The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series)

by Madeline Claire Franklin

  I feel the blood drain from my face, a slow pulse in my throat making me sick to my stomach. “But they came to her grave. They left coins. They were there, I saw it.” I’m muttering, I realize.

  Collecting myself, I shake my head and scoff. “It’s a trick. They’re just hiding. They probably decided they didn’t want the world to know so much about them after all.”

  Andy’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head again. “Cynthia—my father’s colleague—she said she thought the same thing. But she saw their death certificates. She saw the autopsy photos. She was listed as their next of kin, and she had to handle what remained of their belongings, what hadn’t burned—” He stops, realizing he said more than he wanted.

  “Slaughtered? And burned?” I bite my lip to keep myself from frowning. Suddenly the loneliness I’ve cultivated since my mother’s funeral feels as close and vast as a summer thunderstorm hanging low in the sky. All the anger I’ve felt towards them for leaving me is like a boot to my gut.

  “I’m sorry Ana,” Andy tells me.

  I stare at the fake grains in the artificial wood tabletop, gears turning, pinching skin and drawing blood as they go. “Seventeen years ago.” I nod. Right around when my mother left. Because she was marrying outside of the clan. Because she was pregnant with me.

  I look at my hands, at their shape, their lines, as if their flesh does not belong to me. Would I have been killed, too, if my mother had not run off? If my father had not been gadje?

  My mouth betrays me, twisting into a deep frown. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, standing. “I have to go. Thank you—for telling me. I…” I shake my head, grab my bag. “Sorry.”

  Andy just sits there, brow furrowed, mouth half open as if trying to find the right words.

  There are none.

  — 32 —

  Abe is sitting at the computer desk in the living room when I get home, checking his email. As soon as I walk in the door, he turns, looks at me over the rims of his reading glasses. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

  My hands are shaking as I unsling my bag and hang it by the door, moving slowly, carefully.

  “Ana?”

  It takes me a moment before I can turn around. When I do, I can’t help but stare at my father, wondering, fearing.

  And then I ask him. “Did you know?”

  After a long moment, he takes his glasses off. It’s a calm, deliberate action: he slides them off, folds them up, places them beside the keyboard, pushes out from the desk, stands.

  My father moves strangely at times like this, when he’s put on the spot, under fire. I can see the shadow of the young man he once was, broad-shouldered and strong, and maybe even wild—maybe even dangerous. At the moment, he’s not threatening. But he is on guard.

  He faces me, arms straight at his sides. “About what?”

  “Did you know about mom’s people? The Ouros?”

  His eyes grow dark. “What about them?”

  I swallow, sudden tears making it hard to keep looking back at him, making it hard to talk at all. “Did you know they’re all dead?”

  The silence of the house is oppressive. My ears latch onto every little sound: the furnace kicking on in the basement; the tick of the clock on the mantle; the scratching of a tree branch on the kitchen window; my father parting his lips and drawing breath to speak.

  “Yes. I knew. I’ve always known.”

  “What?” I gasp, and feel the levee crack inside. Power gushes through my veins in a deluge, even as my whole body grows heavy and weak. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He comes forward, hands out, open. “Ana, please. Don’t be mad. What should I have done?”

  “You should have been honest!”

  “I have been.” He reaches for me, eyebrows knitted together with sincerity. I consider pulling away.

  Instead, my tears push me forward. I fall into the comfort of him, the familiar scent of out-dated aftershave and woodsmoke, the soft brick of his shoulder under my cheek, arms like tree trunks around my shoulders. I hadn’t realized, until this moment, how much I’ve wanted the security of my father’s embrace. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve secretly wished that he could protect me, make things better.

  “What should I have done, Ana?” His voice is low, soothing. “Should I have sat you down and told you that all of your mother’s kin were killed in a hate crime?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, crying openly, tears soaking his shirt. “Maybe?”

  “When? On a holiday? For your sweet sixteen?” He holds me more tightly to him for a moment. “My god. How do you tell your daughter something like that? When is the right time for that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just…it’s so horrible…”

  “It is. It really is.” He strokes my hair the way my mother used to, when I was little, when I had needed someone to cry on. “The world is full of so much darkness. I only want to keep it away from you. I’m your father, after all—you can’t ask me not to try.”

  “I know. But it’s so much worse when I hear about it from someone else.”

  He nods, kisses the top of my head. “I know. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

  I hear a hiccup in his voice, and I pull back, let him keep hold of my hands while I look him in the eyes. He looks so sad.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” My face hurts from frowning, but it’s not quite ready to go back to normal. “I didn’t mean to attack you—I’m just…” I don’t even know what I am. “I’m exhausted. I’m just going to go to bed if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” He takes his time letting go of my hands, as if some part of him doesn’t believe he’ll ever get them back.

  I turn, and I’m halfway up the stairs when he almost-whispers, “You know I’m doing the best I can, right, Anastasia? By you, and your mother.”

  I feel my lower lip trembling, but I nod and try not to frown when I look at him. “I know. And…you’re doing good, Dad. We both are.”

  He nods, and gives me a small, sad smile. “I hope so.”

  — 33 —

  Upstairs, I change into my pajamas and wash my face in the adjoining bathroom, taking the time to comb out the tangles from my hair. I look like my mother when I comb it back, if I close my eyes a little and pretend. I inherited her hair, her bones, her slender hands—not her olive complexion or her deep brown eyes, though; I inherited my ghost-pale skin and (admittedly striking) blue eyes from my father instead.

  Karanina was a ballerina when she met my father—strong, lithe, and willowy. I was lithe and willowy for a moment, in middle school, after growth spurts and before puberty. I wonder sometimes if I get my less-willowy shape from someone on my father’s side. But Abe is an orphan, too. I never had extended family.

  I never will.

  I sigh and put my comb down on the counter by the sink, feeling a heaviness settle over me. I brush a trickle of tears away with my fingertips, scrubbing at my red eyes as I shuffle back into my bedroom, weary from the day.

  When I look up, I almost scream.

  “Shhh,” Trebor hushes me, standing by my window with his hands up, gesturing to my open door.

  I stare at him, at the open window, at the open door, and back again. When I’ve gathered my wits, I hurry across the room and close the door. “Are you crazy?”

  “Sorry,” he whispers. His face is unreadable. “I don’t mean to be creepy. I just…I felt something terrible, I was worried something had happened…” When he realizes his words are more confusing than his presence, he looks curiously at me and walks across the room to take my hand. His expression shifts, concerned. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  I look at my hand in his. Irin must be a lot more casual about hand-holding than humans generally are, because ever since we met Trebor has been all about it.

  “Um.” I’m not sure how to respond. I’m acutely aware of my Wonder Woman pajamas, and the fact that my father is downstairs, and the fact that I’m an emotional mess. But instead of answering hi
m with the truth and dealing with what I’ve just learned, I let go of his hand and walk over to my dresser. I pick up the box Kyla gave me the night I almost drowned, bring it over to my bed, and sit down. Trebor sits next to me, but when I try to give the box to him, he ignores it.

  “Ana, what happened?” He asks, his tone sober.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, avoiding his eyes.

  “I—” he stops. “Something happened. I felt it. You were crying.”

  I snort. “That’s ridiculous. How could you possibly feel that I was crying?”

  He shrugs. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  I shrug too. “I’m tired. Here.” I give him the box.

  He takes it, but lifts my chin with his other hand, looking so hard into my eyes that I feel naked. “You can trust me.”

  “I know,” I say without thinking. And I can’t explain it, but it’s true.

  “Then why won’t you talk to me?” Trebor asks, concerned, confused. His hand falls back onto mine, holds it firmly, like a reassurance.

  I look into the crystal green of his eyes, so familiar that I can’t believe I haven’t known them all my life. I could wander, lost in his eyes for days, but I pull my gaze inward instead, heart thumping as I imagine telling him the truth about my mother’s clan, imagine him knowing the tragic nature of my family.

  But with that thought, something unravels inside of me. I begin to understand.

  “I’m afraid,” I admit, for the first time in my life, but I don’t say of what. Tears burn my eyes again, hot and stinging wet, but I blink them back.

  “Ana.” Trebor inhales slowly. “You have nothing to fear from me. Ever.”

  “You don’t know that.” My face is damp again, fugitive tears running down my cheeks. “It’s the people we trust most of all who hurt us the worst.”

  He shakes his head. “But if you never take the risk of getting hurt, how can you ever trust anyone?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s worth it.” I swallow.

  He closes his eyes, almost wincing, and words fall from his mouth as if he’s surprised he has to say them at all. “I’m not afraid, Ana. I’m not going to leave. Whatever happened, you can tell me.”

  I blink at his words—my secret fears given shape and sound, before I can even admit them to myself. “How did you…?”

  He looks at me and shakes his head. “I’m not sure. It’s like…when you’re crying, I can feel what you’re feeling. I can almost hear what you’re thinking.” Trebor straightens, puts both hands on my arms. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m not going anywhere.”

  I look back at him. I want to believe him, and his expression is so earnest I can’t help it. But a deeper part of me knows that it’s only a matter of time before something takes him away.

  Still, I nod, once, and tell him the story that Andy told me.

  When I’m done, the tears are gone. I’m so tired I almost don’t care about the maybe-magical box between us. Instead, I lean heavily against a pile of pillows while Trebor examines the coffer, and I try not to fall asleep—because, somehow, sleep seems possible, even though my heart is beating too quickly for a body so tired.

  “It’s definitely enchanted,” he agrees, sitting beside me on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “But I can’t open it. I suppose you’ll have to wait until you’re done with school, like your mother said.”

  “If that even means anything. I didn’t close it.” I try not to yawn. “You don’t think the key is in there?”

  Trebor studies the red box, hands flat against it, but he shakes his head. “It’s enchanted to keep it closed, not to hide the contents. Whatever is in there, I can tell it has very little magic in it—almost none.” He looks up and studies me for a moment before putting the box on my nightstand. He grabs the edge of my comforter and pulls it up around me, to my shoulders.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, possibly blushing.

  After a moment or two, Trebor speaks again. “Ana, why did you think I would leave after that story?”

  I open my eyes and look up at him, not wanting to say it out loud, not wanting to string the words together and make the thought real at all. But I trust Trebor, and so I do.

  “What if they were killed because of me?”

  He blinks at me, and cants his head to the left.

  “Seriously. It makes sense.” I sit up, anxiety striking energy into my bones. “Seventeen years ago, they were murdered. Seventeen years ago, I was born.” I frown. “And if it’s true—if they died because I was born—then why? What’s wrong with me? Did my mother leave because she married outside of the clan, or because she knew I’d be like this?” A shudder runs through me, hating the idea that my mother could have kept that kind of secret from me.

  “The Sura have been trying to kill me,” I continue, lowering my voice. “But like you said, it’s more likely they want me empty. So, maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe the Malakiim want me dead, before I can Fall. Maybe they even sent Irin, and had the clan massacred.” I shiver and cross my arms over my stomach, so tired and anxious I feel sick.

  “I don’t care who wanted what, or why any of it happened,” Trebor says, firmly, stopping my rampage of paranoia. “All I know is that you’re here now, and you’re not evil, and I’m not letting you Fall, and even if you were evil and you did Fall, I’d fight to bring you back.” He stares at me. “I’m not letting the Sura take you. And whoever might want you dead is going to have to go through me first.”

  I admit that I’m moved by his speech—moved, and alarmed, and other strong feelings as well. But he doesn’t deny that it’s possible the Malakiim would want me dead, and that’s where my mind lingers.

  I shift, uncomfortable under my covers, heart beating harder than I think it should. There are other things I’m afraid of that his words have only made more real. “Trebor…” I start, but I don’t know how to finish. Everything seems so terrifyingly unknown right now. “Trebor, what if the angels do want me dead? What if I really am dangerous? Maybe it would be better if I talked to them, turned myself in—”

  “No, Ana, God damnit!” Trebor hisses. He stares at me with such intensity that I can’t tell if he’s furious or scared—and then it softens to a strange and angry sadness, eyes focused not quite on my own, not quite elsewhere, either. He touches my cheek with his fingertips, frowning. “Don’t be a goddamn martyr.”

  “Sorry?” I try, but I’m so tired. I take his hand from my face, hold it in my own. He leans back against my headboard, watching our hands hold each other.

  I lie back down, next to him, rest my head on his chest as if I have a thousand times before. “I just don’t know what to do. We don’t know what I am, do we?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” His heart thumps angrily inside his chest. It matches the rhythm in my own—strange, because I’m not even sure why my heart is beating so hard. “You’re the only one who has authority over who and what you are. You could be the devil’s daughter herself, and it wouldn’t matter. Not to me. And it shouldn’t matter to you. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” I agree, blinking back sleep. “I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted. Maybe I’ll be less self-sacrificing tomorrow.”

  “I hope so.” Trebor chuckles, and his hand feels good wrapped around mine. “Will you be okay tonight?”

  “Yeah,” I decide in a small voice, nestling a little deeper into the comforter, curling in a bit tighter at his side to stay warm. “I’ll be fine.”

  But Trebor doesn’t get up to go, and I don’t sit up to let him. We just lie like this for a while, hands folded together between us, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow in unison with mine. And then I sleep, and sleep well, for the first time in ages.

  That night, I dream of a one-winged butterfly trapped inside my heart, flying in circles.

  — 34 —

  “Look at your fingertips,” Trebor instructs me the following night, lying out in the orchard behind the old nunnery.
The creek behind Kyla’s house winds past it, through a golf course and more woods, eventually crossing town lines, moving ever closer to the Niagara River.

  I hold my right hand up to the sky, and the paleness of my skin pseudo-glows in the dark. Trebor’s hand actually emits a glow, but I don’t mention it, because I’m sure it’s just another one of those things I’m probably not supposed to be able to see. I hold my right hand next to his left, up in the air, and study the slender lines of my fingers, the leftover thread of pink on my palm from the cut that has finally healed. I look at his hand, darker in color, stronger in mass. Our thumbs are distant, but aligned.

  “Feel the energy inside of you, like before,” Trebor says. His voice is low, soft, somehow bright.

  I feel it. I feel his words inside of me, riling up the swell of yearning, of thrumming. I feel the energy flush through my body as I call on it, crashing in great waves against barriers so solid and secure they are like my very bones—an exoskeleton, to keep the soft and fluid parts of me safely locked away where they cannot be harmed, or do harm.

  “This time…stretch outwards. What else can you feel?”

  The vibration of his voice a tremor in my own throat, his presence an electrifying cloud mingling at the edges of my own. The grass underneath me sings, each blade bent under my back trilling with the manifold pulses of the earth. Beneath the grass, I sense a vast network of roots, many thousands of whispers of life. Cold rocks, groaning. Damp earth, sighing. At the periphery of my mind, a hundred trees stand like a vision of ancient medicine men and women, dancing a slow dance around the fertile orchard as the earth twists on its axis, as we wind around the sun.

  “Look at your hand.”

  The sound draws me back, and I waken, though my eyes never closed. My hand comes into focus, tiny sparks of golden light gently springing from my fingertips like celestial pollen, floating up and off into the night. I surprise myself by laughing, smiling.