by Archer, Jill
I openly gawked at him. I could not tell if he was kidding.
“So . . . are you gonna let me heal you or what?” He motioned to my hand. I looked down at it. I’d actually forgotten about it. Although now that he’d called my attention to it, it throbbed. There was no denying that a healing spell would help me sleep, something that would do me a world of good. And, even though Rafe’s methods were unconventional and his attitude was horrible, there was no danger of an Angel with his abilities botching a simple healing spell. So I nodded and started unwrapping the bandage.
“Hold on, I’ll do it,” Rafe said, getting up. He walked over to one of the railings and pulled down an unlit lantern. He grabbed a small wooden table and walked back toward me carrying both. He sat the table down right next to me, put the lantern on top, and then took a seat so close to me, our hips almost touched. He reached for my hand and I hesitated.
Rafe exhaled, clearly exasperated. “I can heal you without touching you, but it’s a lot easier if I can see the cut first. So, do you mind?” He pointed from me to the dark lantern.
Successfully shaping my magic into a flaming dove earlier had given me a confidence boost. The feat, for me, had been quite extraordinary. But then again, my magic had always been capricious. Strong, yes. Predictable, no. So Rafe’s small request set my heart beating just a little bit faster. Didn’t he realize I could just as easily set his hair on fire as that candlewick? He must, after having seen what I did to Justica! And he had to know the dove was born from provocation as much as peaceful thoughts. Yet there he sat, not an inch from me, calm and unperturbed as ever.
It’s not like he hasn’t been warned, I thought.
I directed a small, precise blast of magic toward the lantern, focusing on the wick. Just before it caught, however, I twitched, causing a sudden stab of pain in my thumb. I inhaled sharply, not knowing if my small bobble would cause my magic to veer wildly off course, and that’s when Rafe gently laid his hand on mine and murmured the words to a spell.
Once, when I was nine, I’d gone swimming in an old abandoned quarry on our estate. It was forbidden, but I went anyway. There were so many things that were forbidden to me as a child, I figured what could be the harm in swimming? And I’d been right. The harm hadn’t come from swimming. Nor had it come from demons. It had come from the sun—that bright, yellow, cheery thing that was usually such a good companion to me. I’d fallen asleep under its warm, rosy glow, only to awaken hours later, burned and blistered. Until that moment, I’d never understood the expression too much of a good thing. I’d walked home, wincing the whole way, fearful of what further discomforts my mother might have in store for me. But instead of scolding me, she’d soothed my skin with the extract of a plant she’d called Dragon’s Tongue.
Rafe’s touch was like that: cool, soothing, and soft.
The candlewick burst into life and my magic retracted, for once, as easily as a yo-yo snapping back into my palm. Huh.
I looked over at Rafe and he shrugged. “I told you I knew Flame Resistant Blanket.” Well, double huh. I didn’t want him to know how good his stupidly titled spell felt so I took a page from his book. I kept my face perfectly bland as I gave him my hand.
Rafe untied the bloody wrap and placed it on the table next to us. My cut looked nasty, a deeper wound than I’d first thought with ragged edges and oozing puss. My guess was that Delgato’s claws were covered in some sort of irritant. Not poison, but something that would likely infect and fester. Rafe held my hand gently in both of his as he murmured a healing spell. After a few moments, the throbbing diminished and then stopped altogether. He let go. I looked down at my hand and flexed.
Amazing! My right hand felt just as strong as my left. And there was only the tiniest scar. I doubted a Mederi could have done better.
I shrugged. Two could play the game of acting like his spells were no big deal.
“I guess you can stay,” I said, trying to hide my smile. After all, a little healing couldn’t erase the fact that he’d tricked his way on board, was likely still hiding things about himself, and—worst of all—had agreed that I was like a jar of pickled hearts. I mumbled thanks and good night and rushed down the stairs, suddenly eager to get away.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found Ari in his cabin. He’d changed as well and was now wearing clothes that looked as comfortable as mine felt. In his hands was a leather-bound book that he closed gently and set aside when I came in. His gaze took in my recently healed hand and my high-necked shirt. He gave me a regretful look.
“I would have come looking for you eventually. I know the kiss made you feel uncomfortable.”
“No it didn’t,” I said too quickly. Ari raised his brows at me.
“Well, maybe just a little,” I said, exhaling and laughing quietly. Outside of Ari’s small cabin window, I could hear the lap of waves as Cnawlece made its way east through the waters of the Lethe. Up top, we heard the soft scuffling of feet on the deck and through the thin wall behind Ari’s headboard, we could hear Fara trying to coax Virtus out from under her bed frame. The sounds made us acutely aware that, though no one could see us, everyone could probably hear us.
I walked over to where Ari was sitting on the edge of the bed and straddled him, climbing onto his lap and hooking my legs behind him. I put my arms around him and rested my cheek against his heart.
“There will be paybacks,” I said.
“Promise?” Ari’s voice was low and throaty, more a purr than a growl.
I smiled and reached for the book he’d been reading before I came in. It was a collection of sonnets first published over two centuries ago by Naberious, a demon poet. Since poetry was usually the province of the Angels, Naberius’ work was regarded by some with suspicion. In fact, most Host believed that Naberious had really been a Hyrke who’d invented a pseudonymous identity to increase sales. Either way, fans of Naberious’ work were hopeless romantics. It was my turn to raise my brows at Ari. But instead of looking sheepish, he told me in a low voice:
“Your fiery dove was magnificent.”
I made some noncommital sound as I pulled off his shirt and pushed him down on the bed. I sat with my hips resting on his, my left hand pressed against his right shoulder and my other hand poised above his demon mark.
“Think you can shape your magic into a symbol of peace?” I said, grinning, my voice more of a growl than a purr.
“I doubt it,” Ari said, laughing. “What you did was actually quite remarkable.”
I frowned in disappointment as Ari studied my face.
“Nouiomo,” he said, suddenly serious, “you’re the only one who could ever make me want to try.” And then he placed my hand over his heart.
* * *
The next night, as promised, Delgato took us up to the sundeck after dinner for our first Manipulation lesson in the field. He had the Angels come too. As he’d said, what was the point of having Guardians if we didn’t learn to work with them? The area within which we’d be practicing our fiery craft was as far from the Manipulation dungeon as I could possibly have imagined. Instead of the usual cold, creepy underground dungeon full of torches and Apocalypse-era weapons, we were on top of a dahabiya in hot, sticky summer air, surrounded by lanterns, Angels, claws, and fangs. Luckily, the claws and fangs belonged to Delgato and Virtus.
“Before we start practicing,” Delgato said, “we should discuss the demons you’re likely to encounter during this field assignment. First off, rogares. Do any of you know the type of rogare demon that’s most prevalent in the areas we’ll be passing through?”
“Water wraiths,” I said.
“Right,” Delgato said, nodding. “And what’s the best weapon against them?”
If we were back in Rochester’s class, Brunus would surely have shouted out, “Fire!” but thank Luck we weren’t. Ari answered instead.
“Salt.”
“Exactly. Hopefully, we won’t be attacked by a pack of wraiths, but should that occur I w
ant you all to know what to do. Load up the cannons with shot and salt and—”
Delgato clapped his hands together and a huge fireball boomed out from one of the cannons on deck. It lobbed over the Lethe and was on its way into the field when it suddenly burst into a shower of harmless ash and dust. It hadn’t been a real cannonball; it had been waning magic. But had it landed in the field, it would have burned it all the same.
“If we get attacked by wraiths,” Delgato continued, “a possibility about as likely as not, then throw everything at them. Not just shot and salt, but waning magic and”—he turned to the Angels—“every spell you’ve got.”
Everyone nodded. No one was going to make the mistake of holding something back during a wraith attack.
“Okay, so what other demons might we encounter during our trip?”
“Manticores,” I said, arching a brow at Delgato. He grinned widely, his sharp canines gleaming white in the moonlight. I didn’t trust him (what sane person would trust the Patron Demon of Shadows, Stealth, and Hiding?) but I also didn’t think he meant us harm. His signature was still mildly abrasive, but now that I was used to it, it felt a little like Virtus’ tongue—spiky and slightly gross, but also full of rough affection.
“You already know everything about me I’m willing to reveal,” he said. “Manticores are nocturnal, we love fish, and we’re good fighters. What else?”
“A hellcnight,” Ari said quietly.
“A hellcnight? I hope not!” Delgato said. “Why do you think we’d encounter one of them? Rochester said the accused was a vodanoy—a water demon.”
“He is,” I said. “But Vodnik blames Grimasca for his followers’ disappearances. Isn’t Grimasca a hellcnight?”
Delgato snorted. “Grimasca! He’d sooner be responsible for a crime today than Luck himself. Grimasca’s story is even older than Luck’s. He’s one of the only demons that predates the Apocalypse. No one knows if he was ever real. Or if he’s just something mothers made up to scare their babes so they wouldn’t wander off. Fitting, though, that Grimasca’s legend should linger on in a place like the Shallows. The swamps there are full of things that will kill you.”
“Maybe it’s not Grimasca who’s preying on Vodnik’s followers,” I said. “Maybe it’s just a regular ole hellcnight.”
“No such thing,” Delgato snapped. “Hellcnights are as rogare as a demon can get. And they can impersonate anyone, which makes them much more dangerous than the average Haljan demon.”
“So any one of us could be a hellcnight right now and we wouldn’t even know it?” Rafe said, turning to Fara. “Maybe Virtus is really a hellcnight stowaway.”
Fara looked momentarily horrified. Probably because she was worried one of us might actually believe Rafe’s casually uttered indictment. We all turned toward Virtus, who was lying on one of the cushions licking his fur clean. When he noticed our sudden interest in him, he stopped, back leg raised, tongue sticking out, and looked at us. He looked preposterously adorable and incapable of harming anything.
“Can a hellcnight really mask its own signature so well that they could pass for a Hyrke around other waning magic users?” That was even more impossible to believe than Virtus being a demon imposter, but Delgato nodded.
“And they can manipulate other waning magic users’ signatures. They use their magic to tap into their victims’ memories. If you’re sensitive enough to pick up on it, that may be the only warning you have. The first time you encounter a hellcnight, there’s a waning magic ‘blur’ that occurs while the hellcnight is adjusting to its targets’ signatures.”
“And then what happens?” Fara asked, her voice screechier than usual.
Delgato gave us one of his grinning grimaces as he ticked off the possibilities on his clawed paws. “You’ll either be dead, in a deep sleep, or dragged off to be eaten later.”
“What happens if the hellcnight comes back?” I asked.
Delgato laughed. “Then there will be no warning, not even a magic blur. If you’re very, very lucky, you might be able to fight one off. Which brings us to what we’re going to discuss next: using waning magic as a weapon.
“Rochester told me that you have trouble shaping your magic, Nouiomo. But yesterday you shaped it into a flying dove. Not only was the dove a recognizable, fairly complicated shape, but it was an animated one. Your magic is powerful, but you need to learn control and consistency. Could you repeat last night’s magic trick?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. It wasn’t a lie.
Delgato nodded. “Angels only have to worry about one thing when they cast their magic, potentia, or how much focus they have left to cast another successful spell.” Delgato looked to the Angels for confirmation. Fara nodded and screeched, “‘Potentia becomes exponentia when combined with discipline, study, and practice.’ The Book of Joshua, nine, thirteen.” Rafe murmured his assent and then yawned. Delgato continued.
“Waning magic users, on the other hand, have myriad aspects of their magic to worry about: speed, strength, accuracy, range, as well as their ability to sustain it and manipulate it. Some aspects can be improved through the use of booster spells and some can only be improved by practicing.
“So let’s practice.”
Practicing by moonlight on the sundeck of the dahabiya was every bit as miserable as practicing in the Manipulation dungeon back in New Babylon had been. Sparring with Delgato was just as bad as sparring with Brunus or Sasha would have been. And, to top it off, apparently Rafe knew only two useful spells, the healing spell and the ridiculously titled Flame Resistant Blanket, neither of which was helpful when I was trying to throw waning magic. When Delgato finally called an end to the night’s practice, I was sweaty, sooty, and so agitated I probably would have set off all of the cannons had they been loaded.
* * *
During that first week, we fell into a routine. That is, if anything that felt so tense could be called “routine.” The wildflower fields, forests, and rolling hills of the New Babylon countryside gave way to the flat, sprawling rush lands of Halja’s river delta. I’d never seen anything so expansive. In the wind, the undulating green rushes ran to the edge of the world, only stopping when the bright blue expanse of heaven rolled down to meet them from above. Looking out from Cnawlece’s sundeck, I could almost imagine the curvature of our world. Halja’s big sky was like the tinted top of a snow globe, but instead of a sky that rained white sparkles, our earth spawned dark demons. Luckily, our sky stayed cloudless and the demons stayed hidden.
For all its open beauty, though, our world began to feel closed in, in a way it never had back in New Babylon. The snow globe’s edge wasn’t the limit of what I could see, but the edge of Cnawlece’s decks. As inviting as the passing world seemed to be, I couldn’t touch it, move in it, explore it, or experience it. In order to survive, we needed to simply pass through it.
And, besides, nighttime disabused us of any notion that the surrounding lands were either empty or bucolic.
Each night, as the sun went down, the dark stole across the land, bathing everything in black. The new moon we experienced on our seventh night out was especially bad. As soon as darkness fell, the sounds and signatures rose, creeping along the edges of our magic and our minds. Demons make horrible sounds: clicking, clacking, chirping; grunting, braying, snuffling; crying, whistling, rattling. I had no idea, since I couldn’t see them, whether my enemies were more or less terrible than I imagined. Over and over again, when I was on night watch, I had to convince myself not to scream out or redline my magic so I wouldn’t bring on an attack or burn us all to bits.
Though Delgato and his crew had sailed the eastern Lethe alone before, Delgato told us it would be safer (or less dangerous) if one of us was always on watch. The rogares would be able to sense us, he said, just as we would them. Three waning magic users sailing down the Lethe would attract notice. Some demons would be merely curious. Some wouldn’t be strong enough to consider an attack. But other demons naturally hunted toge
ther and some were quite formidable all on their own. So we divided the day into four shifts of six hours each, the first shift beginning at ten each night.
We trained and practiced during the evening shift. Under Delgato’s careful tutelage, my magic control increased at a faster rate than it ever had back in New Babylon. Maybe it was that Delgato wasn’t as afraid as Rochester was to mix emotion and magic. Delgato warned Ari against it. Said it was too late for him; he should stick to what he knew. But for me, he agreed it might be the answer. As he put it, “Cheating was the only way to make up twenty-one years of missed practice.” After statements like that, I no longer wondered why Delgato wasn’t a member of the St. Luck’s faculty. Yet, despite my advancements, true magical finesse eluded me. It felt like I was still holding back.
We got used to the boat’s motion under our feet. It no longer felt like we were moving, even in rougher waters. Meals were taken in the dining room, although whoever was on watch was always missing.
We ate fish. Lots of fish. I got used to filleting. And then I became very skilled at filleting. Every night, as I chopped off a head, ripped out bones, and sliced off skin, I practiced channeling the emotion I would later put to even better use on the moonlit sundeck during our evening training sessions: peace. After all, si vis pacem, para bellum, right? If you want peace, prepare for war. The fact that we weren’t actually headed to war made me feel incrementally better about where we were headed: an investigation that might lead to an execution.
Virtus put on a good ten pounds and thankfully stopped hissing at Rafe every time Rafe tried to pet him, which was annoyingly often. I was still getting to know Mr. TBD but his relationship with Virtus seemed a microcosm of how he related to the world at large. He never cared what others’ reactions were to him. He did whatever he wanted. Eventually, things seemed to go his way. If he hadn’t ended up knowing some decent spells (albeit with ridiculous names), I might have thrown him overboard.
