When my heart begins to race, pounding in my chest, it’s too much for my broken body to handle. The blood moves too fast, rushing, everything rushing past me, spinning around me. I swoon, and am weightless when I fall—
But I am held.
“Not yet,” Trebor murmurs around a frown, cradling me, lowering me to the ground. He leans down to kiss my forehead, pulls my wounded arm to his chest, and covers the slash with his hand like a warm, living bandage. “Ahuvati sheli. Shaya. Shayavati. Shaya…”
The world goes white—
—and when it fades back in, the first thing I see is Trebor. He’s holding my hand to his forehead, and weeping.
“Trebor,” I say, voice so small it doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me. But I feel fine. My head is clearing. My wrist doesn’t even hurt—neither of them do. “Trebor, it’s okay. I’m alive.”
He shakes his head, and when he can finally stand to look at me, I understand that’s not why he’s crying. It washes over me like a nightmare.
Trebor healed me.
He healed me—something only the havati bashrat are capable of. And if the two of us are like them, then we are soul-bonded. We are…meant to be. We are predestined.
And we can never be together.
I touch his face, wipe tears from his cheeks and hold his head in my hands, wanting to comfort him. I want to tell him it will be okay. I want to tell him things will work out, he’ll see.
But I don’t believe that.
What I believe—what I know—in this moment, is that Trebor is the one I love, and the one who loves me, and I can’t have him. There is nothing about that that’s okay, and it breaks my heart to be unable to do anything but agree with the agony in his.
He touches my face, brow creased. I’m crying too.
There’s nothing else to be done.
“Best get a move on, kids,” Lykos drawls from the sidewalk, his voice more sorrowful than I’ve ever heard. “The Irin’ll catch up real soon.”
Trebor nods, and helps me to my feet, steeling himself.
“How did you get away?” I ask.
“Andy.” He frowns.
“The skinwalker,” I correct him.
“He didn’t want you to die, so he sicked his hellhounds on Raven and her troops again before they could haul me away. One of them had their wings slashed pretty badly.”
I can tell by the set of his mouth when he says it that the injury means more than I know. “What happens when your wings are slashed?”
He swallows, not wanting to discuss it. “If they can’t heal properly, we become human. We lose our connection to magic.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t let his cool fool you, sweet pea,” Lykos chimes in. “Losing your wings is the worst living punishment imaginable for an Irin. Most would prefer execution to that fate.”
I look at Trebor for confirmation, but he doesn’t look at me. “Come on.” He puts a blood-streaked hand on my blood-stained back. “Let’s get out of here before the skinwalker shows up.”
“Too late!” Andy shouts from the bottom of the church steps. He stands tall, arms out at his sides, glaring up at us, grinning—looking utterly mad. “Thanks for your help, buddy. Ana, glad you made it through.”
Trebor pushes me behind him, whipping a net at Andy like a blanket of lightning. It wraps around him, sizzles and smokes.
Andy giggles, and coughs. “Human body, soldier. Can’t send me back home unless we’re playing an away game.”
Trebor sneers. “How long have you been using him? Days? Months? Years?”
The skinwalker laughs in Andy’s body. “Using him? I’ve given him so much! I gave him charm, and wit, and amazing hair!” He runs his hands through the gelled-up tangle. “I’m not using him. We’re a team. A partnership. He had needs, and he reached out to me for help. I said ‘Sure. But can you do me some favors too?’” He grins so broadly I think his lips might split. “Next thing you know, the bill comes due, and here we are.” He coughs again, and spits out blood. “It won’t do for long though. I’ve only been in here a few days, and he’s falling apart. Average human flesh just isn’t made to hold the glory that is me. But a human with real magic? Now, that would be different.”
I push past Trebor to stand beside him. “Where’s Kyla? What did you do to her?”
“Why, I handed her over to the old woman, of course. The Zee wanted their signature fair trade.” He smiles. “Kyla means so much to you, just as Ishmael meant to Madam Cevaux, so it seemed to make the most sense.”
I struggle not to gasp, not to cry out or scream, but my heart does all those things, hammering the fear of her loss deep into my bones. “No,” I breathe, though a certain kind of rage has begun to crackle in my fingertips. “If they hurt her—if she’s—if you—”
“Oh, she is still alive,” Andy assures me. “She’s what I call insurance. They’re going to hold onto her for me until I get what I came for. You.” He leers at me and puts his hands on his hips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been a woman. I think I’ll enjoy it.”
Trebor’s hands ball into fists, and he makes a noise I’ve never heard before—almost a growl, almost a hiss. His head drops, shoulders seem to double in size, and he moves as if to leap down the stairs.
I stop him with a hand on his arm, and shake my head. “Where are they?” I ask quietly, swallowing my horror.
Andy grins. “Right this way.”
— 60 —
We meet them at the waterfront, sun fully set and streets dead silent but for the distant hum of traffic and the present murmuring of the Zee. My feet fall flat against the wooden slats along the boardwalk. I can hear the water tossing, persistent, against the concrete support struts beneath us.
There are about ten Zee gathered here, men and women clad in both bohemian garb and old suit pants and waistcoats, hair bound up in scarves and shimmering with bangles, or gelled back like slick businessmen. A woman with black curls and ruby lips is holding a rope tied around Kyla’s neck, sizing her up like a horse at a market. She touches one of Kyla’s dreadlocks, and then her face, her lips.
Kyla’s upper lip curls into a snarl. She stares dead-eyed into the night, eyes no longer black but dark brown. She sees me, and frowns, brow creasing, shaking her head.
“Ana, no!” She shouts. “Get away, don’t—”
The red-lipped woman yanks on the rope, choking Kyla and yanking her back. Andy laughs.
“Don’t hurt her!” I yell, moving to rush forward.
Trebor holds me back. “Ana,” he whispers, mouth close to my ear. “Please. You don’t have to martyr yourself.”
“I’m not,” I try to convince him, though I haven’t yet convinced myself my barely-a-plan-at-all will work.
“I can’t let you make this trade. As much as I love you and as much as I care about Kyla, if the skinwalker has your living body, the danger to us all would be too great.”
I squeeze his hand, but don’t take my eyes off of Kyla. “You have to trust me, Trebor. Please.”
I can’t see his expression as he considers my words, but after a moment he squeezes my hand back. He holds on for several seconds, before I feel him nod and let go.
“Little Ouros,” the old woman—Madam Cevaux—calls to me, milky eyes faintly glowing as they stare past my shoulder. “It looks like we shall be completing this transaction after all.” She looks like a heap of rags as she hauls herself to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff. “Oh, you brought a friend.” She snickers. “The Irin.” Her snicker becomes a cackle. “Oh, little Irin, little Ouros. I wonder if you truly appreciate the irony of your situation? Hmm.” She smiles. “No matter. It will all be over soon.”
I frown. She’s a liar. She must be a liar. My mother was not Zee. She was not Sura. She was human. She was good.
“Anyway,” Andy says impatiently, spreading his arms. “Shall we trade? A dreadlocked Indian princess for a rather tall red-headed witch?”
“Sounds like a fa
ir trade to me,” Madam Cevaux purrs.
Andy shakes his finger at Trebor. “No interference now, Trebor the Troublemaker. My companions will be watching.” He grins, and three hellhounds slink out from behind the gathered Zee.
I turn back, only for a moment, barely able to focus on Trebor’s face as I whisper “Believe in me,” and kiss him swiftly on the cheek. Then I turn away and move forward, not waiting to see his expression before I go. I hear him follow a few feet behind, footsteps heavy.
Kyla stares at me as I move towards her, as the red-lipped woman holding her leash leads her forward. I hold lace my fingers together, hold them in front of my stomach as if carrying something, and try to tell Kyla with my eyes what my true intentions are, but I’m not certain she understands. I see a flicker across her face—a solemnity falls over her, replacing fear. She nods, ever so slightly.
The red lipped woman offers her hand to me, the rope to Trebor, and we both take what we are given. He falls back, tugging off the rope from around Kyla’s neck. I swallow as much fear and feelings as possible and let the woman lead me away from them, over to the skinwalker and Madam Cevaux.
“Since I don’t want to risk killing you again, Madam Cevaux is going to help us instead,” Andy says, brandishing a dagger—the dagger I used to kill Ishmael.
Without ceremony, he takes my hand, holds the cold blade against my wrist—already rust-brown with my own dried blood. I press my lips together as it bites through my skin, a short slip along a bulging vein. My heart shivers; my knees tremble.
My mouth begins to move in prayer.
Andy holds tight to my hand. Madam Cevaux’s papery fingers wrap around the part of my other hand not guarded by my bloodstained cast. She presses her other palm to Andy’s chest, over his heart.
I clench my jaw and close my eyes to keep my mouth from moving too much, air barely brushing my lips, my tongue, just enough to give the slightest sound to the words, summoning ancient power inside of me. The dark magic in Madam Cevaux crawls into me, burrows like maggots under my skin while I breathe deep, sucking in the light and life of the living world around me, focusing tightly on the brilliance in my bones. I harness my magic—human magic—and implore it with the prayer I’ve prayed a thousand times, before I knew that magic was real.
“Shama Irin,” I mutter. “Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim. Shama Irin. Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim. Shama Irin…”
There is a pause, an inhalation—and then magic flies out from me in all directions, invisible but felt, like a sonic boom.
The skinwalker’s grip tightens on my hand. I open my eyes to see Madam Cevaux’s face strained, her milky eyes rolling back into her head. Andy’s eyes are squeezed shut, the knuckles of his free hand pressing against his skull.
“No,” he growls.
The hellhounds whine, and the Zee begin to murmur and move about around us. Then, I hear Kyla chanting also, the fierce whisper of her words meeting mine across the distance.
Fingers of darkness reach farther into my skin as my blood drains from me, but my breath remains pointed, sharp, and quick. “Shama Irin. Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim…”
“Damn you, girl,” Madam Cevaux hisses. “Enough of your prayers! Enough!”
“Shama Irin,” I say more loudly, looking her in the eye, even as the world tilts around me. “Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim. Shama Irin!”
Andy cries out as a blue-white surge passes from me, through him, like an electric current. He lets go of my hand, falls back, drops the dagger. I try to yank away from the old woman, but she holds fast to my hand with a bone-crushing grip.
“No!” Madam Cevaux reaches for the knife, calls it to her hand with an unseen power. “You will pay for what you did to my grandson!” She pulls her arm back, swings it forward towards my heart, blade shining.
Despite the weight of my guilt and the life draining from my veins, my body reacts swiftly, survival instincts stronger than my exhaustion. I catch her attacking arm, turn my other arm out to twist from her grip and grab onto her wrist. I squeeze hard, magic simmering in my fingers, forcing the darkness from my bones as I draw from my own world—my own kind.
“You’re right,” I say to her in a low voice, staring into the milky, radiant whites of her eyes as tiny black pinholes begin to form, opening ever so slowly, like two small mouths preparing to swallow me alive. “I will pay. I will pay for his death every day, for the rest of my life.”
She sneers at me. “That’s not good enough.”
I frown, and let the threads of my magic slither out from my fingertips, streaming across her body, to weave a pale blue cocoon, wrapping her from head to toe.
“It’s going to have to be enough,” I tell her as the cocoon closes around her face, flashes, implodes as it sends her back to Sheol, leaving nothing but the faint smell of cinders in her wake. I stare at the gold-hilted knife clattering in the place where she disappeared, and I mutter, “Because I’m not a goddamn martyr.”
The gathered Zee stare at me, appraising me with eyes both bright and dark. I try to see my mother in them, but I cannot. Surely Madam Cevaux was lying.
A shadow passes over us. And another. And another.
I look up.
The Irin have finally come.
They dive down, casting nets, throwing their firepower into the Zee even as they scatter and flee. Their wings are spread wide, too colorful for the night, too majestic for battle. I move to run away, back to Trebor, but Andy calls out to me.
“Ana?” He blinks up at me, holding his head, coughing. “Ana, what’s going on? What’s happening?” He casts a wild glance over his shoulder at the Zee. “Who are these people?” He coughs again, and spits out something thick and black.
I shake my head, grab his hand and yank him to his feet.
“Oh my god, you’re covered in blood—”
“Shut up, Andy,” I try to snarl, but the world spins, and my knees give out.
Trebor catches me, again. “I got you, damsel.”
“No,” I insist. “You need to get out of here.”
“Not before you’re healed.” He holds my wrist in his hand, looks into my eyes, and whispers in the language of his people.
I feel the wound close, and the world stop spinning. When my eyes focus, I see Kyla standing behind Trebor, beside Lykos, looking scared. I hate it when she looks scared. It makes me feel so helpless.
She looks up, as I notice the panic behind us has gone quiet. “Trebor,” she says.
And I understand.
“Trebor, run,” I push him off of me and jump to my feet, only to see him snatched and restrained by a much smaller Irin—by Faye.
Kyla runs to my side, grabs my arm. We stand as tall as we can between Trebor and Faye, and the other five Irin. Andy has no idea what to do, but mostly he’s staring at Lykos.
Raven saunters out from her entourage, coming to stand before us, surveying the mess with her hands on her hips as her wings fold down and dissolve into her skin. “All this trouble because of one irritating human girl,” she muses. “I lost good Irin soldiers tonight because of you. And the world almost came to know an evil more powerful than the prince of darkness himself.” She scowls, snaps her fingers, and two Irin rush forward, faster than I can process, taking me by the arms.
“Raven, no!” Trebor roars behind me, and I hear him struggling in the grip of Faye’s binding magic.
“So you’re going to kill me?” I ask, frowning.
Raven rolls her eyes. “No. I’m not going to kill you. I may severely dislike you, but I’m not a cold-blooded killer.” She sneers, as if she knows what I’ve done. “I’m just going to solve a problem. And if your friend Trebor had actually cared about you at all, he would have done it a long time ago.”
I expect someone to try and stop her, but when I look over my shoulder at Trebor and see Faye whispering into his ear—when I see that he’s no longer restrained—when I see the hard expression on his face—I know there’s nothing that can stop Raven. Whatever she�
�s going to do to me, she’s going to do it. They’re going to let her.
That’s it.
“I would say you can thank me later for solving all your problems,” Raven says, standing straight ahead of me. “But after tonight you’ll never see another creature from Shemayiim or Sheol, ever again.” She smirks. “So long, Anastasia Flynn.” She glares at Kyla. “So long, rude dreadlocked friend.” She rolls her eyes at Andy, raises her hands, and turns her eyes to mine.
In a heartbeat, I feel something core—something essential—ripped away from the bones of my bones, the building blocks of my spirit, the nature of who and what I am. There is only a cold wind where the vibrancy of magic once thrummed—a hollow chamber where I used to be connected to my world.
I blink, and when I look around us, Lykos and the Irin are gone.
Gone.
But are they?
“Where did they go?” Andy gasps. “What the hell is going on?”
“Shut the hell up, Andy!” Kyla shouts at him. “Your goddamn deal with a demon is what made such a flipping mess in the first place.”
He turns red. “How do you know—?”
“Because demons love to talk about how stupid their human pets are,” she snaps. “How gullible, naive, and predictable. Just like you were.” She frowns. “You almost killed Ana.”
“What? Oh my god, Ana, I’m so sorry—”
“Stop,” I breathe, clenching my fists at my sides, closing my eyes to slits. “Just…don’t.” My voice catches in my throat, and tears quickly fill the narrow spaces between my eyelids.
“Oh, Ana,” Kyla says, reaching to comfort me.
I fall to my knees instead, feeling my heart pound, wondering what’s happening to him, whose heart is doing what, if he can see me, if he can feel me, if he’s escaping at this very moment, or if they’re taking him home for trial and judgment. Kyla kneels beside me, encloses me in her arms and holds me tight against her shoulder while I try hard not to cry, and fail.
The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) Page 26
