposed it collects, clinging like cold, wet leeches. In front of me, the street unravels silently, seemingly without end—a dark, infinite tunnel surrounded by tall, hulking buildings. For a moment, the road seems to tilt—to the left, then over to the right—as a wave of dizziness sweeps over me. I close my eyes, letting it pass. Opening them, the world is still once more. I resume my course.
I’ve been walking for at least ten minutes, but have yet to leave this eerily subdued part of the city behind me. In fact, this section looks vaguely similar to the one I just came from. I look around, stumbling in an irregular circle, spotting the closed nail salon on one side of the street, the thrift shop on the other.
But wait a minute, I say to myself, shaking my head. I’m not on that part of Little Lane anymore…I’ve been walking toward the city center…at least I thought I was…
My skin crawls again, this time from fear as much as the clammy air. I press onward, picking up the pace, the only sound the scuff of my boots against the pavement. This time, I veer to the left, planning to go a few blocks in a totally different direction to shake the monotony of Little Lane. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a sign for the cross street—Clement Drive—and, shoulders relaxing, slow down a little. I stay on Clement Drive for several more blocks before turning to the right, which should take me into the heart of downtown on a different street. I pause a few paces in, trying to get my bearings, looking around for a street sign or a familiar landmark. My eyes settle on the white and red “Tow Away Zone: No Parking At Any Time” sign tacked to a telephone pole. I peer up at the building beyond it and see the sign for Hot Nails. I glance across the street—there’s that dang thrift shop.
The sound of rattling wheels breaks the dense silence, making my heart skip a beat. I turn toward it to find a homeless man, draped in a tattered blanket, pushing a shopping cart full of what appears to be empty cans down the opposite sidewalk. He pauses directly across the street from me, scratching his white beard with a wizened hand. I can feel his eyes latch onto me through the dark. Blood pounding in my ears, I look away, pushing my legs forward—at this moment, not caring what direction I’m going in, as long as it’s away from him.
“The beast is coming.” His shaky voice brings me to a stop again. I fight the urge to make a run for it, spinning back around to face him.
“I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?” I call over. He couldn’t have possibly said what I thought he did.
“The beast is coming,” he repeats, then, gripping the cart as though it’s filled with gold bars instead of aluminum cans, resumes his slow progression down the street. I watch him go until the dark swallows his hunched shoulders, the squeal of the wheels fading on the wind.
Clutching my bag close to me, I break out into a run, ignoring the sting of cold air in my lungs. I race toward what should be the intersection of Little and Clement, but, no matter how fast I run or how much distance I cover, it always seems to be just out of reach. The road starts to buck underneath me, dipping and rising again like a fast-moving ocean current, and finally I’m forced to stop, panting, head spinning. Flashes of light and darkness pass over my eyes—the white rays of the moon, artificial light from the streetlamp, the thick blackness of the sky—until the only things I can see are black-red spots dancing in front of my eyes—
All at once, the world stops moving. I blink a few times, the stretch of road in front of me clear in the lamplight, the intersection only a few feet away. Above, a full moon stands watch from its perch in the sky.
The hairs on the back of my neck prick, a chill of foreboding stealing over me. I can sense him behind me, watching me, even before he speaks:
“You look a little turned around.”
“No kidding,” I fire back, a slight quiver slipping into the retort. When I turn, Dolos is there, standing on an empty, cylindrical trash can that’s fallen over, keeping balanced with a wide-legged stance. He jumps down from it, landing gracefully on his feet while the can rolls away, clunking metallically against the asphalt.
“Hello, lover. Didja miss me?” he asks, grinning. The smirk cuts me like a knife.
It’s Dolos, and yet not really, not the Dolos I held in my arms last night. (Was it just last night?) The person swaggering toward me, hands on his hips, has the face of the young man I first encountered in Pandora, the golden-skinned, white-haired “prince” with the maniacal gleam in his jewel-like green eyes. Back then, he was wearing a tight, black leather vest and even tighter leather pants, with finger-cut gloves over his nimble hands. Tonight, he’s wearing the same pants and gloves, along with combat boots and a knee-length, military-style leather coat. A top hat sits crookedly on his head, his white hair sticking out from underneath it like he just tried to put a fork in a light socket. The entire outfit is as black as midnight.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” he says, stopping a few paces away.
“Actually, I was wondering when you started shopping at Hot Topic.” I sound more confident this time, managing to keep the shakiness out of my voice.
“You like? These are my new threads.” He shrugs a few times, as though assessing the fit of the coat, running long fingers over the rows of brass buttons. “I look pretty snazzy, don’t you think?”
I give the ensemble the once-over, grimacing. “You look like the emo Mad Hatter.”
“I got them over at the thrift shop,” he continues, ignoring me. Then, in a low, off-key voice, he starts to sing. “I’m gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket…well, actually, I don’t have any money in my pocket.”
“Stealing from a thrift store is pretty low, you know—”
“I look incred-i-ble. I’m in this big ass coat, from that thrift shop down the road—”
“I swear to God, if you don’t stop singing that Macklemore song, I’m going to take that stupid hat off your head and rip it in half!” I shout in one breath. Even I have to admit it’s a pretty lame, empty threat, but Dolos still looks startled, mouth snapping shut. “So that was you back at the occult store.” He nods, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “There probably isn’t even a Billy, or a Midnight Shoppe.”
“The store is real,” he assures me.
“But it’s not there anymore!”
“It’s there. You just have to look at the right angle. And it is owned by a man—well, a faun—named Billy. He would have come out to assist you, but he was a little tied up,” he adds, snickering.
“This isn’t funny. Nothing about this is amusing. My car got towed because of you. I don’t even have a fudging car now!”
“I’ll own up to the other stuff, but you can’t blame me for your car getting towed.”
“Fine. Speaking of the other stuff”—I pause, taking the scroll back out and holding it high in the air—“let’s talk about this lovely piece of poetic mastery.”
“My riddle!” Dolos ex
claims, clapping his hands together. “You have to admit, it’s pretty clever. Some of my best work.”
“Yeah. You’re a regular Dr. Seuss.”
“I like to think of myself as more of a Kanye West. Honestly, though, I was a little surprised you fell for all of that. Sign your name in blood,” he goes on in a low, tremulous voice with a spooky flutter of his fingers, “and your wings will be mine…forever!” He kicks back his head and laughs, then says in his normal voice, “I forgot how gullible you are.”
“So there’s no contract?” My face heats as I tuck the parchment away. “You didn’t really take my wings?” Even as I’m asking it, I mentally call them forth, waiting for the familiar stir beneath my back. There’s nothing. Then again, he could be, at this very moment, deluding me into thinking I can’t feel them. I’ll have to try again later.
“Oh, that part was real,” he says, picking up on my suspicions. “We’re on more equal footing this way.”
“Right. You can still trick me into seeing anything you want me to, and I can’t even do the one measly thing that gave me some advantage. Sounds fair to me.”
“Glad you agree.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what? All of this chitchat is distracting, and it’s wasting my time.”
“A waste of time? I thought we were just catching up!”
“Let’s cut to the chase. Give me the stones,” I demand, holding out my hand.
“Stones? What stones?” he asks, feigning confusion.
“The ones that you stole from our house.”
“Ohhh…those stones.” Dolos reaches inside the coat, taking out a red satin pouch tied with a white ribbon, and hefts it in his hand.
“Now, give them back, and no one has to know you’re a thief as well as a liar and a traitor.”
“Jeesh, somebody’s cranky tonight. You weren’t this prickly when you were naked underneath me last night. In fact, I’d say you were in a pretty good mood.”
