The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series)

by Madeline Claire Franklin

I shake my head, frowning, struggling not to cry. He’s going to leave. He’s going to leave. I knew it would happen, I knew it—but I hadn’t even come close to imagining how badly it would hurt.

  “Trebor, I don’t care—I—” I try to speak, but the next thing I know, I’m kissing him.

  Trebor’s restraint dies a fiery death. He presses his mouth against mine and the two of us smolder, urgent breath fanning ready embers glowing in the darkness of our hearts. Everything lights up inside of me, burns blissfully in the blaze. My lips part to let him inside of me, to touch every secret, every word, every whisper trapped behind my teeth.

  Our hearts pound a rhythm that our bodies yearn to obey, drinking each other in, desert wanderers falling into an oasis. His hand slides down my side, discovering the cold, exposed skin at the hem of my shirt, stroking the long, lean length of my thigh. My hips rise towards him, and we push and pull each other closer, closer, never close enough.

  He pulls away, but I suffocate without his lips on mine, grab him by the waist of his pants and pull him back to me. I spin us around and hold him against the brick, kissing him, running my hands up over the hard angles of his chest, pressing our bodies together. I touch his neck, trace the ribbons of black under his shirt collar, down over his heart, and I can feel something surge through him, electrifying his need for me in ways I can hardly fathom. His fingers dig into my skin, and I stop—overwhelmed—and rest my forehead against his, shaking.

  “I don’t care if they hunt us down,” I confess. “I love you.”

  “You have a chance to survive if I leave. We both do.” Trebor’s eyes narrow.

  I start, but the knife goes in, silent, smooth, like the real blade I used to kill Ishmael. My heart wrenches with guilt, shame, horror. Would I take away his last chance at survival? No. Never.

  “You have a chance at a real life if I go, Ana.”

  “You’re the realest thing in my life,” I tell him, not for the first time. I frown, put my hand over his heart, but cannot meet his eyes. “I feel like we’re giving up.” It comes out as a sob.

  “No. Never. Ana, I will do what I’ve always meant to do. I will find others who think as we do—I will bring them to my cause. We will free ourselves from angelic rule. One day, Ana, I’ll be free. Or die fighting.”

  My lips tremble, open in a silent sob as harsh reality cuts deeper and deeper into my heart: it will take a revolution to make a love like ours possible at all.

  Trebor holds my face in his hands and tell me, “I’ll never stop fighting for you.”

  “I’ll never give up on you,” I say back, pulling myself to him. We kiss one last time, parting lips, tracing urgent promises on our breath:

  I love you.

  I will be strong for you.

  I will start a revolution for you.

  It’s different this time. It’s stronger—more solid. Everything about this kiss makes me feel real, in a world that seems so shaky and uncertain. It makes my bones feel heavy, my feet rooted, my heart sturdy.

  It almost gives me hope.

  “Ana!” Kyla calls my name. Her feet pound the pavement behind us.

  I whirl around to see her coming, dreadlocks flying as she runs, Lykos floating just ahead.

  “Ana, Trebor, run!” she yells, not so much afraid as she is determined. “The Sura are coming!”

  Trebor curses. “The thin spots.” He shakes his head, eyes going wide. “It’s May first, isn’t it.”

  My heart sinks. I clutch Trebor’s hand, ideas flying through my head even as Kyla collides with me, grabbing me, pulling me away from the shadows—

  “That won’t be a problem,” a familiar voice purrs. Raven steps into view from around the front of the abandoned house, lean muscle and curves clad in that frictionless black uniform, baring the same tattoos up her arms as Trebor. Five other Irin fill in around her, Faye included.

  We’re trapped.

  “So, Trebor,” Raven sighs, hands on hips. “Are you going to hand yourself over, or are we going to have to do things the messy way?”

  “It’s about to get messy whether you like it or not, bitch,” Kyla barks. “There’s a goddamn pack of demons on their way here, so you’d better get ready to fight or—”

  “Quiet, girl,” Raven snaps.

  Kyla’s eyes go wide. “What did you say?” She growls.

  “Don’t test me.” Raven narrows her eyes at Kyla. “I’m not above collateral damage.”

  “Raven,” Faye scolds her. “Some of us are above abusing our power. We’re supposed to be protecting humans, not fighting with them.”

  “So long as they stand between us and our target, I consider them in collusion with the traitor.”

  “Do I even get a chance to explain myself?” Trebor asks.

  “When you stand before the Angelic Court for judgment.” Raven cocks her head, and listens.

  Trebor’s eye go wide. “Get down!” He roars, jumping higher than (humanly) possible. He whips his arm out, and a pale blue net flies from his fingertips as the other Irin spin, and drop—

  And just as they hit the ground, the most hideous creature I’ve ever seen lunges through the very place where Raven was standing, jaws and fangs slavering, eyes blazing white. It looks like a horned hyena, only instead of fur on its back there are scales, slick with some kind of pale biological lubricant or ichor, and boney spikes like raised hackles along its spine. Trebor’s net connects with it mid-leap—the beast yelps, and seemingly implodes.

  The other Irin move into defensive positions, crouching low, hands glowing with ready ammunition. The street behind them is filled with beasts.

  “What the hell are they?” I ask.

  “Hellhounds,” Lykos drawls. “They’re some of the old demons. Wherever there are hellhounds, there are always skinwalkers. They’re their keepers.”

  Trebor curses under his breath. “Raven,” he says calmly as she rolls deftly into a fighting stance, positioned between Trebor and the hellhounds. “Whatever you think about me, we both agree that the skinwalkers can’t get Anastasia.”

  “Do we?” She snarls.

  “You know what a disaster it would be if a skinwalker got hold of the living body of a human who can use magic.” His voice is shaking—just barely, but I can hear it, like I can feel it, in my heart.

  “I suppose we do agree on something.” Raven frowns. “Protect the humans!” She calls to the other Irin. “Get them to safety if you can.” She looks miserable as she says it. “We’re not done here, Trebor.” Raven turns to face the snarling threats in the street.

  Kyla presses into the brick, contemplating the situation, glaring at Raven’s head.

  “Trebor,” I say quietly. “I’m not leaving you. Not again. Not yet.”

  “You have to,” he whispers, and I feel the heartbreak in both of us.

  And then, like a bomb, the hellhounds explode in a frenzy of fangs and claws, launching themselves at the Irin. A fury of magic erupts around us, nets and bolts and blasts, each Irin with their own method, their own strategy. I see a hellhound knock one of the Irin down, raking its claws across his throat. He cries out in agony—a cry so raw and visceral, I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the sound.

  I see it lunge for his throat, and without thinking I run forward, shouting a war cry as I raise my hand. Magic rushes from my toes to my fingers, blasting out, into the hellhound, zapping it back to Sheol.

  “Oh my god,” I murmur. That was so easy. I didn’t even prepare. I didn’t even try, I just did it…

  “Ana!” Trebor shouts, reaching for me, throwing another blue net. He pulls me in, holds me for a moment as something yelps behind me. “Ana, Kyla, you need to run. We’re cornered here. If you run, you have a fighting chance.”

  My brow furrows.

  “Get them out of here!” Raven orders, shouting over her shoulder as another hellhound leaps. She dives to the right, landing on her backside as she casts a wave of blue over the beast, wrapping it in magic, dissolving it back
through the veil. “Get the humans out now!”

  Kyla grabs my arm and gives me her most serious look. “Come on, Ana.”

  I look at Trebor, brow furrowed. “No, I can’t—” Someone grabs my other arm from behind.

  Trebor’s brow furrows too, and he pushes me away. “I’m sorry.”

  “Come on!” An Irin shouts, hauling me away. He grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me through the mayhem, magic flying all around us. Kyla clings to my other hand.

  Faye is up ahead, clearing the way for our escape. She looks at me for an instant as we pass, and I can see the apology in her eyes.

  I’m not going to cry, I tell myself, thinking of Trebor, thinking he needs to be able to concentrate, to fight.

  “This way,” our Irin orders, gruffly.

  And we follow, running.

  None of the hellhounds break off to follow us—that’s my first clue that whatever is happening is part of a trap. But what can we do? We have to keep moving, or find a place to hide. I don’t even know if it’s possible to hide anymore. Everywhere we turn leaves us vulnerable, exposed. This damn city is so empty, so quiet, the skinwalker could find us anywhere.

  We run and run until, finally, we turn and find ourselves at a traffic circle outside of City Hall—our way blocked by an old woman and two swarthy, angry, familiar men. The Zee.

  Our Irin stops, thrusts his arms forward in a grand gesture and spins a wide net, surely big enough to strike all three of them—but the old woman laughs and holds up her hand, almost as if to wave away the magic. The net strikes, bounces back, wraps around the Irin…

  And he vanishes.

  “What did you do to him?” I gasp.

  “It’s called a reflector spell,” the old woman laughs. “We just used his magic to send him back home. No harm done, dears. Not this time, anyway.” She cackles for a moment, then frowns. “No harm done by me, anyway.”

  I swallow, breathless. Kyla grabs my hand, and we step back, away.

  “Not so fast, little Ouros, little dark one,” the old woman says. “We have a score to settle. A trade to finish, if you will.”

  Kyla goes rigid. My mouth goes dry. I feel the phantom sensations in my hand, my wrist, the sudden give, the sick slip of blade into flesh—living flesh—human flesh, no matter how far Fallen. I feel my palms grow slick, my pulse jump into my throat—

  “Ah, the guilty one confesses,” the old woman says, turning her blind eyes in my direction. She sniffs the air and says disdainfully: “Little Ouros. How could you?”

  “He was going to kill us,” I justify, but it feels weak. I don’t know if it will ever be enough. But it has to be—what else could I have done? I step back, pushing Kyla behind me, hoping with enough distance, maybe, enough of a head start, we can run again, and keep running—

  “But to kill one of your own kind?” The old woman raises her eyebrows.

  I freeze, and for a split second everything is so sharply focused that it doesn’t feel real. When the sharpness passes, her words are the only sound ringing in my ears. “What?” I whisper.

  “Ana, don’t listen,” Kyla tells me. “They’re liars and thieves. You did what you had to do. Don’t listen.”

  “You didn’t know, did you?” the old woman crows, cackling. “Oh, sweet comedy of errors. The murderess did not even know who she was murdering.”

  “No. Enough. That’s enough!” I shout.

  “It’s not nearly enough.” The old woman scowls, toothless lips pursing. “You killed my grandson, you daughter of gypsies—filth of the mid-world— petulant, useless, half-thing!”

  “What?” I gasp, too horrified by what her words imply to fully grasp the threat at hand.

  The two men flanking her step forward, swords made entirely of light and magic appearing in their hands.

  “Ana!” Kyla yanks my arm. “Over there! We can catch a ride!” She pulls as hard as she can and doesn’t let go, running through the center of the traffic circle, across the street, towards the steps of City Hall. “Andy!” she calls.

  My eyes widen. There he is, just getting out of his car. He seems overly surprised to see us, theatrically confused by our state—my clothes and hair are still wet, and Kyla is covered in red dust from Sheol.

  “Andy, we need a ride!” Kyla tells him as we approach.

  “Okay, sure.” His brow flexes. “What’s the hurry?”

  “We pissed some people off,” Kyla says, pressing my hands to the door handle and running around to the passenger side.

  “One second,” Andy says, looking preoccupied.

  My body tenses, remembering the last time I saw him, remembering the old woman’s words, remembering Trebor’s face when he pushed me away. Too much, too much, all at once, making my mind muddy, confused, slow.

  Andy pulls something from his pocket and reaches for my door—but he grabs my un-broken wrist instead. He holds it up, looks me in the eye with that overly charming student-council-president-grin, and his eyes flash so bright, so white, I don’t see him move. I don’t realize what he’s done until a line of red breaks the surface of my arm from the bottom of my palm to the middle of my forearm. It rises, thickens, coheres, until it becomes too heavy to linger and it bleeds, bright red trickling down and pooling in the crook of my elbow. The burn of sliced flesh doesn’t set in until long after it’s too late.

  His knife shines in the blaze of his eyes.

  Three hellhounds come bounding around the corner of the steps to City Hall, paws leaving dark red prints on the pavement as they run to their master.

  “Ana?” Kyla says meekly. “Andy?” She hurries back around to our side of the car, and when she sees what he’s done, she screams.

  Her scream tears through my head, through the fog that has settled over me, and the burning intensifies, the urgency of the situation clarifies. But something else is wrong, if that’s possible.

  Kyla stops, only long enough to catch her breath, and screams again, clutching her head. The scream becomes a keening, becomes a wail. She writhes, curling in on herself, doubling over as the wind picks up around us, blowing hard in a sudden gale, summoning dark clouds overhead.

  Andy lets go of my wrist, staring at Kyla, backing away with wide white eyes. “It can’t be…” he mutters.

  I can hear the old woman cackling on the other side of the street, laughing and laughing, calling out “The dark one! The dark one! She has arrived!”

  “Kyla?” I wonder, squeezing my wound under my other arm to staunch the flow of blood. My voice is so weak she can’t hear me. “Kyla!”

  She flings her head back, roaring. Her eyes look black, and her skin is changing from warm honey brown to a deep, unnatural blue—

  “Oh God, Kyla—”

  “Run,” she growls at me, and a pulse of magic flies out from her in a perfect circle, washing over us like an aftershock, making the hellhounds yowl and Andy fall to his knees. Even the old woman goes silent.

  “Kyla, what’s happening to you?” I panic.

  Kyla’s hands fall from her head and she looks forward, not at me. “Run now.” Her voice is low and fierce, and it makes my stomach twist.

  “Ky—” But I don’t have a choice. I fall back, as if shoved, and my legs move regardless of my will. I run, because I must, because I have no choice. I stumble here and there, picking up speed even as the world spins around me, even though I don’t know where I’m going, who’s following, what the point is. I know only one thing:

  Everything has finally fallen apart.

  — 59 —

  My pace doesn’t slow until I hit Church Street, where I stagger to a stop at the steps of the cathedral and collapsing.

  I’m gushing blood.

  The arm trying to squeeze the wound shut is slick with it, skin slipping against skin the harder I press down. I have to wrap the wound, put pressure on it, find a way to retain what blood I have left. It’s escaping, running away from me, stolen…

  My head swims and my heart hurts. I need to focus
.

  Bandages.

  I have no bandages. I have my clothes. I will have to shred some of my tee-shirt.

  I take the bottom of my shirt in my teeth and pull with my good arm—better arm, I suppose, since it’s only broken and not leading to my imminent exsanguination—and hold my wound tight against my stomach as I pull. The effort makes my vision go black, and a moment later I’m flat on my back, blinking up at the looming silhouette of the cathedral spires.

  “I’m going to die,” I say out loud, shoving my gushing wound between my good arm and my ribs, rolling over onto it, squeezing it closed as best I can. I look up at the cathedral, at the protective plastic covers over the stained-glass windows, scuffed and yellowed with time. The stones used to build the cathedral are a dark, reddish brown, rough-hewn and imposing. It looks like it could be made of rocks quarried in Sheol.

  Sheol, where I once killed a man.

  A man I may have been related to.

  “No,” I shake my head, refusing to give in to the madness lurking within those thoughts. Kyla needs me. Trebor needs me. I have to survive. I have to save them.

  And then I will happily give up and die.

  The city is quiet. I can hear cars on the expressway, rushing past the city, but I’m too close to the waterfront now for much traffic. Restaurants are closed, bars, businesses, and nightclubs are elsewhere. Around me, there is the Cathedral, and the expressway overpass, and the arena in the distance. Here and now, it’s just me and the dark, and the impossible weight of three worlds bearing down on me.

  Swallowing, I haul myself to my feet and try not to fall back down. I squeeze my wrist under my arm and look around, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

  “Hey!” I shout, voice breaking, shaking as I drag in another breath. “Hey, Irin! Sura! You win, okay?” The sound of my voice lingers in the cathedral doorway, floating up to the spires. “I’m dying, and you took Trebor, and God only knows what happened to Kyla. It’s over. The Arcana win, the human loses!” My whole body trembles with exhaustion, but I walk forward, down the stairs. Like a fucking champ.

  “What else do you want from me?” I try to shout, but my lungs can barely muster the force to speak. “Because there’s nothing else you can take! There’s nothing! I’m done. It’s over with.” My eyelids are heavy, and I can shout no more.