by Lana Popovic
“She is not a fruit,” Luka said, sounding so affronted it actually made me laugh out loud. The boy grinned down at me widely, his teeth very white and not quite straight.
“It’s true, I’m not,” I agreed, still giggling ridiculously. “I am, in fact, a female human. You—what is your name, anyway? Will you help me up?”
“It’s Fjolar, swoony lady. And of course.” He had a strange accent, clipped, upturned syllables, and an even stranger way of choosing words—like nothing I’d heard in Cattaro. Before I knew it, he’d wrapped his fingers around my upper arms and drawn me up easily against his broad chest, as if he were adjusting a piece of clothing rather than hauling up a person.
The inside of my head lurched back and forth as soon as I was upright. Everything sparkled for a moment—how pretty, daytime shooting stars indoors!—before I drew another breath of that tobacco, chocolate, and whiskey scent, and both my mind and stomach calmed. He was warm and very solid against my back, and I took a few more sips of air through parted lips, letting the smell rise up the back of my throat.
“Smell something you like, flower girl?” he murmured into my ear, too low for the others to hear.
I sat up away from him reluctantly, my cheeks flaming. “Why would you call me that? Only my . . .” Only Mama ever called me that.
“It is Iris, isn’t it?” he said, leaning back on his haunches and running a hand over his hair. “That’s what you told me at that party. That, and a few . . . other things.”
I closed my eyes, mortified. If he was having this effect on me now, while I was still too woozy to stand, I could only imagine the things I’d wanted to say to him while my blood ran hot.
Luka offered me both hands, glowering so fiercely I nearly burst into fresh laughter despite the shame. I took them and he pulled me carefully to my feet, anchoring me with a warm, firm grip on my shoulders.
“You all right, Missy?” he said, peering into my face. “You gave us all a solid scare. I believe you about the—I believe it. I believe you and Malina both. No need to do that again, understood? The ceiling, or the falling.”
“Yes, sir, got it, sir,” I said, still stifling laughter. What was the matter with me, this ecstatic rush of hilarity? Malina was the giggler, out of the two of us. “No more falling down, and definitely no—wait. You saw the ceiling?”
“Hell yes, I saw it,” he said grimly. “I don’t think he did, though. He came in at the very end, once you’d already let go, and he was more focused on you than anything.”
Still leaning on Luka, I turned to look at Fjolar again. He’d gotten up too, and he gave me a quirked smile as he dusted off the knees of his black trousers, as if to say, look what you did, made me all dirty. He wasn’t nearly so tall as Luka, but he still stood a good bit taller than me, with a broad-shouldered, muscled frame, and veins prominent on the backs of his large, loose hands.
Now that I could actually see all of him, the modern Viking impression was even stronger. His pale hair would’ve brushed past shoulder-length had it not been scraped back into a careless bun, the undersides shaved. I usually hated that look, but all I could think of was how those shorn, soft sides would feel like felt against my palms. He had gauged metal earrings in each ear, spiraling like ibex horns, and a chunky silver bracelet around one thick wrist—a roped, open design with arrowheads on both ends. His silvery gray V-neck dipped over a smooth chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
And his forearms . . .
I nearly swayed, gaping at the designs inked into his skin. They were flowers of all kinds, but only in black and washes of gray, almost mathematical in their grid-like precision—as if someone had drawn up architectural plans of the way I saw flowers blooming with the gleam.
The gleam that had reared up in me so strongly just now, broken through like a swollen river tearing down a dam. Had it been him, somehow? But he hadn’t even been in the café with us when it happened.
He tipped his head to the side, amused, raising his forearms for my inspection. “Like them? I did them myself. I told you that too, if you remember.”
“I don’t remember, actually,” I said, my head clearing a little now that I wasn’t near him any longer. “I only barely remember you at all. Why are you even here? How did you find me?”
“I’ve been looking for you since the party, to see if you still wanted to settle a bet you lost to me. Though I imagine you won’t remember that, either. You mentioned this place a few times when we talked; it sounded like a favorite. Thought I might find you here.”
“This isn’t a good time,” I said, after a moment.
He raised a pale eyebrow, tilting his head, and my insides heated again. “Is that so? And why not?”
“Because their mother’s dead,” Luka said when I hesitated, his jaw clenching when I turned to glare at him for the bluntness.
Fjolar’s face sobered, and he looked to me. “I’m sorry to hear it.” I nodded slowly. Better that he thought what everyone else did. “My condolences to you.” His bright eyes moved to Lina. “And to you. Malina, if I have it right. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Not all that much,” Malina said quietly, but with such distaste I looked sharply at her. Her upturned nose was wrinkled, and her lips were pulled delicately away from her teeth, as if she smelled something only just gone putrid. “I wouldn’t say you’re that sorry about it at all.”
“That isn’t true,” he said, sounding genuinely somber for the first time. “And I’m sorry to have barged in on all of you like this, when you were clearly . . . in the middle of something.”
“We were,” Niko said pointedly. “Want to see if Iris feels like settling her bets some other time, such as later? Or not now?”
That lazy half smile slid back into place at the unspoken “or never,” eyes sparking like a flicked lighter flame. That sooty eyeliner against the impossible blue of his irises and his blond lashes was such an unsettling combination, but instead of dissuading my gaze it just made me want to stare openly at him. “Understood. If you’re up to finding me later, Iris, when you’re feeling more”—his eyes slid over Luka, Malina, and Niko, then back to me—“unchaperoned, I’d be very happy to hear from you.”
“But”—I licked my lips again—“how would I do that? I don’t have your number.”
He was already halfway out the door, but he paused to smile over his shoulder. “Oh, you do. Just check, whenever you have the time. I won’t have gone anywhere.”
THIRTEEN
“I’M GOING!”
“You absolutely are not.”
Lina and I watched in bemused fascination as Luka and Niko faced each other down across the bar top like opposing generals. They’d launched into it as soon as Fjolar had left, after I’d had the chance to sum up what Lina and I had learned at the hotel. Hazel eyes glaring into brown, her profile like a cameo version of his with their stubborn chins, fine lips, and classical noses, they reminded me of that optical illusion, the vase that melted into two faces when you looked at it differently.
“Yes I am, you miserable wildebeest!” Niko gave Luka a robust shove against his chest, growling in frustration when he barely budged a half step. “Ugh, why are you so big, God.”
He growled back at her, about ten octaves lower. “Do you understand that this is dangerous, Nikoleta? We have no idea what’s happening here, or what we’re going to find in Perast. The police are supposed to be doing the investigating, and if this one didn’t make mazes come alive out of ceilings, and that one didn’t sound like a Guillermo del Toro angel, I wouldn’t be letting any of this happen. But no police is going to do anything good with this, especially not ours, who handle nothing more dangerous than Mihajlo the Widower bellowing at lampposts and palm trees on the weekends. And if I don’t take them myself, these two will go off to Perast alone, and I. Cannot. Have that.”
These two? Malina mouthed at me. I looked away from her. I hadn’t forgotten how furious I was with her, even if now wasn’t the time to ai
r that out.
“What even happened to you, Riss?” she said cautiously. “That ceiling. You haven’t done something like that in so long. I didn’t think you . . .”
“No,” I agreed coolly. “I didn’t think I could either, and I didn’t mean to do it. It happened on its own, and it was so strong. What about you? Why were you looking at him that way? That boy, Fjolar, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you talk to anyone like that.”
Her nose wrinkled again, as if she couldn’t help it. “He just sounded so . . . one-note? He really didn’t mean it, that he was sorry about Mama. Or maybe he did, a little, but there wasn’t much room for that. I’ve never heard anyone sound so single-minded before.”
“And what was it? The one note?”
She shuddered, shoulders twitching. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Well, do it anyway. Sing it, I don’t care. If it bothered you so much, I need to know.”
She made a disgruntled sound, then hummed a perfunctory snatch of song, but it was enough. I caught the sense of voracious hunger-lust, conjuring images of me with tousled hair and dewy lips, straddling Fjolar with his arms flung over his head in abandon, his eyes latched to mine.
I let out my breath in a long rush, rubbing at my arms.
“Yes,” Lina said emphatically. “It was just like that. Pure wanting. Hungry. Like he really meant it when he called you a fruit, something to eat. It was disgusting.”
I didn’t think it was at all. It should have bothered me, coming from a stranger, but instead the idea of it made my insides feel like they’d been melted into molasses and twirled around a spoon. I dipped into my tunic pocket for my phone when Lina looked away, and found an entry for Fjolar Winnnerr of bet: owe two warm sticky kiss to!!
I hastily tucked my phone away.
“You’re not Tata, Luka,” Niko was saying as I forced my attention back to them, my cheeks burning. “You don’t get to ‘let’ anything happen. No one made you Grand Deciding Vizier of Significant Decision Things just because Mama died. I’m saying that I’m going, so I’m going. You literally cannot stop me unless you punch me in the face hard enough to knock me out, and you always say—super annoyingly, I might add—that that causes permanent brain damage when it happens in movies. Are you prepared to brain damage me, brother? Are you, truly? Go on, peer deep into that patriarchal soul.”
Luka put a hand over his face.
“Why, Heavenly Father?” he moaned into his own palm. “Why saddle me with this brat, when everything was so fine without her for three glorious years? Why give her the will of a thousand mules in this incredibly tiny gnat body?”
“Oh, stop it, beast, you’re not even religious,” Niko said, bouncing up and down on her toes as she smelled victory, the bell around her ankle tinkling merrily. “Besides, brats are your favorite. Look how you like Iris.”
“Hey!” I protested. “My brattiness, which is not even a thing, is beside the point here. If we don’t go now, we’ll miss the last ferry from Perast to Our Lady today; there won’t be any after five. We don’t have time for this.”
“Luka,” Niko began again, taking a softer tack this time. “I know how you feel. Probably better than anyone. And that’s why I have to come. I can’t not be there. You understand me, right?”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and Luka finally slapped his palm on the counter in defeat. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “Fine, Nikoleta. But only because—”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” she broke in, grabbing his hand and giving it a sound kiss. I watched the two of them uncertainly, not sure what had shifted the tide, but I put the thought aside as anticipation surged through me. We were going. We were doing something.
HALF AN HOUR later, all four of us had somehow jammed ourselves into Luka’s ancient cherry-red Mazda. As we set off north along the Adriatic Highway I still felt a little giddy, a helium sort of high that buoyed me up even though I knew it would leave me dizzy and deflated once it faded. Luka glanced at me a few times, as if he wanted to say something, but each time he bit back whatever it was.
Outside, the narrow highway wound along the contours of the bay, overhung with the cliffs above us. The surface of the water had swallowed both the mountains and sky, reflecting slick, blurred replicas of blinding blue, gray stone, and even the whites of the clouds that had settled midway down the cliffs like curls of exhaled breath. Beside us, neat ranks and files of buoys bobbed in the water, hosting acres of mussel plantations.
Barely twenty minutes later, the highway dipped west and the first stone houses of Perast came into view. The little fishermen’s town nestled at the gently sloping base of Mount Saint Elias, sheltered from the northern winds during winter, and angled toward the cool breezes that funneled through the Verige Strait in high summer.
“Look,” Luka said, and I followed his gaze. Across from Perast, stranded in the middle of the bay and dwarfed by the granite loom of the mountains all around, two islets stood guard like tiny, twinned versions of lost Avalon. “You can see them from here. Saint George, and Our Lady of the Rocks.”
Malina stirred in the backseat, propping herself up in the space between us. “Saint George is abandoned, right? Just the old Benedictine abbey.”
Luka shook his head. “The abbey’s from the twelfth century, but the Saint George church is from the seventeenth. There’s a cemetery there, too, for old nobles from Perast.”
“How do you know?”
“Mama wanted to be buried there,” he said simply. “When nothing was working anymore, she wanted us to take her on a tour of the monasteries and churches, the nicest ones. Remember, Niko? We thought it was a last-resort thing, hedging her bets with all the saints. But really, she just thought they were beautiful. She wanted to say good-bye, and find the right one.”
I snuck a look at Luka, my throat clenching. I hadn’t known that about his mother. Koštana had died three years ago from leukemia, and Luka had been wrecked for years after. It was part of the reason I’d never fully believed he’d go to college in Belgrade until he was gone; I couldn’t imagine him leaving his father and Niko after she died. But he had. Life went on.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, catching Niko’s glistening dark eyes in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t know.”
She pressed her lips into a wavering half smile. “It’s okay. They don’t bury anyone out there anymore, anyway. She’s back in Cattaro. But she’d have liked that we stopped by here, don’t you think, Luka? And that it made us think of her.”
I glanced back out at the islet, the ancient, blocky silhouettes of the church and the abandoned abbey, overgrown with dense vegetation and slender cypress trees. There was a deep and sacred sort of beauty to it, as if it stood still even as the currents of time parted and flowed neatly around it, leaving it untouched. It looked like the kind of place that could keep a soul safe.
“Why aren’t there any trees on Our Lady of the Rocks?” I asked, tracing the outlines of the other islet on the window. The church of the Blessed Mary was stone, too, but more elaborate, with a domed apse, a round bell tower, and what looked like a guardian’s house attached. The rest of the isle was flat and bare, empty of anything green.
“Because it’s man-made, not like Saint George.” He cast me a skeptical look. “Have you really never heard any of this?”
I shrugged. “Mama was never much for churches.”
He craned his neck as he eased us into a parking spot, next to a restaurant tucked behind a grapevine trellis. “I’ll tell you all about it on the ferry. It’s an unusual story, not the kind of thing you forget.”
There were two ferries tagging each other back and forth to the island, and we caught one, ducking our heads beneath the canopy that protected the simple boat on rainy days.
Once settled on the wooden bench that ran down the center, slick with waterproof white paint, Luka continued. “Our Lady isn’t just a Roman Catholic church—it’s a sailors’ votive shrine. They
say that in 1452, the Mortesić brothers, who were recovering from some seafarers’ disease—scurvy, probably—found an icon on a rock in the middle of the bay, a painting of the Madonna and the baby Jesus. Right afterward they made a miraculous recovery. Due to the painting, of course, or possibly the sudden availability of oranges and sauerkraut.”
I nudged him with an elbow to the ribs. “Spoken like a true believer, Damjanac.”
“Just laying out the facts. Anyway, the townspeople took this as a sign that this spot was marked as holy, and began sinking boats heaped with stones around that original rock. They layered a foundation so that the main altar of the shrine would perch on the reef where the painting was found.”
The hull scraped along the islet’s wooden dock, and Luka swung off first once the captain had secured the ropes. Malina and then Niko caught his outstretched hand and hopped off the makeshift steps that had been propped along the boat’s side, heading toward the bronze door of the church’s main portal. I laid my hand on Luka’s palm and lingered on the boat for a moment longer, feeling the lurching bob beneath my feet. The roots of my hair prickled oddly, and I felt suddenly hesitant to step onto the dock.
Luke gave me a little tug and I hopped off, trailing after him reluctantly. “Hail the Queen / Of the Boka sea.” He read the inscription off the bronze door as we walked across the threshold. “You are the red dawn / The shield of our faith.”
“What is that?” I whispered to him. There was none of that cold density in here that some churches exerted, a silent demand for continued silence. But somehow even this cool, sweeter hush felt cloying to me, itchy on my skin.
“A hymn for Our Lady, looks like.”
He wandered off toward the altar, but I stayed in the nave, turning in a little circle over the blue and gray diamond-tiled floor. The ceiling was painted elaborately with celestial motifs, each scene cordoned off by braided gilt. The walls were lavished with framed paintings, the bottom row above the choir benches featuring images I recognized from the Old Testament, of both male and female prophets. The topmost row held four massive paintings, two on each side of the nave, a gleaming silver frieze in between them.
