“They’ll torture him if we make him wait,” one said.
“He’ll be lucky if they show him mercy like they did Violet Magby,” a Watchman mumbled.
Clover put her hand on my knee. Her fingers were little heat sticks.
For hours, in the cottage on the Isle of Orleans, everyone tried to coax me out of my stupor with words of encouragement, and then embraces when words failed. When that hadn’t worked, they turned to quarrelling, fussing about who was to blame or what to do next. The television became white noise to our despair when they had no more to say to each other.
“Marin is going to inject fear into us by publicly destroying Brent and the Balanchines.” Garik paced in front of me, rhythmically blocking out the television screen.
I ran my fingertips over Brent’s flannel, draped across my knees. Clover had given it to me, having said something about keeping faith. It smelled of a spicy, masculine cologne. I tried convincing myself Brent would come back and slip into the forgotten flannel, proving that he hadn’t been thrust into Death’s spotlight and that I wasn’t guiltily sitting in the cottage, numb to the horror. I wanted to believe I’d have a chance to tell him the things I hadn’t.
I had failed Eve. I had failed Gerard and Mama and Papa.
I wouldn’t fail Brent, too. I just wasn’t sure how to help him.
“Head Reaper Marin has called for an immediate trial for Eidolon Hume and for Stone and Lorelei Balanchine, Dormier’s foster parents. He fears for Stygians’ safety since Dormier and her rebels are still at large and could make a violent attack on innocent Stygians at any moment…”
I rolled Brent’s velvety flannel between the pads of my fingers. I didn’t have to try very hard to imagine his muscles beneath its softness. He was still so fresh in my memory, like Eve, Mama, Papa, and Gerard. All had faces, lives, homes, and each had my love.
Death despises bartering, I thought.
Lethe. That’s where they had him. That’s why the place was secret. No one could save their beloveds if no one knew where to find them. But I knew. I had a map. I was there just last week.
“Garik, what are we going to do?” asked someone.
“Hermes Harbinger has gotten over a million hits in the last few hours,” Azim shouted from the back corner of the living room. He had lingered behind the pixels of the Internet void for the entirety of our hours of preparation. He had given us updates on the website, treating it as a measure of Stygian interest in rebellion.
The fabric stilled in my hands.
There aren’t one million Stygians. People must be revisiting the website.
“This proves Stygians are ready more than ever to unite and make a stand,” Azim continued, with growing sanguinity. “What we need is a kick start. We need someone to be the leader. A voice.”
“No,” Garik snapped. “We don’t have our guide into Lethe. Without Brent, how will we find Marin and stop the banishments? Marin wants us to rush to Le Château to meet his soldiers head-to-head.”
“Then let’s siege the hotel,” someone suggested.
“Or riot. That might sidetrack Marin from the trial,” said another.
Garik wouldn’t budge. “We wait. Patience is our greatest ally now.”
“I’m not waiting,” I said after a moment of silence. The room grew instantly quiet. “I’m going to get them.”
I clutched Brent’s leatherette journal to my chest. I didn’t remember rising from the chair or fishing the journal out of my backpack, or what words I uttered first. But I did remember Dudley greeting me with a wiggly dance.
“Scrivener Dormier,” Garik began, “I think it is best if you—”
“For Hades sake, shut the hell up!” My hands reddened. The journal fell to the floor. Clover scooped it up before the rebel Watchman grabbed it. She gave him a fiery glance, and he backed off. “I’ll save them with or without your help,” I continued. “I have a map. I know how to get into Lethe without Brent.”
“You are foolish to think you can do that,” Garik volleyed. “It’s meaningless to try.”
“They’re not meaningless. I’m not meaningless. Styx isn’t either.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it with your passivity.” I turned to the gathering of slack-jawed rebels—the ones who needed to hear me more than Azim and Clover. I already had their support. “You want a guide into Lethe. I’ll be your guide. I’ll get you there.”
“Even if you have a map, you’re just a Scrivener.” Garik fanned his hands over his narrow hips. “Your only power is in Deathmarks. As admirable as your offer is, Deathmarks are not going to get us inside.”
My stare was poisonous, but Garik didn’t back down like the other Reapers. He was a leader. He had every reason not to believe in my abilities. I wasn’t sure I believed in them. But dammit, I would try. I would die trying.
“If you don’t help, I’ll go into Lethe regardless, and when I return, I’ll show each of you what sixth-degree burns are like.”
Clover gazed down at Brent’s journal. Azim was the only Reaper in the entire room who dared to look at me with resolve, with the determination to see through whatever mission I had planned.
I gave Azim my sincerest, wordless thanks when Garik lowered himself to the couch as people do when they are about to agree to an idea they’d otherwise discard. I walked stiffly across the living room.
“How long do they have?” I asked Garik.
His attention was locked on the Navajo rug where I stood. After a moment, I realized he was staring at my combat boots. “The trials have probably already started. They’ll be found guilty. Marin will see to it.”
“When will they banish them?”
“As soon as the verdict is read.”
My knees yearned to buckle. I fought it with everything I had. “Azim, is the Interceptor ready?”
“All it needs is something broadcast. It’s waiting for you,” Azim said from behind his laptop. His words hung on heavy air.
It’s waiting for me.
Nothing that carried the burden of a world was more simply said.
They are waiting for me. Brent is waiting.
For years I had gazed upon the roof of Le Château, staring up at Styx’s broadcasting antenna. Never did I think I would send out my own personal message from that transmitter. But the gears were waiting for me to set them in motion. My plan had arrived as stealthily as Brent had established himself in my life.
And in this singular moment I marveled at how terrifying it was.
“Where is the camera?” I asked Azim.
He pointed at a white cube the size of my palm next to the laptop on the coffee table. In the center was a glass eyeball of the camera. This little object was all I would need to reach Stygians. It was so small it was embarrassing.
“How will they hear me?” I asked.
“The microphone is built into the camera,” he answered. “You can start anytime.”
A scared little girl inside of me screamed to run into the nearest bedroom, curl up with Dudley, and weep instead of throwing myself out there through electromagnetic television waves to be rejected or loved. She posed a compelling—safe—case. But I licked my lips to wipe away the fear. Styx already knew me. As Clover had said, I was public enemy number one.
It was time I acted like it, dammit.
“Let’s discuss what you’ll say first,” Garik said, his attention on my face now and not my boots. “This could mean life or death for us. Don’t be hasty.”
I thought to reply. I took a step toward the couch instead.
He started to stand, but a male rebel with thick shoulders shoved him back down. Garik bounced on the couch springs.
“This is her moment. Let her have it, Garik,” the rebel said.
Clover placed Brent’s journal in my hand. She gave me a knowing smile.
Reapers cleared the way as I pulled up a chair in front of the camera, brushed the hair from my tear-stained face, and placed my hands on m
y knees. Still in my jumpsuit, soaked in Brent’s blood, I was not primped and polished like the newscasters.
But I wasn’t a newscaster.
I was a revolutionary.
“Are you ready?” Azim asked.
Every rebel stilled. No one breathed. No one dared to.
I gave the slightest nod.
Azim’s sigh was thunderous. “You’ll be live in three.”
I couldn’t back out now. I wouldn’t.
Courage, Ollie, a voice whispered in my head.
“Three, two, one,” Azim said.
From the corner of my eye, the cottage’s television flickered from Brent’s violent interrogation to me, perched on the chair with swollen green eyes. I gasped because…
It worked!
I wanted to throw my arms around Azim or do one of Dudley’s welcome-home boogies. As an alternative, I paused and let my excitement settle into dignified poise. I recovered with a smile and looked back at the camera, vowing not to give the television any more of my concentration.
I sighed and said, “Bonjour, Stygians. I am Olivia Iris Dormier. I put a Deathmark on a Grim Reaper. I fled Québec City. I am a rebel. And I am a Master Scrivener.”
My jitters eased with each word. Even so, I took another deep breath before continuing.
“Years ago, Master Scriveners were annihilated. Marin got rid of most of Master Scriveners because he feared their power. Scriveners work tirelessly to help Reapers, and Reapers work tirelessly to maintain the balance. But Marin doesn’t help us, does he? He demands more souls and doesn’t equip us with the tools to meet his requirements. And if we don’t achieve his quotas, we go to Erebus for eternal damnation.”
I stole a glance at Garik and then back at that eyeball.
“Marin hides from us because he fears our retaliation. He hurts those we love. He manipulates us to get what he wants. Day after day, Stygians are brought up on charges and quickly sent to Erebus. Soon all of us will meet again in Erebus, if Marin has his way.
“I ask you, why does Marin punish you with his List of Offenses for jobs you can’t possibly do with the small number of Scriveners who are currently serving Styx? And why do we allow our leader to instill so much fear in us? It was Marin who killed off the Master Scriveners—the only beings that could kill him, with the help of a willing Eidolon. He killed the Master Scriveners to protect himself from being dethroned as Head Reaper. He did it to stay in power, not to help Styx. Marin doesn’t care about us. He cares about his position and abusing it for as long as we will let him. But not any longer.
“I don’t wish anyone harm. I put a Deathmark on Nicholas Baird to protect myself. Now, Marin calls me a terrorist. Self-defense isn’t criminal. Saving those you love isn’t terrorism. This is why I ask that you help me, and I will help you in return.”
From Brent’s leatherette journal, I held up the picture of him in his World War II uniform, standing in the woods of Kentucky, grinning. Styx viewed the heartwarming smile of the accused.
“Along with my foster parents, Lorelei and Stone Balanchine, this Reaper is considered a terrorist. But he saved me. And he believes in a world where Scriveners and Reapers are balanced again. He wants to restore Styx to what it once was. His desire for Styx isn’t unique. You need help finding your Assignees. You need Scriveners to do that.”
I paused, inwardly laughing because it was the same theatrical silence Marin used whenever he gave his daily speeches.
“Someone once told me that Death despises bartering. But Death needs a challenge. I ask you to stand up with me and let your demands be heard.”
I ran my thumbs over Brent’s picture. His smile challenged my composure. But I wouldn’t let Styx see me weep.
Rebels don’t cry.
I turned back to the camera.
“I still believe in you, Styx. Please, believe in me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“We began a contest for liberty ill provided with the means for the war, relying on our patriotism to supply the deficiency. We expected to encounter many wants and distressed…we must bear the present evils and fortitude.”
—Major General George Washington, 1781
“Press the button on the transmitter belt before you start recording.” Azim positioned the tiny camera against my chest. Pushed through the buttonhole of my jacket, the camera floated over my sternum and blended perfectly with the hunter green garment. He leaned into the backseat of the white van and observed it from a short distance. “They’ll not be able to tell you have a camera on you. I’ll have the computer on standby to transmit the signal when you are ready.”
“I want you and Clover to promise you’ll steer clear if things get messy,” I said.
My job was to get into Lethe and use the power of technology against Marin to save Brent, Mama, and Papa. If Marin didn’t buy into our blackmail or if anyone was banished, Marin’s sequestered little world would go live with a push of a button. And by revealing his secret location, Marin would lose his hideaway, and Stygians would flock to his underground lair to barter for souls and Deathlists and Obols and whatever else Stygians saw fit to barter for. It would be a nightmare for him. And ultimately, his power would be stamped out once a Master Scrivener and Eidolon came along and removed him from his seat of corruption forever.
Lights from the line of cars trailing us on the highway washed over Azim and Clover’s tense faces. I glanced through the rear window to see our small convoy of white vans.
Clover reached around Azim and squeezed my hand. Her palm was clammy. “Don’t worry about anyone else, honey. Focus on Brent. He needs you now.”
Dudley sat between us with his ears pulled back. Clover had assured me she would take good care of him—after this was over, watching over Dudley would be her only Stygian job. He would have all the blueberry pancakes he could want at the Sisters Café. And knowing Clover, he’d put on ten pounds before summer.
Garik was behind the wheel. Another rebel sat quietly in the passenger seat. Both had grown quiet ever since we crossed the bridge carrying us away from the safety of our provisional residence on the Isle of Orleans.
The front end of the van scraped the pavement when we merged onto the steep avenue of Honoré Mercier that met the top of Parliament Hill. My skin rippled in goose bumps. At the top of the hill, we would be in eyeshot of Le Château Frontenac—our destination.
Streetlights stooped overhead, flickering to life as pink and orange ribbons festooned the dusk sky. Over the limbs of leafless trees, the front tower of the Parliament Building rose out of the ground as if standing to salute us. At last, Fontaine de Tourny, with its three tiers of cherubs and nymphs, came into view as the Oldsmobile crested Parliament Hill’s highest point.
Garik pulled the van to the side, leaving it sitting outside of the hotel. Three similar white vans packed full of rebels pulled up behind us.
Crisp air bit at my cheeks. I was standing next to the car gazing blankly at the verdigris roofs of Château Frontenac without realizing I had climbed out of the car. My body moved before my brain accepted information—a frightening notion.
I looked around for Azim, Clover, and Dudley. They were gone—off to hide in the coffee shop across from the hotel as we had discussed. Once Clover and Azim set up their position and the signal from his laptop, and I gave the sign, every Stygian near a television would see what was happening from a first-person point of view, starting first with Garik’s rousing speech.
I fingered my belt for the transmitter and powered it to life as Garik made his last preparations.
“Are you ready?” I asked Garik.
He nodded.
“Good evening, Styx,” Garik said into his handheld microphone, facing the camera lens on my jacket. “We come together as one to speak out against Head Reaper Marin. We need our leader to hear us when we say we will no longer live in terror of missing our quotas, that we will take control back. We will stand united against him.
“The Head Reaper does not wan
t to hear our complaints. He has concealed himself from us for centuries. We have speculated where he has been hiding. Tonight, we will uncover his refuge and bring a voice to our overworked Reapers and Scriveners.”
My fingernails cut into my palms as Garik spoke. It was happening. The rebellion was in motion, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“Hermes Harbinger spoke of the need for a rebellion weeks ago, and now, tonight, we have our chance to speak to our leader face to face…”
As Garik’s speech continued, I worried that we were too late. Failure had not come to mind until this moment. Confidence had been a chemical high I had ridden long enough. It was unavoidable that I would think of the worst.
Garik pointed in the direction of Le Château. The orange brick façade of the hotel trembled from our unified stare. We were few, but we were strong, and the hotel knew we were coming to relay the message to Marin that Lethe would no longer be the unknown city of Death—that it would not be forgotten this time.
With his speech complete, Garik and other rebels flanked my sides as we made the final approach. Footfalls beat like war drums inside the same courtyard Azim, Brent, Clover, and I had fled from hours earlier. Our steps quickened from a stride to a march. The turrets of the Château scraped the twilight sky and soon fell into shadow.
The bellhops and hotel guests watched in shock as thirty Stygians flooded the courtyard. And there was nothing the humans could do. One by one, we fed through the hotel’s revolving brass doors. When I stepped into the lobby after Garik, I stopped.
Off to one side, indifferent to the humans marveling at the hotel’s architecture, were enemy Watchmen blocking the staircase we would need to descend to get to Lethe’s front door. I glanced at Garik and then at the chain of yellow eyes and black suits.
“Traitor,” said one loyalist to the Head Watchman. “All this time you’ve been working against us.”
“I am no traitor to Styx, only to fascism.” Garik’s posture grew taller from his forced self-assurance. “You will let us by, or we will go by force.”
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