The Immortal City

by May Peterson

  Hei slipped his hand into mine. The warmth of it was comforting. “Are you ready?”

  I simply watched him for a moment, memorizing the sweet lines of his face once again. I thought of the thousand instances of Hei, all the versions of him that had been with me, that had stood between me and doom. Hei as a child, the boy whose name I had written, who I had pledged never to forget. The Hei who had died, whose hope had been crushed. The Hei that remembered my name when I was empty. The Hei who had stayed with me. They were all here within this second, shaping the way forward. Vulnerable and strong, mortal and indomitable.

  A strange serenity filled me. I pressed a kiss to his fingers. “I am ready.”

  They gathered up our burdens, and I took both of them into my arms. With wings spread wide, snow flecking the air with jewels, I jumped. We flew down the mountainside, a farewell for our city never-ending, for all the seasons left behind. The wind carried us into the new life we had made.

  * * *

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  www.maypetersonbooks.com.

  The Sacred Dark Glossary

  Arcane prism—a stone infused with magical force or memory by a witch.

  Ashaë—a region far from Serenity, where Ari believes his ancestry lies. The Ashaic language is one of the common tongues of Serenity.

  Bear-soul—a moon-soul resurrected by an ursine spirit; their animal form is a bear.

  Cat-soul—a moon-soul resurrected by a feline spirit; their animal form is a large cat.

  Crow-soul—a moon-soul resurrected by a crow or raven spirit; their animal form is a large crow.

  Deep—the spiritual realm of holy darkness beyond the material world of the living.

  Drowning godhood—the godhood of memory theft; its bearer can obscure a person’s memory by drinking their blood, gaining access to the memories taken.

  Dove-soul—a moon-soul resurrected by a dove spirit; the animal form is a large dove.

  Godhood—a rare virtue of great power that occasionally appears in a moon-soul. They are mightier than more common virtues, but why they are granted is a mystery.

  Halfshape—the state in which a moon-soul retains human form with some animal features, such as wings or tails.

  Living-again—a person who has been resurrected from death

  Moon-soul—a living-again resurrected by a noble spirit and given the virtues of immortality and shape changing, as well as a nocturnal nature and other supernatural gifts. Each moon-soul’s virtues vary by the animal spirit that resurrected them.

  Noble spirit—a primal animal spirit that dwells beyond the Deep; they have the power to resurrect a human upon death and transform them into a moon-soul.

  Portia—land to the south of Serenity from which Hei hails. The Portian language is often spoken in Serenity.

  Sacred banes—substances imbued with a primal virtue that makes them potent against the otherwise supernaturally resilient moon-souls; they include silver metal, the wood of sacred trees, and hallowed water.

  Serenity—ancient city in the frozen north, built on top of a geothermal mountain range. Living-again and ghosts, some hailing from ages past, people its towers and streets.

  Time-mending—a unique magical art capable of mysteriously altering the past.

  Twining—a magical power by which witches can link to the willing hearts of others.

  Virtue—the supernatural power of noble spirits. Virtues differ from magic but can exert miraculous effects.

  Virtue of cat-step—the virtue granted by cat spirits, which allows instant transportation by moving through the Deep.

  Virtue of hallowing—the virtue granted by bear spirits, which can guard against possession. An especially powerful hallowing can turn an object into a sacred bane.

  Virtue of pitying—the virtue granted by dove spirits, which can heal wounds.

  Virtue of vision flight—the virtue granted by crow spirits, which allows the projection of a spectre that can remotely spy.

  Witch—a mage who has developed their natural magical talents into witchcraft, the rare and refined magical arts.

  Zangen—a region from which originates the Zangenjai language.

  Acknowledgments

  It’s hard to think of this book without thinking of my dad, who was dying as I wrote it. So when I look back on this book, I think about what remains. The pieces I never want to forget, and that are still with me even if I have.

  I’d also like to acknowledge those that have been there for me in shaping this book and in carrying the weight of grief.

  My sibling, Alex, who has been with me during seasons of dark times, who is able to bear the darkness and walk next to me as we make it out.

  My dear friend Lauren, who showed up for me whenever I or my family needed it, who believes that what she gives is never enough and so is always giving more.

  My friend KJ Charles, who is such a fount of courage and wit that I always feel a little better for simply remembering she is in the world.

  My agent, Courtney, who exemplifies patience and kindness in a way I hope every author gets to experience.

  My editor, John, who frankly has proven to be ready for just about anything and meets it creatively, warmly, and with a smile. Like. Seriously, a good editor is basically magic.

  About the Author

  May Peterson is rumored to be some kind of magical creature, but exactly which kind is still debated by scholars. While they sort that out, May busies herself as a romance and fantasy author and freelance editor. May has always had a deep fondness for books, animation, and comics. She’s drawn toward both writing and reading stories that are magical, hopeful, and distinctive, as well as those that explore identity, queerness, and emotional connection. She believes that bringing a daydream to life with its own tale to tell is always a small miracle.

  You can find May on her website at

  www.maypetersonbooks.com, on Twitter at

  Twitter.com/maidensblade, and on Facebook at

  www.Facebook.com/mayberrypeterson.

  Now available from Carina Press and May Peterson:

  Read on for an excerpt of

  Lord of the Last Heartbeat,

  the first book in author May Peterson’s

  The Sacred Dark series.

  Lord of the Last Heartbeat

  by May Peterson

  Chapter One

  When I was nine, Mamma took me to the bay and showed me how to crack oysters.

  She spotted the oysters as magically as she spotted secrets, her red witch’s eye a gleaming carbuncle in the sun. I only found two by myself. Her hair covered her face like a surgical veil as she slid her knife between the glistening halves.

  I was such a little speck of a thing—and Mamma so convincing in her role of carefree Portian maiden—that no one thought much of us there, shin deep in the brine, laughing and splashing for oysters. Even in that postwar haze when families still foraged under the docks for food, a woman playing in the sand with her son wasn’t anything to worry about.

  She showed me the muscle that held the shells together, and how the oysters would fight to keep from being opened, violated, their hearts taken out. She explained with a silken calm how it was simply a matter of breaking their resistance.

  “Every heart, everything that moves,” she said, “will resist. Feel where the resistance is strongest and—” Snap, the shell opened. “Be precise about it.”

  With knife in hand, I trembled to open my little shell. Oyster meat was tastier and softer than almost any other kind,
but I couldn’t do it. I wiped a tear away so she wouldn’t see.

  But she did see, and took my hand. “Never fear.” With a little shove, she guided my fingers, and cut the muscle.

  I gasped. Inside the shell rolled a pearl. A spot of sea shine—it looked like it would pop if I touched it.

  Mamma opened my palm and dropped the pearl onto it. “Now you understand why they resist.”

  I wanted to ask if the oysters could feel pain, but her face was so wise and sad that I dared not.

  She made me hide the pearl in my mouth, under my tongue. Anything else we found in the bay we could keep, though the best finds had to be paid for, but pearls went to the Pescatores, all pockets and hands checked when one left the sand. This theft was one more way Mamma showed her lack of fear of the other families. The Pescatores meant nothing to Casa Gianbellicci.

  Pescatore’s eldest daughter leaned at the boardwalk exit, beaming at us. “Find anything good?” A toll master’s inquiry, wrapped in warm curiosity.

  “Just more oysters than I could eat by myself. Not a better lunch under heaven.” Mamma winked her scarlet eye.

  The girl nodded, slowly, and cast her gaze around. Checking for bulges, Mamma would explain later, suspicious lines under clothing. She put her wide hand on my head and ruffled my hair. I shuddered. “What a cute little girl you have! What’s her name?”

  I had been a girl before, for some of Mamma’s ruses, young and small enough to slip into the role. Yet with her touch on me, feeling the role close around me, my whole body went as stiff as the muscles of that oyster.

  “Aw, thank you. It’s Mia.”

  Mia. Mio. Mine.

  The pearl felt huge and heavy under my tongue, like a mound of sand. My tongue convulsed by reflex.

  And I swallowed the pearl.

  Once we’d passed the girl, on the street, Mamma asked to see the pearl. Mustering my courage, I told her what had happened to it.

  She looked so shocked I was sure she was going to scold me. But then her face lit up and she smiled more broadly than I could remember, as though I had surprised her in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

  “Ah, well.” She shrugged. On the way home, she stole me a lemon gelato.

  Looking back, I was never sure if I’d failed or succeeded. I imagined this to all be some arcane witch’s lesson. But it was far simpler. That day at the bay had just been practical education. A master training her new pupil.

  On the night of the first new moon of my twenty-first year, she said it was time to go pearl hunting.

  * * *

  There was no way I would pass for a footman.

  I matched the real servants drifting in flotillas with their trays down to their minute nacre buttons and oiled hair. I had even spent ten minutes training to stand like them while Tibario held a finger in front of my eyes. But their hands didn’t shiver, nor their glasses spill as they walked. And I was the only one hiding by the shrubs.

  Not that it was a very good hiding place. I stepped back under the arms of the trees, woven with calla lilies stained red to the roots. Delicate reflective coins were strung from the trees, setting the branches sparkling. I could almost hear the tinkle of the golden curse chains, binding the ghosts of monks who still decorated this courtyard for festival nights. The watercolor glow yielded no shadow for cover.

  The noise of the crowd made me want to disappear, leaving nothing behind but the tulip-colored velour. Tibario had gone off, hunting the priest whose heart was our oyster; I preferred to hunt in spirit.

  Fidgeting with my collar, I stepped back onto the grass. But a man’s grunt told me that I’d stepped on a foot.

  The man snarled and I squeaked in perfect unison. Before I could apologize, a hot hand grasped my free wrist, roughly turning me.

  “Ho, there, trying to trample me?”

  His breath was so thick with drink it made me gasp. The man who held me seemed broader than the trees but not nearly as decorated.

  “I—I beg your pardon, signor,” I stammered. My shaking set the glasses a-tinkle. “I did not see you.”

  He let go abruptly, and I almost fell back. I kept hold of the tray while managing a bow. The man laughed hoarsely, then coughed. Perhaps he’d been vomiting his festivities up into the fountain. Nice surprise for the monks in the morning.

  “You see me now.” His grin was nauseating. “How about keeping me company?”

  “Can I get you a drink? Maybe a glass of—” I glanced at my tray. The gentleman looked like he couldn’t take another drop of either the grape or the grain. “Squash? Fresh cherries.”

  “I do like cherries.” His fingers ran up my other arm, clasping at the elbow supporting the tray. Not with anger, but an entirely different intention. Oh, dear.

  “Mmm.” He leaned from close to very close, pawing my neck and stroking my hair. I couldn’t suppress a shiver. “Never seen such a short-haired girl. So pretty.”

  The glasses were practically chiming a melody now. It wasn’t that I was disgusted at being mistaken for a girl. It was that—well, some might think that gentlemen would be nicer if they thought one were a pretty girl. But really—they weren’t.

  I scanned the crowd, saw no help coming. Tibario would find me. One twinge of trouble and surely he’d swoop in with brotherly valor.

  “Come here.” The man yanked my arm, sending wine spattering down the tray onto his cuffs. I should have screamed—I should have used my tray as a weapon. But for some reason, it seemed in that moment crucially important not to drop the tray. I had practiced and practiced keeping it flat against my palm, holding the posture so I wouldn’t get tired. It made me sore, but I’d proved I could do it. Dropping it now would just be too much—

  The man jumped, slapping at his face. I flinched. Bright embers fell from him, leaving black ash lines on his skin as a cigarillo butt plopped at my feet.

  A voice rose from the shadows. “Do you truly not have staff at home you can do this to?”

  Someone had thrown a cigarillo at him.

  The flare of a match illuminated the speaker. A man, sitting by the fountain, even larger than my unwanted guest. He stood, grand in his darkness, the cigar flash of the next puff not revealing his face. Only his eyes caught the light, magnifying it and painting it silver.

  I backed by instinct against the trees as my unwelcome suitor bellowed and threw a swing at the newcomer. It was a clean boxer’s blow, but the shadowed fellow snared it like he was catching a stone, yanked the man off his feet by his cravat, and dunked him, face first, into the fountain.

  I winced at the sound of gargling.

  The drunkard came up heaving; the dark gentleman daintily lifted his cigarillo and breathed a cloud of smoke into the fellow’s face. “Well. Now that your evening is quite shot to hell, why don’t you do the noble thing and fuck right off? There’s a lad.”

  He let the fellow down on feet so unsteady the man nearly hit the fountain again. The jarring motions must have put the last straw on a drunken camel’s back. He covered his mouth, dashing out of the courtyard to retch out of view.

  I realized, then, how close I was to tears. Gratitude made my knees weak, but I couldn’t relax yet. After all, I didn’t know my savior any more than the first man. His shape was vast, and so shifting and black he could have been an avatar of the night. He appeared to smirk from his crown of shadows and took another puff.

  He was looking at me. I tried to turn away, but found I couldn’t. The animal clarity of his gaze was transfixing, stubbornly luminous as if to spite the dimness.

  He inclined his head as if to acknowledge me. “I suppose you get this sort of thing all the time, because of your voice.”

  “I suppose I do.” I couldn’t gauge his sobriety, but he was certainly quicker than the average drunk. “It’s not much expected anymore.” I hoped he let it end there. Castrating boys had be
en made illegal before the revolution, and I was no true castrato. Not by a knife, anyway. No doubt to these gentlemen I was as much a sparkling anomaly as any operatic diversion, but I was tired of explaining how I worked.

  “I also suppose I’ll stay here for a moment, until the coast has cleared, as it were.” Casually, a gesture of nothing made. Exactly what I wanted.

  “Yes.” I breathed, deeply. “Thank you, signor. I am grateful.” I should have shown him some greater favor, or dropped all and run. But there was another cause for joy: I had not spilled another drop of wine. Somehow that felt positively heroic.

  A stone column stood nearby, so I lowered my tray onto it. My arm protested the sudden movement, and the tray tipped. The gentleman appeared at my side and caught it with such grace it could have been magic. “Allow me. Seems you should have a drink yourself.”

  I smiled but declined. The last thing I needed was to lose self-control. I was calmer now that the crisis had passed, and I took my first clear view of him.

  Tall as a temple statue, and as striking. A smooth face under hair as dark as an ink swipe. And though it was subtle at first, a strong accent curled through his voice, lacing each word with trills and rough edges.

  “Then look the other way as I partake.” He took a glass of sherry. The flute looked hilariously small between his fingers as he sipped. A ruby-colored bead escaped from the corner of his lip, leaving a trail down his chin that he wiped with one hand. “Mm. You know what I ought to have done? Gotten red-mouthed with drink, then threatened to eat him whole for his transgressions. Baring my teeth for effect.”

  By way of example, he sloshed sherry in his mouth and flexed his jaw with a theatrical snarl. The garnet gleam of the liquid lent him a dramatic air, but most striking were his teeth. Or rather, fangs. Two long canines, all but glittering like knifepoints.

  Two realizations pierced me, like the ends of those fangs. One swam out of the debris of the night—the man’s strange atmosphere, his lingering in the shadows. His uncanny strength. The reflective sheen of his eyes. From it all emerged a word: moon-soul.