“There is one way in to Acheron. Neema shall guard the entry.” Those familiar green eyes raked me from head to toe. “I will be back for another session very soon.”
The thought that I’d have to go through this again threw me into a fit of dry heaves. I fell onto the grass, bracing my shoulders and chest with my weak hands. Xiangu watched on in interest, seemingly proud of what her work had reduced me to. I kept my attention off her. I wouldn’t give her another chance to latch onto me for another “session.”
Once I calmed down, however, I noticed in a passing glance that her right forearm bore a singular line of ink exactly where my Deathmark was. I compared that line to my own arm between gasps for air.
The jawline and teeth of my skull were missing from my arm—but they had appeared on Xiangu’s. I put my fingers to the Deathmark because I had to feel it to be certain. The lines were gone. They had been ripped away and placed on Xiangu’s body.
“How… How many more…” I shuddered. “Sessions?”
Xiangu stared down her nose at me before she turned away and headed toward a collection of hedges in the distance, where she vanished inside the greenery without giving me an answer.
“Great. So that…long.”
Chapter Ten
“What it lies in our power to do, it lies in our power not to do.”
—Aristotle
“Good heavens, Teacup!” Delia made running an art form all its own. I admired her for many things, specifically her nimble hundred-meter dash in four-inch Jimmy Choos.
I rested against a stone statue of a peacock, trying to look like I had it together.
Papa, carrying Dudley, and Nicodemus closed in behind Delia. Soon they surrounded me. Despite my best efforts, I was positive I looked like I had taken a midnight walk through the main streets of Erebus.
“What happened?” Delia wrapped her fingers around mine. Her perfect fingernails made my gnarled digits look distorted and ugly.
“Did she heal it?” Papa asked.
I ran the back of my hand across my tear-soaked eyes and nodded.
“Let’s see.” Delia flipped my arm around.
The three gave one another baffled looks.
I pointed to the jawline and teeth of the skull, or what should have been the jawline and teeth. “Part of it is gone. See.”
“It’s still mostly there,” Papa grunted.
“It’s a process,” I repeated Xiangu’s words.
“We don’t have time for a process, Babygirl.”
“After what she did to remove this much, I’d say taking it slowly is an excellent idea.” I had no interest in regaling them with my story, least not about seeing the people from my past. Papa would be let down to learn that I got to see fake-Mama when he did not.
“What was so bad about it?” Papa had once been hit by a semi-truck barreling through Quebec’s streets and broken his back. He had explained the discomfort in acute detail that came to one very specific point—he would have rather died.
“Felt like I was being boiled alive,” I said. “Good fun. Looking forward to the next session.”
“Teacup, that’s horrible. This explains why this looks like an unkempt bird’s nest.” Delia picked at the chignon of dreadlocks that had slumped to one side of my head. “Really, darling, why don’t we cut them off and start anew? You’d look adorable in a pixie cut.”
Nicodemus inspected the Deathmark, squinting as he leaned in. He gave an approving nod. “Remarkable work. Did she say how long this process will last?”
“Not exactly.” And I would have preferred that it take a good, long year, so long as we kept Brent from crashing the party. Going through another round of torture made my insides churn. The peacock statue must have moved because it no longer provided support as I slid to the ground.
“Leave her be,” said a stern voice when my companions dove to assist me.
“Ah, it is a pleasure to meet you, Master Xiangu.” Nicodemus was a true diplomat. “I am Nic—”
“I know who you are, Nicodemus of Barra. Your little friend is not welcome here.”
I wrenched myself upright, with the help of the stone peacock. “You said my companions are welcome here.”
“No dogs.”
“Wait a damn minute here,” Delia interjected before the rest of us could. “This isn’t any dog. I should know. I despise like dogs. They stink. They drool. They tear the shit out your favorite shoes.”
Xiangu, standing as her normal self and not an image of another, tilted her head to one side, fascinated by Delia like a zookeeper was fascinated by a new species of bug.
“Dudley is special. He deserves to stay here,” Delia finished as she stepped to Dudley’s side. My dog gave her a strange glance. She never had much interaction with him. This moment was probably the most affection he’d ever gotten from her.
“Who are you, Scrivener?” Xiangu asked Dudley’s unexpected ambassador.
“I am Delia Sinclair. I lived at Wrightwick with Errol Dennison until last month.”
Xiangu kept her chin high. She must have worked hard to appear as flawlessly poised as she was. No one was born with such a skill, not even the Master of Fashion, Delia Sinclair.
One of Xiangu’s eyebrows slowly rose. “I like your shoes.”
“Oh.” Delia put her hand to her chest. “Me too. My favorites, to be honest. Aren’t they darling?”
“Give me your shoes, Scrivener Sinclair, and the dog can stay.” Xiangu’s a fashion lover too, eh?
Delia’s mouth opened and closed and then opened again. She darted her attention between all of us except for Dudley. “Couldn’t we think of some other arrangement?” she said after several long, ponderous seconds.
“Neema! Escort the dog to the exit.”
“I don’t have any other shoes, you see.” Delia rolled her ankle inward. I knew better. In her backpack was another pair of heels, probably her true favorites.
Neema did as her Master ordered. She took Dudley by the leash and led him toward the line of hedges that would dump them out at the exit. The dog looked over his shoulder at us, begging not to be torn away from his pack.
“Delia, please,” I begged my friend. “We’re his family.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh. Fine.”
With little reverence for the “beloved shoes” she’d fought to keep, Delia kicked them off, sending the heels soaring across the grass to land indignantly at Xiangu’s feet. The Master Scrivener picked them up, holding one in each hand. The size tens would not fit the petite Master. She’d look like a child playing dress up in her mother’s clothes if she tried to walk in them.
But that wasn’t the point, was it?
Xiangu tucked her new prizes under her arms. “Come, visitors. I will show you where you can relax.”
…
Neema gave us a tour of the place she called Acheron, which held a garden, pond, several huts for guests, and one communal area she called the Lotus. Acheron was named after the river of the Greek myth from what Neema had said. The introduction to Xiangu’s home was similar to Wrightwick, the site of the Scrivener library that sat above the former River Phlegethon, but the scenery was vastly different. Where Wrightwick boasted rustic wood decor, Xiangu’s place boasted the tranquility of Asian flair with bushels of flowers, trickling fountains, and dining tables that didn’t have chairs but soft pillows for seats—something that Papa found to be quite odd for his size.
We sat on these pillows with the table between us. The position required flexibility and bendy legs, neither of which Papa possessed. While trying to force one leg into the small clearance between the floor and table, Papa knocked over the pot of tea and mugs on the table. He eventually managed to fold himself into the narrow spot. He just didn’t look happy about it.
Delia, Nicodemus, and I didn’t struggle like Papa. Each of us slid effortlessly into our places and breathed a sigh of relief. We made it. We found Master Xiangu and, from the missing section of my tattoo, she had clearly a
greed to help me. I had proved to her through her test that I was worthy of this help, that I wasn’t like Marin at all. She was convinced that I would not follow in his corrupted footsteps. I made a promise that I would not. And I didn’t break promises.
“For you,” Neema said to me. In her hand was a cup of tea—one Papa hadn’t knocked over.
“What is it?” I wondered why no one else had been served the drink.
“Master says it helps with recovery. You will need it.” She left the drink in my hands. Considering how my body still quivered and ached, I had no reservations about consuming the tea. I would take anything that would help, anything that dulled the edge. The first sip was all I needed to begin to feel my muscles and bones relax.
My companions and Neema watched me take the first sip, then the second, the third, and it was on the fourth that I tipped the entire drink back because why the hell not? Had it been a beer and had I been in a dive bar in Quebec, I would have slammed the mug down on the table and made some slurred comment on my success. Since we were in a different part of the world—which part of the world were we, exactly?—and with different customs, I carefully set my drink on the table and burped. That last part was by accident.
“Good gracious, Teacup.” Delia loved to be the manner compass. “Is that what Brent sees in you?”
Somehow I knew Brent would try to outdo me in that arena. You know, if we weren’t racing across the globe trying to avoid killing each other.
“Eidolon Hume,” said Xiangu from the doorway of the Lotus. She wore the same black robe, her black silken hair pulled into a loose bun.
“Where?” Papa tried to stand and put on his guard but that failed when he realized he was more or less stuck in place until tea or whatever this was over.
Xiangu glided to a spot at the end of the long table. Because she appeared carefree, I assumed that Brent wasn’t nearby threatening to destroy me. Of course, we needed affirmation that we were in the clear—better safe than dead.
“You fear death,” Xiangu said before any of us could pose follow up questions about Brent.
“Of course we fear death,” Delia interjected. “If you don’t mind me saying, it seems you do, too.”
“Why do you say this, Scrivener Sinclair?”
“Well,” Delia unfolded a napkin and placed it in her lap, “you live someplace we can only get to by half-death. The only way you can get out is with one of your Eidolons. Death would be hard pressed to find you here.”
Xiangu stared down at the empty mug at her place setting. “I keep to the Acheron when I am not traveling. There is nothing wrong with self-preservation, something that Master Scrivener Dormier understands.”
I did. I also understood Delia’s point. We could all live long and prosperous lives if we never took an adventure outside our front door. Living a comfortable life is safe. Safe is good. Safe is what keeps us alive. Risking life and limb for something greater is too compelling for others—and likely why I was the one wearing a Deathmark. That or I was just a reckless fool. Did it matter which?
Marin, however, succeeded in living in his bubble for only so long. Death comes to us no matter where we hide. Much like Marin, Xiangu was living the same, secluded existence. I had to wonder if reclusiveness was a trait of all Scriveners.
“I have been outside of these walls recently,” said Xiangu.
“We know,” I replied. “We’ve been following your trail from Denver.”
“Then you are aware of the problem.” Her eyes lifted from the mug until they met mine.
There were many problems I could think of. The problem she was referring to likely had something to do with Marin’s inability to cross over millions of souls during his tenure. Or the rise of angry Trivials.
“If you’re referring to souls or the Trivials, then yes, we know.” I was beginning to feel more like myself as each minute passed since drinking that special concoction. Whatever it was, herbal tea or monkey urine, I didn’t care. “Considering your connection to Marin, you probably know why there is a problem.”
Xiangu nodded. “Indeed I do.”
“Why didn’t you intervene if you knew?” I asked.
“You assume I had any authority to.”
“You have Acheron like Errol had the Phlegethon and Marin had Lethe. This place must have magical properties. And you have the ability to heal Deathmarks. Seems you had some leverage.” I realized that I was nipping at the hand that would save me. Had Mama been sitting next to me, she would have slapped me upside the back of my head for being uncouth. Papa was kind enough to it for her, and it was no less embarrassing when he did it.
“Sorry,” I said because Papa would do it a second time all in Mama’s name if I didn’t. “I simply wish that Marin hadn’t gotten away with his crimes for this long. He’s caused a lot of misery, not just for Stygians but humans, too.”
Xiangu poured Nicodemus a drink and then handed the pot to him so he could pour me a drink.
As I watched the liquid splash inside of the glasses, I thought of Brent. And I felt guilty. How could I have ignored him? Here we sat drinking and conversing while he remained in a heated prison of my own doing. I had to ask Xiangu about her intentions and I could not wait.
“What do you want of Brent Hume, Master?” I asked, causing everyone to clink their glasses or nervously cough from the directness of my request.
Xiangu was quick to gloss over the audible shock. “Do you think I mean to kill him?”
“Yes.” No sense in beating around the bush.
“I intend to capture him and punish him for what he has done to Trivials. They have been my loyal guards for centuries.”
My eyes narrowed in on her. “If you wish to punish him for crimes he was unable to stop, then you will have to endure the same punishment for allowing Marin to run amok in Styx. But since you couldn’t stop him due to limited power, I struggle to understand why you think Brent should suffer punishment for the same crime.”
“Ahem.” Delia elbowed my side.
Xiangu did not break her gaze with mine. We engaged in a stare-down that neither of us were willing to lose. I was not trying to be disrespectful in my argument. I was being honest. There was, as far as I believed, nothing about the truth that was rude or disrespectful. How it was presented was another matter.
Clearly, I needed to work on diplomacy.
“So what can we do to fix this mess in Styx?” Delia asked, and I couldn’t help but silently thank her for changing the subject.
“I do not know, Sinclair,” Xiangu said, breaking from our visual connection. “Marin has been the cause of many wounds, as Dormier has politely pointed out. Trivials are no exception. They are angry. If these problems are not fixed soon, Styx could find itself on the edge of a cliff.”
The room fell silent now. The hamsters in our brains ran furiously to process the gravity of Xiangu’s warning. Not that we didn’t suspect that this was a serious problem. Nicodemus had said as much back in Denver. But perhaps we—as in all of us, not just Nicodemus—hadn’t discussed it thoroughly until now because we had only focused on saving me.
“Styx needs a new Head Reaper,” she went on. “Someone powerful enough to ferry every soul waiting for salvation. As well as someone who can unite everyone, most importantly the Trivials. That Reaper cannot be Brent Hume.”
“That will be a colossal task. It cannot be done by one Stygian alone,” Nicodemus spoke for the first time since we collected around the table. “It will require a joint effort from many parties. Brent Hume is an asset to this task, Master. He should be considered.”
“What if Styx had more than one Head Reaper?” Papa added.
Xiangu lifted the mug to her lips and sipped as if to say, “Go on.”
“We are being shortsighted. There are plenty of Eidolons who are up for the task. If we had Nicodemus, Brent, and even Neema, we’d have more power to cross over the backup of souls. Plus, not one will become corrupted because there are others to ensure it does
not happen.” Papa spoke from his chest, spoke like a true diplomat, something Mama must have seen and embraced long ago. “Marin got away with his crimes for nearly a century. He broke the laws of Styx. We can bring back our original laws that were meant to help Stygians like those Trivials. Now is our chance.”
Xiangu, who seemed to take in Papa’s words with piqued interest, continued to sit in silence. The rest of us didn’t know how else to respond but to remain silent too, sipping occasionally, coughing or clearing our throats to punctuate the hush.
When normally the quietness would have troubled me, because I hated those awkward pauses, this time it didn’t. I had time to mull over the bigger problem. While it was vital that Styx had a Master Scrivener—who wasn’t in hiding—working to bring things back into balance, it wasn’t all that was important. What truly mattered for the bigger picture was that our entire group, together, would have to heal Styx.
Chapter Eleven
“Where is the Head Reaper?”
—HermesHarbinger.com, December 15th
Xiangu provided us with hammocks to rest in as night drew near. Delia was not pleased with a hammock. Papa struggled to make peace with his. It took the four of us working together to get him loaded into the swinging bed, and that was only after he had tried five times before. Nicodemus had climbed into his hammock with ease. He even made room for Dudley to squeeze in next to him.
As much as Papa and Delia preferred beds and bedrooms to their outdoor hammocks, I preferred the peace and freedom of sleeping outside, staring at the blanket of stars that seemed to go on forever and ever. The longer the night wore on, the more my eyes adapted to the darkness. Within minutes, I spotted the Milky Way stretched like a glittery belt across the black sky, the occasional shooting star, and the twinkling of planets like Jupiter and Saturn. The banks of the Acheron had an uncanny ability of making me feel safe from the great woes of the world. Wrightwick Manor had an illusion of peace too, but this whole place, which was untouchable and hidden, provided more of a feeling of disconnectedness—something that, for someone like Xiangu, was paramount.
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