by E J Frost
Because I never got to tell her I was sorry. And I am. No matter what happened.
“I left the next day. I’d taken all my finals and was just waiting around for graduation. So I threw everything in my car and left. We were supposed to share an apartment in Boston, but I went and found a studio in Somerville instead. I left her holding the bag for the lease. That’s the kind of friend I was to her in the end.”
Timmi shakes her head. “No, you were an exemplary friend. You tried to dissuade her from a path that eventually killed her, even if you didn’t do it very gently. You were also hurt, and oh, so very young. Forgive yourself, Tsara. Rowena probably forgave you long ago.”
Not if her attempt to poison me with henbane is any indication. “I don’t think so. Ro’s element might have been fire but she was as stubborn as a rock.”
“Then you have to do the forgiving for both of you. It’s too late for you to seek Rowena’s forgiveness in anything but prayer, my dear, and you don’t seem the sort, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”
If Jou’s telling the truth about where Ro’s soul is, prayer isn’t going to help anyway. I shrug. “Not really.”
“So forgive yourself. Hold tight to the memories of the good times. The times you laughed together. Shared a triumph. That’s the way to honor her memory. Let the bad things slip away.”
For all that her advice is a little clichéd, it actually does make me feel better. I squeeze her fingers. “Thank you, Timmi.”
She smiles, that gentle, infectious smile that warms me almost as much as my Dala’s hugs. I’m glad I’ve shared this old pain with her. It’s made me lighter. And it’s made me feel close to Timmi. A feeling I really like.
“So, my dear, would you like to give the Diary a try or are you feeling the need for coffee?”
I laugh. “I always feel the need for coffee, but I’ll hold off on my fix until I’ve taken a look at a couple of panels.”
She pats my hand and I sit back. The warm golden connection between us stretches, flexes, but doesn’t break.
When I leave the Museum, Jou’s waiting for me in Ro’s sleek, silver car. He’s had to double-park, which just shows that his glamor doesn’t work on Harvard Square traffic. Nothing does, really.
I climb into the car with a nervous glance over my shoulder. This would not be a good time for either Timmi or her diabolist colleague to decide to see me out. Fortunately, the Museum’s doors stay closed behind me.
Jou pulls me to him for a kiss. Then he starts the car and slides smoothly into the light evening traffic.
“I was going to walk,” I say. I didn’t ask him to pick me up, and it really isn’t very far.
“I know. I wanted to see you, sweetness. That so wrong?”
Of course not. It’s lovely. Why can’t I ever say the right thing to him? “I’m happy to see you,” I say, fumbling to make amends.
“Yeah?” He lifts one dark eyebrow. Then tips his head back at the receding façade of the Museum. “So what’s in there? Don’t feel like a good place for makin’ babies.”
“No, it’s got nothing to do with work.” I realize I haven’t told Jou anything about Timmi, and I find myself reluctant to do so now. “It’s a Museum. The ring got donated there after . . . you know. They invited me for a private tour and I got interested in one of their artifacts, so now I’m doing some research on it.” All true, as far as it goes.
“Whaddo they want with a broken ring?” he asks.
“Got me.” I couldn’t understand that, either. “Maybe they think they can fix it.”
Jou growls and I realize that was, again, the wrong thing to say.
“Could it be fixed?” I ask, backpedalling.
“Dunnow.” He shrugs as he shifts into third gear. “Probably not. Your legends say it came directly from God. Don’t see him handin’ out too many rings these days.”
I remember reading that in the book Peter gave me. “Did he used to?”
“Not t’me.”
“Obviously not,” I say in exasperation. “Jou, have you ever met God? Well, I mean have you ever seen an angel or anything?”
“Nope.”
“Do they exist?”
“No idea, sweetness. Never seen one. Never heard of any demon who has. Maybe we can’t. Polar energies an’ all that. You ever seen one?”
I shake my head, then realize he’s watching the road, and say aloud, “No. Maybe I can’t, either.” Maybe my soul has always been flawed.
With a squeal of brakes and an indignant honk from the car behind us, Jou pulls over into an empty parking space. He cups my face. Looks into my eyes. “Your soul ain’t flawed.”
“Oh.” I recover from my surprise at our abrupt stop and his sudden earnestness. I raise my hands and stroke the backs of his with my fingertips. “Thank you, Jou.”
“You got some shadows, sweetness. Things you done that you’re lettin’ prey on you. Nothin’ wrong the soul underneath. It’s perfect.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “Wouldn’t be so drawn to it if it wasn’t.”
“Thanks.” I guess.
He lets me go, puts the car back in gear and pulls out into the Mass. Ave. traffic. “So what’s this thing that’s caught your eye?” he asks.
“Actually, I can show it to you.” I reach down to the bag at my feet and carefully extract the skeleton key. I’ve put it in my Dala’s old spectacle case, so I don’t accidently brush those baby bones whenever I reach into my bag. I unclasp the rose-embroidered case and tip the key out into my palm.
Jou glances at it several times, taking it in as he continues to navigate through the thickening traffic. “Can you see it with your third eye, sweetness?” he asks.
“Uh-huh. Bunch of bones bound with silver wire.”
“Yeah. Just so you know.”
“I know.” It’s creepy, but I’ve dealt with creepy things before. Modern witches don’t use eye of newt or toe of frog, but between six years of biology at Wydlins and Bevvy and my Divination practicals, I’ve handled plenty of dead things. Then there was that freaking mobile of Ro’s that was made of crow bones. It was supposed to help with memorization. I endured a year of that thing hanging over our paired desks before I asked her to move it into her own room. “Can you see the warping of the aether?”
“Mmm, not like you can. My way of seein’ a little different than yours. But I can see it through your eyes. Like a rainbow at each end. T’me, it looks like the air around the pointy end keeps shufflin’, like a deck of cards.”
Interesting. I wish I could see that. “Jou, you said the binding goes both ways. Could I see through your eyes? I mean, just this once?”
He slants a dark glance at me. “You’d have to be inside my head.”
“Is that bad?” I ask warily.
“Lotta things in there you might not like. Anything I happen to remember at the time, you’ll feel. Either like a memory or like it’s happenin’ to you now, depending on how deep you go. An’ you’d have to be pretty deep to see through my eyes. Sure you’re ready for that?”
I think for a moment, then shake my head. His home was overwhelming, and I have a feeling that it was really tame compared to the rest of Hell. To say nothing of what he’s suffered at the hands of humans and his father over the years. “Um, I guess I’ll live without. So when it looks like it’s shuffling, can you see any images or just movement?”
“Some images.” He gives it another glance. “Fragments. There’s a clear one. A street, looks like one of your cities. Maybe it’s been in a war or somethin’. Everything’s broken.”
“I think I’ve seen that. I looked through the ischium at the Old South Meetinghouse and that’s what I saw. Everything decaying, blown about in the wind. I think . . . I think that’s time, Jou. I think I’m looking into the future.”
“That ain’t good.”
I can’t tell if he’s referring to Boston’s future, or just the key’s ability to open a door in time. “I know that messing with time is dangerous.”
>
“Too fucking right. Used to be some Noctils who could reach through time. Look what happened to them.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What happened to them?”
“They’re all gone. Time protects itself with extreme prejudice. Do not go opening doors in time.”
I nod. If there was one thing that was drilled into us at Bevvy, it was do not fuck with time. “There’s a . . . well, it’s kind of a book, at the Museum that describes how to use the key. I was reading it today. There’s nothing about opening doors in time. Just to other places. Other planes, I think. There’s this repeating image in the, um, book. It’s a tree. I think it could be the World Tree. You know, Yggdrasil? Uh, do you know anything about the Norse myths?”
“Yeah, I remember the Norsemen. For the record, they stank, too. More like goats than pigs, though.”
I laugh a little. “Was there anyone who didn’t?”
“Japanese. Cleaner than a shaved cat. Hoshi-san bathed three times a day, and after anythin’ that got her sweaty. Fuck, she bathed me three times a day.”
“That is extremely clean.” Much too clean for me. I don’t even shower every day as a rule. Strips the natural oils. “So if this key is a way to open the portals of the World Tree, maybe I’m looking up the branches into the future, instead of across them into other places.”
“Makes sense,” he grunts. “Gotta hand it to you, sweetness. You know your stuff.”
Good to know those four years at Bevvy were good for something. “The Vikings believed the World Tree touched every plane of existence. Midgard, Asgard, Hel, everywhere. So—” I lift the key and look at the demon through the ischium. “Maybe I can see your plane.”
“No—” the demon says, but it’s too late.
I drop the key into my lap, and try to process what I’ve seen.
It was Jou, but not the way I usually see him. He was towering, terrifying. Ten feet tall, his dreadlocks writhing around his face like snakes. His horns scraped the sky, blazing with blue fire, their ebony curves crawling with burning glyphs. His eyes dripped flame; smoke billowed from his nose and mouth. A pair of massive, crimson wings extended above his shoulders and his lashing tail scraped embers from the trailing feathers. His erection was bigger than my arm, and a fanged, screaming mouth gaped at the tip.
I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to block out that image. But once I’ve Seen something, it’s hard to unsee.
The car stops and I open my eyes, thinking he’s pulled over again. But we’re at my house, parked neatly on the drive. Jou slides out, comes around the car and opens my door. Kneels beside me. He cups my face in his hands and rubs his thumbs over my eyelids.
“Lemme take that from you. That ain’t what I look like, not ever. I’m not sure what it showed you, but you don’t need to see that.”
I shake my head ruefully. He can run around in my head, but I get to keep my memories. All of them, the good and the bad. Letting him edit my memory is an extremely slippery slope.
“I’m okay.” I give a small, not very funny, laugh. “That’ll teach me to be careful what I look at, huh?”
“Yeah.” He continues to stroke my face, and watch me with very dark eyes. “Sweetness, I don’t want you thinkin’ of me that way.”
Because I would never agree to spend forever with that. “It’s okay. I understand what the key’s showing me isn’t real.” At least it isn’t real right now. What if the key’s showing me Jou’s future?
“That ain’t my future,” he says, reading my mind. “No lust demon’s ever had wings. An’ I don’t have a monster in my dick.”
That’s open for debate. “Forget it. Did you say something about dinner?”
“No, I didn’t, although I got salmon en croute waitin’, which I’m willin’ to bet is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. An’ I ain’t gonna forget it. Lemme take that one memory from you. I swear, that’s all I’ll take.”
No, thank you. No demon-modification of my memory. I push his hands away and climb out of the car. “I’m hungry.”
Jou stands and looks down at me for a long moment. Finally, he sighs. “Yeah, you are, fair enough.” He shuts the car door behind me, beeps it, and walks me into the house.
Salmon en croute, which I’ve never heard of before, turns out to be a side of fresh salmon, wrapped in ginger, cranberries and raisins, and baked in puff pastry. Somehow he’s scored the puff-pastry to look like fish-scales. Baked a deep golden brown, it’s almost too pretty to eat. Then I taste it, and stop caring about how it looks.
“Omigod, Jou.”
He chuckles. “Told you. I was gonna try chateaubriand, but fuck, even I can get heart disease from that much cholesterol. Figured I do somethin’ a little more healthy. Try the carrots.”
I do. They’re glazed with ginger, cinnamon and honey, a sweet accompaniment to the sweet fish. I take a sip of the pale white wine he’s poured me to cut the fructose overload. It’s citrus-tart and perfect. I tap the glass with my fingers as I let the wine clear my palate, and look at him across my dining-room table, where he’s laid this feast.
“I know you’ve been watching cooking programs, but did you really learn all this while you’ve been here?”
He shrugs around a forkful of fish. “I’ve always liked human food. Got my first taste in Egypt. Grinding grain was one of my labors. I never got to eat the bread it went into, though. Always wanted to. I watched the slaves bakin’ it by the hour. Can’t tell you what that smell used to do to me.” He takes a swallow of his own wine. “I’ve watched a lotta food made over the years. Never got to make it myself until now.”
“What about in Hell? Do you cook in Hell?”
He shakes his head. “No human food in Hell, sweetness.”
“Oh. What do you—?” I stop myself, because it’s obvious what he eats in Hell. He feeds off the energy of the souls he’s stolen. “Never mind.”
“I could open Hell’s first café,” he says, and I can tell he’s trying to change the subject, and to keep the mood light.
“If you think warlocks are clamoring to get into Hell now, just think of what it would be like if they found out you were serving this?” I spear a piece of salmon and hold it out to him. He leans across the table and takes the bite off my fork. He does so like to eat my food.
He leans back, chews and chuckles. “Think I could get those boys from Michelin to come down an’ give me a star?”
“They’re food critics. Surely they’re damned anyway?”
A deeper chuckle. “Definitely.”
“Could you survive just on human food?” I ask, curious.
Jou shakes his head. “It’s tasty, but there’s no real nourishment to it for me. I’d starve.”
He doesn’t read any ulterior motive into my question, not the way he would have a few days ago, and it makes me realize how far we’ve come. I smile at him. “Thank you for this. It’s really nice to come home to every night. To eat with you, I mean. It’s—”
Normal. And I suddenly realize that while he’s been abusing me about my illusions, he’s also been giving me the dream.
A sudden tear floods my eye and drips into my food.
“That doesn’t need any more salt, sweetness.”
“No,” I mumble and hastily wipe my eyes with the nice cloth napkin he’s set beside my china plate. Good thing I’m not wearing any mascara. Dala would have a fit. “Jou, I—”
“No apologies, sweetness. Just enjoy your dinner.”
I do. All the moreso for realizing the gift he’s given me.
After we finish, he pulls me into the kitchen and shows off his latest acquisition, a chrome and burgundy espresso machine. It looks extremely high-end.
“I hope it comes with instructions.”
“Behold the barista,” he says, as he expertly packs ground coffee into the silver cap-thingie and snaps it onto the machine. He puts a demitasse cup, which is definitely not part of my Dala’s china set even though it’s exactly the same patt
ern, under the twin spouts and we both watch in fascination as brown liquid pours out. When the cup is full, he takes a sugar cube out of a matching china bowl, pops it into the coffee, and hands the cup to me. “I’ll join you in the livin’ room in a mo., sweetness.”
Knowing when I’m dismissed, I take my coffee into the parlor, and find myself the subject of salamander-scrutiny again. I pat the couch next to me, but only Wizard takes me up on the invitation, leaping much higher than I thought he could on his stumpy little legs and stretching out next to my thigh. I pet him while I take a sip of my espresso. Wow, yum. “That’s my new favorite thing,” I call to Jou.
“Try not to hex it, then,” he says, taking a seat on the couch beside me. He gives Wizard a pat, then shoo-es the salamander off the couch and rests his thigh against mine. “It’s got one of those things in it. Whaddo you call them? A chip or something.”
“A computer chip?”
“Yeah. For all the different settings.”
“Mmm.” My relationship with electronics is complicated. “Better keep it turned off when we’re not using it.”
“The talking box seems okay.” He nods at the TV.
“That’s the second one I’ve had this year. Sixth one in five years. The lady at the insurance company cries when I call. They keep sending the same poor guy out to check the electrics. I’m surprised it hasn’t gone while you’ve been here, given everything that’s happened. If I throw a major circle, it’ll blow.”
“That why you don’t have one of those little computers here at the house?” At my nod, he says, “Couldn’t believe it when I saw how much those had changed from the last time I was topside. Dead bitch had one she carried from room to room with her. Smaller than her fuckin’ make-up case.”
“Laptop.” I lust after one, too, but I can barely keep the sturdy desktop machine at my office from going when I brew, so a laptop is not likely to have a long life-expectancy around me. “Jou, about Ro—”
“Let it go, sweetness,” he says, his tone dropping. “Nothin’ you can say that won’t ruin this fine coffee.”
“Actually, I was going to say that I was thinking about her today and decided I have to forgive myself for whatever part I played in her . . . you know.”
