What We Devour

by Linsey Miller

  “No,” I lied.

  She jammed the knife through my hand.

  Pain.

  My vilewright took my ability to feel pain, and I sighed.

  Knife.

  The blade in the Crown’s hand slowly degraded till there was nothing there at all but a wound beneath her fisted hand. She reared back.

  We sat in silence for a long while, our wrights working between us, and none of my blood spilled from the wound. Her vilewright was a whisper against my sore skin.

  “That’s better,” she said, face pale. “I have destroyed your ability to lie. It seems that was all you ever did. I may not hold my son’s interest for intangible sacrifices and destructions, but I am not inept. If you attempt to destroy the Door and create a new one, I will kill you. I will kill Willoughby Chase. I will kill Julian Chase. I will kill Mack Sarclaw. Felhollow will cease to exist. Do you understand?”

  My tongue stuck to my teeth. Everything hurt. I nodded.

  “Good.” She rose and dragged me to my feet. “Alistair’s contract with you will be difficult to destroy but not impossible. I like you, and Cynlira needs another dualwrought. Your less useful inclinations we will work on.”

  The rest of the laboratory was pretending to work, Creek going over Carlow’s calculations and Basil reading a text upside down. They all looked up when we entered. The Heir stood.

  “Now,” said the Crown, letting go of my arm. “I must take my leave and deal with those calculations of yours.”

  “Perhaps I would be of help with them,” said Creek, sliding his gangly body between Carlow and the Crown. “You know how she is sometimes.”

  “Unnecessary—the talking and the offer,” the Crown said, crossing her arms. “Come, Franziska. Let us see about your guess of five months.”

  “Estimation,” said Carlow, one hand clutching the back of Creek’s coat. “My calculations are always correct. You know this.”

  “One day, your need to be right will get you killed.” The Crown crooked one finger at Carlow. “Come.”

  I held back a shudder. At least Carlow couldn’t die.

  If only the rest of us were lucky enough to be cursed.

  Nineteen

  I fled the laboratory as soon as I knew I wouldn’t cross the Crown and Carlow’s path. The Heir chased after me, his voice wavering and unclear. He didn’t reach out to stop me, and he didn’t speak after I raised my hand for silence. By the time we reached my room, the unease rolling over me was worsening. He left the door to my room open, lingering near my desk. Basil’s and Creek’s footsteps echoed behind him.

  “Shut it,” I said. “Please.”

  He did and came to me. “What did she do?”

  “Stabbed me,” I said, and he nodded as if that were the most natural thing in the world. I tried to lie and tell him that was all, that she had done nothing else, but I couldn’t. The words stuck in my throat. “She took away my ability to lie.”

  The Heir’s head jerked up to stare at me, and he opened his mouth. I could see the “no” forming on his tongue.

  “Alistair.” I took his face in my hands, fingers—not my nails—pressed into his temples, and pulled his forehead to mine. “She stabbed me, threatened to kill everyone I love, and said she would break our contract if I helped you destroy the Door. I made a deal with you. Not her. I don’t want her.”

  She had taken away the one thing I had always had, my last piece of armor against the world.

  “She would make you her successor, the Crown’s prized dualwrought,” said the Heir. “I could find a way to deal with the Door without you if you wanted that.”

  Forgotten I had always been, and forgotten I’d thought I would die. I didn’t need her to make me important.

  “I don’t want that,” I said. “Alistair, please. I want to help you, but I cannot work with her. She has forbidden me from trying to destroy the Door.”

  His eyes widened. His lips parted. He knew I had to be telling the truth.

  “I understand,” he said and took my hands in his. “I will have you work on creating an alternative. Destroying it shall be my burden.”

  She thought honesty was a drawback, but this was a gift. He’d never question what I’d say again.

  I lurched forward. My headache worsened, blooming along my jaw and in my teeth. The Heir rifled through the pockets of my coat and pressed the mouth of his flask to my lips. I drank, he checked my eyes and pulse, and exhaustion crashed into me. He made sure I locked the door behind him when he left.

  “I doubt we will be able to continue our research unscathed,” he said through the door, “but we have a deal. Even if she breaks our contract, I will not let her hurt you or your friends from Felhollow.”

  That meant Basil was the only one in true danger. I’d have to save them.

  My vilewright hummed against my chest, loud in my noblewright’s silence. I picked at where the hole had been.

  “The Crown cannot remain the Crown,” I whispered.

  Light flickered through the slatted window, and I jumped.

  “We’ll never be able to sacrifice enough to destroy the Door completely, will we?” I said aloud.

  My vilewright trilled, the sensation ringing in my ears for ages.

  When I rose again, it was night. Footsteps echoed up and down the hall outside.

  “She doesn’t care. The peers don’t care if most of their country dies so long as they live well.” I dipped my fingers into the bowl of red dirt. It clung to my skin like blood and congealed where the Crown had stabbed me. “I hope you’re one of the Vile. They can be killed.”

  A single knock rattled my door.

  “I’m annoyed,” came Carlow’s voice with its familiar bite. “I’d mock you, but we both know why you’re doing this. We’re going to the Door.”

  There came a soft scratching as if she had laid her hand against the door.

  “I got stabbed,” I muttered. “Why are you in a bad mood?”

  “You never cared before. You know we can destroy the Door.”

  I threw on Julian’s coat, grabbed a lamp, and opened my door, barely catching sight of Carlow stomping around the far corner down the hall.

  “Can we though?” I asked.

  She let out a laugh that sounded more like sobbing. “I would know.”

  I followed her outside. It was late, the crescent moon lurking above us like a narrowed eye. Tree branches rustled above me in the breeze and groaned as I passed. Even the earth was tired, and I rubbed my eyes on the inside of my sleeves, staring at Carlow’s blurred white coat darting through the winding path through the gardens. This one was longer than my normal route, and I dragged one hand across a tree. My nail caught in the bark and snapped back. I hissed.

  “I’d mock you, but…” Carlow laughed again and vanished around a bend.

  I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “Ass.”

  Something sharp stabbed my hand.

  I stopped, turning out my pockets onto the ground, and stared at the single blue rosebud speckled with blood before me. I went to pick it up, pricking my finger on the velvety petals again, and blood spilled to the dirt. It pooled like water atop stones. I froze.

  The small thorns on the stem dripped blood, none of it seeping into the earth beneath my feet.

  “Carlow?” I called.

  Her laugh echoed despite us being in the gardens.

  I pressed my fingers against the ground, and my knuckles cracked against a floor. There was no dirt, only cold, hard stone that I could not see.

  Touch was the only sense the Door could not replicate.

  “Where are you leading me?” I whispered and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “The Door,” said the thing that was not Franziska Carlow.

  I looked up.

  I was in a hallway I didn’t recognize. There wer
e no windows and no lanterns. The only light was the small circle flickering from my oil lamp, the flame spluttering with my panicked breaths. My noblewright oozed against the back of my neck, the skin prickling against it. I raised my lantern and glanced up. A pair of red eyes like Carlow’s blinked and vanished.

  I scrambled back. My hands hit a door, fingers scraping over the wood. My heart was beating too fast, bumping so loudly that it was all I could hear, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the corner. That hadn’t been Carlow. It was the Door.

  “I’m annoyed” had been the start of her conversation with Creek. The whole conversation had been nothing but rearranged words she’d uttered the other day.

  I groaned and struggled to open the door behind me. I raised one hand to the snuffed lantern on the wall above me.

  Create a light please. Take the least you need to do so.

  My noblewright slithered down my arm, its unhappiness bitter in my mouth.

  “Remember who feeds you,” I whispered. “I cannot if the Door kills me tonight.”

  The lantern flared. A trail of muddy red footprints was splattered on the ground and led around the corner.

  The door behind me creaked open. An arm wrapped around my waist, and a hand covered my mouth. My wrights ripped away from me, ready to fight, and I bit down hard on the hand. Whoever it was hissed.

  “It’s me.” The Heir’s voice cracked. “It’s Alistair. Stop screaming or guards will come and my mother will know.”

  He pulled his hand from my mouth but didn’t let go of me. I swallowed, the taste of his skin stuck in my throat. He wiped his hand on his trousers.

  “Look,” he whispered.

  His arm vanished, and he set a pair of red glasses over my eyes. The footsteps leading to the Door were the same as the red granules I had been trying to destroy and writhed as if alive. I lifted the glasses up. The footprints were normal footprints. I dropped the glasses down again. I picked up the blue rose and cradled it against my chest.

  “What would’ve happened if I followed it all the way to the Door?” I asked.

  “My glasses never lie,” he said, dragging me back through corridors with one arm around my waist. “It would have convinced you to open the Door. What happened?”

  So his glasses showed vilewrights and Vile.

  “It looked and sounded like Carlow, and I thought it was leading me to the laboratory. She said we could destroy the Door.” I glanced over my shoulder, and the Heir’s vilewright was a shadow embracing both of us. “I thought I was outside, but…”

  I peeked at the blue rose in my hands. The bud was barely open, but it was undoubtedly a rose. I peeled it open. It had the same coloring as a pale-blue pansy.

  “You noticed that nothing felt right,” said the Heir.

  I nodded. “The ground wasn’t right.”

  Creek had grown a blue rose. He had fulfilled his curse.

  “The Door wants to be opened, and it knows you now.” He tightened his grip on me. “Once you get back to your room, lock the door and don’t leave until I come get you in the morning.”

  We burst outside, and I looked up. The moon, full and bright, stared down at us. The Heir loosened his grip on me. The ground was cold against my feet, and the chill cleared my head. I pulled away enough to look at him.

  He was still dressed. His greatcoat and cravat were gone, the collar of his shirt flopping open without them. A few smudges of ink and blood stained his white shirt, and his sleeves were rolled hastily up to his elbows. His boots had been replaced by black velvet slippers.

  He stared at my feet. “Where are your shoes?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought I put them on, but perhaps that was the Door as well?”

  He bent down, sweeping his other arm around my knees. They buckled, and I folded into his arms. I grasped his shirt.

  “You can’t walk around barefoot,” he muttered. “It will try this again, and you will probably want to run when it does. You can’t do that with a foot full of rocks.”

  We spoke no more. He set me down at the door to my room, frowning at the few small cuts I did have on my feet. I returned his glasses and assured him I could heal myself. He waited on the other side of my door until I checked the lock and retreated to bed. His fading footsteps didn’t echo. I bunched my blanket over my ears.

  Carlow didn’t come calling again.

  Twenty

  The next morning, I awoke with a pain in my foot and Carlow’s voice ringing in my ears. She was arguing with Creek, their shouts muffled by the wall, and I rolled out of bed. Julian’s coat was sticky with sweat, but I kept it curled around me. I rubbed my hand across the wood of my door before opening it and peered into the hall. Creek stood in the doorway to Carlow’s room, his arms crossed. A blue rosebud was tucked into the chest pocket of his greatcoat.

  “Let her work or so help me,” he was saying and shaking his head.

  Carlow shrieked from inside. “Easy for you to say.”

  Her voice turned my stomach, and I groaned. Creek glanced at me.

  “Hold still,” said a voice I didn’t know. “I’m not even holding the needle yet.”

  “The Door baited you last night,” he said, beckoning me over. “Alive?”

  “I think.” I pulled the blue rose from my pocket, the petals withered and bloody but still intact, and hid it away once he saw. “I have you to thank for that. The thorns pricked me.”

  He stared at me, blue eyes endless, and smiled. “A pity you didn’t open the Door. Carlow would be free then.”

  “Does she know?” I asked softly. “Does she know you fulfilled the covenants of your curse?”

  “I have been placing the evidence before her, but she never truly sees. I’m not supposed to leave her to face eternity alone. The idea that I will is unthinkable to her.” He shuddered. “No. No one is aware, though I think the Crown suspects, and that is how I prefer it.”

  “Fine,” I said. “When did you manage it? It’s only been a week or so since you revived last? What if she kills you?”

  “A week ago,” said Creek quickly, his gaze darting to Carlow. “I’m not discussing this near her.”

  I sighed and whispered, “Fine. Keep your secrets and lies, but if she kills you, she’ll never forgive herself.”

  Creek laughed quietly. Carlow glared at him, hands clutching the bed. Safia, the healer employed by the Heir, was leaning over Carlow’s bare thigh and stitching shut a short, deep cut. Carlow threw her arm over her eyes and groaned. Creek chuckled.

  “She hates needles. Her. Franziska Carlow, noblewrought and scared of nothing, is scared of needles. It’s so…mortal,” he said, savoring the word.

  “How did she hurt herself?” I asked.

  “The usual way,” said Creek. “A sacrifice.”

  Safia leaned back in her wheelchair, black eyes bright with laughter, and patted Carlow’s arm. “I’m done, you big, immortal baby.”

  “Will it scar?” Carlow asked, voice softer than I’d ever heard.

  Safia shook her head. The green binding carved into her chest was red with fresh blood. “The stitches are only for the next day,” she said. “I’ll be able to heal it tomorrow, and I can make sure there’s no scar.” Safia glanced at me over her shoulder. “Did you need something?”

  “No, just heard a commotion,” I said.

  “I think she prefers Carlow.” Safia rolled her lips together and dodged Carlow’s half-hearted swat. She slung her bag onto the back of her chair. “Unless there’s another commotion, I’m due at breakfast.”

  Footsteps echoed down the hall. I flinched, and Creek turned. Hana and Basil hurried toward us, the guard sporting fresh bandages on her hands and arms, and Basil carried a stack of books. Hana looked anywhere but at us, keeping her strides short so as not to leave Basil behind. Basil’s fingers tapped a frantic rhythm a
gainst their books. Hana stopped before us.

  “Is Carlow still here?” she asked.

  “Hana!” Safia’s voice came out a bit breathlessly. Safia adjusted her dress and the silk scarf wrapped around her tight black curls. She didn’t need to; she was easily the prettiest person out of all of us. “Did my good luck charm not work?”

  Hana blushed, hand jerking to her necklace. “No. I mean, it did. I’m fine. I’m here to get Carlow, Creek, and Adler.”

  Safia fiddled with her silver moon bracelet, and I glanced at Hana’s necklace.

  “His Majesty asked me to get your thoughts on several sacrifices and replication mechanisms,” said Basil, peering around Hana. “The others he wanted in the laboratory immediately.”

  “Well, at least I finished in time.” Safia waved farewell to us and joined us in the hall. “Let’s see what you have for me, Baz.”

  They vanished into Basil’s room. The others started walking, and I grabbed Creek’s arm. He glared at me, eyes slits of sky.

  “He sent the only person who could die away,” I whispered. “Why?”

  Creek shook off my grip. “The Crown must be visiting. Why else?”

  “She was mad at Carlow last time.” I clenched the rose, thorns cutting through me, and nodded. “The calculations upset her.”

  It was only a lie by omission. The Heir had so few friends, and losing them would break him. It couldn’t be me. It couldn’t be Carlow. It had to be Creek.

  “Do you think she would hurt Carlow?” I asked.

  So questions didn’t count as lies either.

  “Carlow is immortal for now, but she is not immune to pain,” said Creek, his blue eyes dark in the dim morning light. “The Crown could do much worse to Carlow than killing her.”

  “But she would be all right.” I worried my lip and blinked as if keeping back tears. “She wouldn’t sacrifice Carlow to the Door, would she? Could Carlow survive that?”

  Creek’s face snapped to me, his eyes wide, and for the first time, he looked afraid. “That would kill Carlow quite permanently.”