The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series)

by Madeline Claire Franklin

  “Like I should believe—”

  “If I’d wanted to hurt you, I could have already.” Her eyes blaze. “Why do you think I hesitated at the cemetery? Why do you think Trebor didn’t hit me with that net?”

  I swallow, glance at Kyla, but her dark eyes are moving between the two of us like she’s watching a game of tennis.

  “He’s family,” Faye says. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him if I can help it.”

  “Then let us go to him, he’s hurt—”

  “It’s too late for that. The Sura have him. We saw it happen—the water spirits came and took him through a thin spot.”

  My heart drops into my stomach. “But I thought Irin couldn’t go to Sheol?”

  “Not while conscious. Not unless they’ve Fallen.” She gestures with her chin. “Come, I can explain. But first we must go somewhere safe, where Raven can’t find us.”

  I swallow, thinking, doubting. Ultimately, I have no choice but to trust her.

  “I know a place.”

  — 48 —

  It’s still dark when we get to the Crimson Oak. I haven’t been back here since the first time with Trebor, but I remember the place in the woods where they became unfamiliar, and I can feel the edges of the loka with my mind, the same way I can feel around for meaning when I read tarot. Faye’s presence is helpful too, I’m sure—as an Irin creation, the loka seems to react to her, as if opening its arms to her.

  At the moment, Kyla is standing in awe at the base of the tree, head tilted all the way back to look up at the branches, arms stretched out to touch the roots, the smooth texture of the time-worn bark.

  “This is amazing,” she breathes. The life sparkling behind her eyes makes me nostalgic for a time when we discovered things together—when all of our adventures were together. We used to blaze trails in the very woods that hide this loka, winding between old trees, stumbling over crooked roots, crossing water on fallen branches. We always hoped we would find something out there, no matter how crazy, just something to break us out of our mundane lives; strangers practicing witchcraft; dead bodies; Native American buried treasure; and yes, even portals into other worlds.

  I’ve found quite a bit in these woods over the past few months, and none of it has been with Kyla. The guilt of that is terrible at times, especially now, seeing how eager she is to take it all in.

  “I’m surprised you can even enter this place,” Faye remarks to both of us, anointing herself as Trebor once did. I bend to do the same, and she raises her eyebrows.

  “There are a lot of surprising things that have been happening,” I say.

  Kyla appears at my side by the edge of the silver pool, watching me, copying my movements. There is reverence in her, far more profound than I had expected the gesture to elicit. When she touches the water to her forehead she closes her eyes, and when they open they seem changed—darker, deeper, diamond constellations shimmering closer to the surface.

  I stand and look at Faye. “What do you know about where they took Trebor? How do we get him back?”

  She hops up and sits on a high root, legs dangling, strangely playful at a time like this. “If he’s still alive, they’ve got to be holding him in some kind of suspension. Unless he really is Fallen.”

  “He isn’t. Why would he be? Just for betraying the Malakiim?”

  Faye shakes her head. “Trebor has spent a long time away from home. It changes us—it would change anyone. Even the Sura cannot live in this world for long without changing. We don’t know what he’s been doing, only that he has been motivated by anger and despair—”

  “It’s not like that,” I insist. “He’s good. He’s in control. There is no darkness in him.”

  “There’s darkness in all of us, Anastasia,” Faye points out. “Even in the angels.”

  I hold my ground. “He hasn’t Fallen.”

  It takes a moment, but she nods, only once. “The only place in Sheol that can hold an Irin is the darkwater. There is a river that runs through the mainland—the Black Gash. It cuts through the wasteland all the way to the city of Naraka. It’s not real water, it’s…more like a concentration of shadows. They keep outsiders there, suspended in nightmares to keep them unconscious. Sometimes they feed on them—other times they just leave them there to suffer. But if you can get to Trebor, and wake him, Sheol cannot hold him.”

  I pale, imagining motionless bodies at the bottom of a black river. “Trebor is there? Living in a nightmare?”

  Faye sets her jaw and nods. For such a small creature, she projects incredible ferocity.

  “Are you sure he’s still alive?” Kyla asks, sitting on a root next to me.

  Faye hesitates, brow bending. “No. I can’t be certain of that. But they do know he’s an excellent bargaining chip, and though the Sura may be prone to whim and chaos, they are not blind to opportunity. They know the Irin and the Malakiim will do what it takes to prevent a skinwalker from getting a Fallen Irin vessel. And they know Ana will do everything in her power to rescue him.”

  “How do they know that?” Kyla asks, eyeing me.

  Faye cocks her head and studies me, too. “Because Ana cares too much for him.”

  I flush. “He’s my friend. He saved my life, more than once. I owe him.”

  Faye nods, stiffly. “Whatever your reasons, they know. Trebor knew, too. It’s why he was preparing to leave.”

  Her words are a blow. I try not to let the hurt show, but I feel it spread across my face like a welt.

  “Trebor wants to protect you,” Faye explains, filling the space left by my telling silence. “You’ll be safest when he’s gone. But in the meantime, I don’t know you, and we need to get him back before the Sura decide to cut him open and put a skinwalker inside of him. If that means risking your life, I’m fine with that.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I frown.

  Kyla raises her hand. “I’m coming too.”

  “No, Kyla.”

  “Yes, Ana. You’ve left me out so far, but you can’t keep me out of this now. If you’re going to hell, I’m going with you.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  I frown at her, and Faye, and when I look at my battered and bruised reflection in the pool between the three of us, I frown at her too. “How do we get into Sheol?” I wonder.

  Faye jumps down from her root seat, dusts off the pants of her uniform. “Trebor is friends with a psychopomp by the name of Lykos—that’s how he’s been able to cross back and forth from Shemayiim to Iritz all this time. I can summon him when I get back to the village. He’ll help you cross if it means helping Trebor.”

  I nod, and my insides hum with anticipation. “Okay. Let’s go then.”

  Kyla and Faye exchange a brief look.

  “A,” Kyla ventures. “Maybe you should sleep first. You nearly died tonight, and it’s not even night anymore. It’s almost morning.”

  I shake my head. “Trebor needs my help.”

  “But your friend is right,” Faye says. “You’ll be useless to him if you’re exhausted. You should sleep here tonight. I’ll go back and get Lykos.” She looks between us both, her face a mask. “Are you certain you want to do this? It’s an exceptionally dangerous task. You will be walking into a trap, unarmed.”

  “Not entirely unarmed,” I admit. “Trebor has been teaching me to use magic.” Though I have no idea if I can use it yet without Trebor’s help.

  Faye inhales deeply and considers what I’ve told her as she looks me up and down. She shakes her head. “I certainly hope his instincts are right about you.” She turns and begins to walk back the way we came.

  “Get some rest,” she calls over her shoulder. “You’ll leave for Sheol in the morning.”

  — 49 —

  Trebor said that sometimes you could find things at the Crimson Oak, nestled between roots as if left as offerings, or gifts. Tonight we find a pack of matches sitting out on top of a low, flat root, like someone knew we’d be needing them. We use them to build a small fire ou
t of fallen twigs and branches to keep warm, nestled between the crook of two roots at the base of the tree.

  Kyla and I settle down to sleep, curled up on the dry earth, head to head. My whole body aches; the painkillers they gave me at the hospital have long since worn off. My broken wrist feels swollen, itchy, hot—but each time I go to scratch it, it feels like I’m prodding it with broken glass.

  “Ana?” Kyla says after we’ve been lying awake for a while.

  “Yeah?” I answer.

  I hear her shift against the ground, feel the fire flickering across us. “I’m sorry things happened like they did.”

  Kyla is apologizing? For what? “What do you mean?”

  She swallows, audibly. “I’m sorry your mom got sick the year I skipped. I’m sorry you felt so left behind by both of us. I’m sorry I didn’t see you putting walls up sooner—before it was too late.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Sure, I was mad at her that year, but I always knew I had no right to be. Maybe that’s why I started shutting her out: because I felt so ashamed about the feelings I couldn’t help.

  “There’s nothing you need to apologize for, Ky. My life is—I am—a hot mess. That’s not your fault.”

  I can hear her shake her head, dreadlocks rolling against the ground. “But I wish it was my fault. I wish there was something I could have done, that maybe I still could do. I miss you. I’ve missed you for a long time.”

  I bite my lip before it can bend down into a frown, and don’t know what to say besides, “I miss you, too,” so softly it almost doesn’t count.

  “You just keep pulling away. The more I reach for you, the more you fold in on yourself.”

  “I don’t want to drag you down with me,” I whisper. “My mother died, and I don’t know how to let her go. I can see demons, and I can use magic, and it’s not nearly as awesome as you’d think. Things want me dead. They want me empty. The drama seems never-ending. And I don’t want to reach for you some day and—” I stop.

  Kyla sits up on her elbows and looks at me, but I can’t see her face. I can’t look. “And what?”

  “I need to be able to handle things myself.”

  “Why?”

  Her tone rattles the cage around my heart. “Because, what if one day I need help and can’t find it? What if one day I reach for you, and you can’t take my hand? I need to stop flailing in the dark and stand on my own.”

  Kyla is quiet for a long time. The seconds tick by. Overhead, the stars shine down on us—the same stars from our world, somehow also in this one. I wonder if they’re the same in Shemayiim and Sheol. I wonder if we all sleep under the same stars, angels, demons, and humans alike.

  When Kyla speaks, it’s not what I expect.

  “This isn’t who you are, Ana.”

  I cringe, because she doesn’t know how wrong she is.

  “It feels like this is all there is—but it’s not. Do you remember when we were in sixth grade, and I told you I was going to run away to find my father?”

  I do.

  “And you told me, completely rational about the whole idea, that if I ran away, you would have to run away too, like it was just a fact—like there was nothing you could do about it. You didn’t try to convince me not to go. You just calmly opened your school agenda and looked at the calendar, and you asked me when we were leaving.” I hear her laugh, but it rings out mournfully. “Do you remember when we used to break into my mother’s office to search for clues of who he might be? You did that with me so many times I lost count, and we both knew that if we hadn’t found the clues the first five times we weren’t going to find anything. But you kept breaking in with me, rifling through the same boxes, the same drawers, year after year. We didn’t stop until I went to high school.”

  I swallow. “When my mother got sick.”

  Kyla keeps going. “My mother and I had countless screaming matches about it, and you were always there when I needed to bitch to someone. You were always there when I hated her, somehow getting me to love her anyway. You were always there listening while I made up insane stories about who my father really is, and you were really there—really listening—not just letting me vent. And every time, when I was done and calm, maybe even exhausted? You’d tell me that it didn’t matter anyway—that I am who I am, and you loved me. My mother loved me. Knowing who my father is would never change that.

  “You spent thirteen years dealing with my bullshit, and when your mother passed away I realized that my turn was long over. I grew up, and got over it. And you know what? I finally got what you were trying to tell me all along—it doesn’t matter who he is, because I’m fucking awesome whether or not he’s a part of me.” She takes a deep, shaking breath. “After all that, Ana, there’s nothing you could do to scare me away. You carried my baggage for me for a lifetime. I can stand by you while you deal with your mother’s death, while you deal you’re your demons, and angels—while you deal with anything.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder, and I reach up to grab it, heart aching with my love for her, with my guilt, with my desperate hope that I can make amends for the mistakes I’ve made—that I might not be able to avoid making in the future.

  “Do you trust me?” she whispers.

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I trust you. God, I trust you more than I trust myself.”

  “Then please, let me in.”

  I nod, squeezing her hand between mine. “I’m trying. I really am.”

  — 50 —

  In my dream, my mother’s hand is on mine, moving it forward into some distant dark, illuminating the shadows with a strange, inborn light.

  Is it magic? Is it something else? Am I just dreaming?

  My hand keeps falling forward, endlessly forward, never reaching the limit of our range of motion, never reaching the end of the dark.

  And then my fingers—tiny, weak, stubby fingers—fall over a crudely hammered key, surrounded by a labyrinth of gold. The light inside of me focuses, shifts, and a second key pours out of my fingertips, forming a cross over the other key. They settle and merge into a single piece, a single symbol, crossed at the feet of The Hierophant seated upon his throne, a throne made of rich, polished, red wood, the same color as the Crimson Oak. I look up, following the wood grains with my eyes, but instead of the holy warrior I am used to seeing on that tarot card, I find The Devil, waiting, watching.

  I’m alarmed to realize he looks just like my father.

  How have I never noticed that before?

  — 51 —

  Faye returns in the afternoon, sun full up and streaming through the golden canopy overhead, dappling us with warmth. We haven’t slept nearly enough, but it’s all the time we can afford to take.

  “Here,” she hands us protein bars and water, and a backpack stuffed with more. “You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

  “Where’s Lykos?” I ask, unscrewing the cap from my water bottle. I take a long swig from the bottle, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am.

  “Right here, sweet pea,” he drawls.

  I look up, and see him slowly descending from the sky, down to the earth, the way I always pictured an angel might decide to appear. Sort of.

  Kyla’s eyes bulge. “You’re a psychopomp?” she asks, standing and walking around the apparition, shamelessly scrutinizing him.

  “Take it all in, ladies.” He spreads his arms and grins. “Enjoy.”

  The man—deity?—before us looks more like the ghost of a cowboy than an ancient divine being. He’s pale and translucent, from the top of his hat to the tips of his cowboy boots—which, I notice, have small wings affixed to the heels instead of spurs. Like Nikolai, he’s bigger than a human, taller and broader, but unlike Nikolai, Lykos doesn’t make my whole body clench with fear. He smiles a smile as crooked as they come, dashingly handsome, in a spectral kind of way.

  “Save it for someone who cares,” Faye admonishes him, rolling her eyes.

  Lykos tips his hat to her. “As yo
u wish, little lady. So.” He looks at me with kind eyes. “You must be the girl I’ve heard so much about. Anastasia.”

  “Ana,” I say, blushing.

  He nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and puts his hands on his narrow hips. “Now, you gotta understand something, sweet pea. Trebor’s a good friend of mine—he ‘n’ I’ve been through a lot together. And I like to think I know the boy fairly well.” He shakes his head. “And I gotta tell you, he would not be pleased if you went down to Sheol, even to save him. And he’ll be extra cross if he finds out I’m the one who took you.”

  “Lykos, please,” I reason. “I know he wouldn’t want this, he’s kind of dramatic like that. But you have to understand, if you don’t take me, I’ll find another way—and that would probably end up being more dangerous. So if you really want to do right by him, you should do right by me. Please?”

  Lykos stares at me for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing. “Relax, sweet pea. I was gettin’ to that. ‘Course I’ll take you—I can’t stand what a martyr that kid can be. Besides, I owe him one myself.” He nods, glances at Faye. “Them Malakiim stuck their noses in my kin’s business more ‘n I was gonna allow. They got most of us under their command—but not me. An’ boy does that piss ‘em off. All thanks to Trebor. Yes, ma’am.” He nods. “We worked together a few times ‘fore his brother was taken. Told me he knew about these pockets here, the loka that the Irin made a long time ago. I never knew ‘bout ‘em—I think even Irin today don’t know much about ‘em.”

  I look at Faye for confirmation.

  She nods. “I only knew about them because Trebor took me to one once, a long time ago.”

  “Then where did he hear about loka?” I wonder.

  “Trebor’s always been interested in the past, the history of magic, the division of the worlds. He never believed Irin were only meant to serve the Malakiim. Anyway, he showed me in one day, and once a psychopomp sees a world, he’s welcome there forever. And this is one place where them angels in heaven can’t find me.” He rolls his eyes upwards.