What We Devour

by Linsey Miller

“What do we do?”

  “You? Nothing.” Creek took a breath, glancing toward Carlow’s retreating back, and motioned me on. “Go to the laboratory. I will handle this.”

  “All right,” I said. “Be careful.”

  How many could we justify killing to save Cynlira?

  “One,” I said to myself, pulling the rose from my pocket and letting the wind take it, the petals wet and red.

  The Crown was in the laboratory when Carlow, Creek, and I arrived. She was dressed in a gauzy white dress with green stitching, and she smiled when she saw us.

  “Lovely,” she said, taking me by the hand and leading me inside. “We’re all here.”

  There were no guards, and she didn’t give us time to bow. The skin along my neck prickled. My wrights twined about me, twisting around my chest and settling over my heart, and the Heir’s eyes followed my vilewright behind his glasses. His fingers twitched toward me, and I took the place at his left side. Creek stood to his right, dragging Carlow by the arm and keeping her close. She pulled her goggles down to hang about her neck.

  “What’s bothering you, Your Excellency?” asked Creek, head bowed.

  “Your face,” she said. “I see it too often, and too often any news you bring me is disappointing.”

  He inhaled. “Apologies.”

  “Mother,” said the Heir.

  She cut him off with a look. “Alistair, you have missed every single court meeting this week, and as my heir, that is unacceptable. I didn’t save you so you could disappoint me.”

  He sniffed and nodded.

  “Your fiddling with the Door is putting my people in danger,” she said. “It baited multiple court members last night, and we cannot afford to lose their support. I heard even Lorena saw it in action.”

  She glanced at me.

  “No, Your Excellency.” I rolled my answer along my tongue, testing how much I could lie, and the magic demanded more. “I did not see the Door.”

  Whatever phantom Carlow I had seen wasn’t truly the Door.

  “Oh.” She clucked her tongue and ran her knuckles across my cheek. “You are so much better at this game than he is, even after the other day.”

  The Heir shivered.

  “And, Franziska, my darling, you look nervous.” The Crown stopped before Carlow and cupped Carlow’s face in her hands. “Remind me again the covenants of your curse.”

  “The first person I love dies.” Carlow lifted her chin and clasped her hands behind her back. “The second inherits my curse, and then I die.”

  “Tedious,” said the Crown. “This would be easier if you had Creek’s, but I suppose, since you can’t die, this will at least be fun.”

  Carlow started to tremble. “Why am I to…not quite die?”

  “You gave Shearwill your calculations. That is an unacceptable breach of trust and goes against my explicit orders. The people made aware of your little five-month deadline were the ones the Door lured in an attempt to open it.”

  Creek, hands hidden from the Crown, slipped a finger between Carlow’s hands and forced them apart. He splayed his hand across her back.

  “I went to Shearwill,” he said and met the Crown’s gaze without flinching. “You weren’t taking Carlow’s warnings seriously. If any of Cynlira is to be saved, the country—the whole country—needs fair warning.”

  The Crown hesitated, mouth open, and ran her tongue across her teeth. Her gaze slid from Carlow to Creek.

  “Shearwill hates Carlow,” I said. “I saw them arguing the other day, and I don’t think Shearwill would ever believe Carlow, much less meet with her.”

  The Crown turned to me and nodded, a smile slowly spreading across her face.

  “Lorena.” She glided to me and hooked one arm through mine as if we were strolling. “Do you want to kill Creek or should I?”

  This was what I wanted. This was what we needed. This was what had to happen for the Heir to see things through and save Cynlira.

  But when I opened my mouth to say I would kill him, nothing came out.

  “Consider this a learning opportunity.” The Crown stood me in front of Creek and placed a knife in my hands, curling my fingers around the handle. She backed away. “Remember, Lorena—there is always someone with dirtier, meaner hands than you, so who do you want holding the knife?”

  I moved without thought, jamming the blade between his ribs and directly into his heart. Carlow gasped, and the Heir stared straight ahead. Only Creek looked at me.

  He smiled and winked. I pulled out the knife.

  Creek dropped to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

  “That was unnecessary.” The Heir’s voice wavered. “On both counts.”

  I dropped the knife.

  Save him, I prayed to my vilewright. Save him as sacrifice for later. Don’t let this be for nothing.

  It swept across him and settled over my shoulders.

  “It wouldn’t have been necessary if you kept your wrought under control, Alistair.” The Crown picked up her knife and wiped the blood on the back of my coat. Julian’s coat. “Your research is done. You have three days to organize what you have and bring it to an end. There will be no more experiments with the Door. We have five months to prepare for the final sacrifice and the opening, and we must focus on how we will protect ourselves from the Vile.”

  Ourselves—she was going to sacrifice a tenth of Cynlira to buy time to save herself and her peers.

  “You will bind Lorena to me, and you will report to court and council meetings,” she said. “If you do not establish yourself now as someone not to be questioned, then the court will eat you alive.”

  “I killed a whole city,” he muttered. “Who doesn’t fear me?”

  “You cannot rule on the coattails of past victories,” said the Crown, turning from all of us and walking to the door. “You must give them new reasons to fear and obey you.”

  With the Crown’s back to her and attention elsewhere, Carlow nudged Creek with her foot. Tears pooled in her red eyes. She kicked him.

  Nothing.

  I stepped into the empty space at the Heir’s right side. “Carlow? I’m sorry.”

  I was, but I was still glad I could utter the words. It wasn’t a lie. I wasn’t a terrible person.

  “Get up,” Carlow mouthed. “Get up.”

  “He’s dead, Franziska,” the Crown said, “and you should take it as a threat.”

  Twenty-One

  The Crown left without another word. The Heir glanced at us, eyes hidden behind his glasses, and followed her. The door shut, and Carlow sunk to her knees, choking on a scream. Her fists slammed into her table. Creek’s blood was still warm on my hands.

  “You asshole!” She kicked him as she had that first day I met them, but this time, he didn’t move. “I can’t be the only one left. I can’t be.”

  His ribs crumbled like withered grass. I swallowed. Stay clear, my mother had always said, and focus on doing. I could panic later. The scent of blood filled my nose.

  “I’m so—”

  “Shut up!” Carlow kicked him again. “Del…”

  I flinched, and the quick patter of my heart pounded in my ears. White specks danced before my eyes.

  Take my sorrow and anxiety as sacrifice, I prayed to my noblewright. We’ll create something soon.

  I had never asked them to save sacrifices for creation and destruction later, but we would need all the help we could get to pull this off. My noblewright passed through me. The world cleared, and my attention sharpened. We had to act.

  “Does he have anyone who would want to claim him?” I asked.

  “Who would want him?” asked Carlow, rounding on me with bared teeth.

  I held up my hands. “We should move him now.”

  If we didn’t, he would get stiff and heavy, and if Carlow was the
sort of person I thought she was, she would soon have plans for him.

  “I can take care of him,” I said, “unless you’ve got an undertaker here.”

  They were grieving. I wasn’t. It was the least I could do.

  “Carlow,” I said, “do you want to say goodbye?”

  “Yeah.” She wiped her face and leaned her forehead against his. “Fuck you for leaving me alone here.”

  I found a guard to carry Creek to the healing houses. There was a small building meant for undertakers near it, the stone pool and tools far too nice to waste on the dead. Safia helped, showing me where everything was, and Basil stood watch with Carlow near the door. Neither could stand looking at Creek for long, but they couldn’t leave either. Carlow came while we were draining his blood.

  “You don’t want to be here for this,” said Safia.

  Carlow sighed, pulled a small bottle of mourning wine from within the pockets of her coat, and nicked the back of her hand. The cork came free with an easy pop. Her blood vanished. The cut remained.

  “My father died because he loved me, and his death passed this curse to me,” she said. “Poppy died because I loved her. There is nothing in this world left that can frighten me now.”

  “If you’re certain,” I said and cut into Creek’s body with trembling hands.

  “He was an ass until two years ago, you know, and then after Poppy died, something changed, like a new person with his face. Too little, too late.” She poured a finger of wine into the water at my feet. “The Crown likes me because I have suffered and my suffering has made me hard, but I don’t want to be. She likes suffering, thinks it makes us strong.”

  Carlow stared down at Creek’s corpse and dipped her finger into the water.

  “She doesn’t understand me at all. My suffering comes from fear for others, not fear for me,” said Carlow. “All she sees is a suffering girl and kinship. As if the only thing the world has left us as bond is pain. It left its mark, but I’m more than that. We are more than what the world has done to us.”

  “I’m sorry.” I did my work with my back to her, hiding the state of Creek’s body with mine. “The court, the council—all the folks running Cynlira right now should—”

  “Die,” she whispered.

  “—not be ruling over so much as a grocery list,” I said. “She doesn’t like us. She likes us as tools she can use.”

  Carlow nodded. “It’s guilt, I think. She wants to have suffered to make her accomplishments seem greater, like pain is a contest and she must be the winner.”

  She had suffered. Then, she had taken that suffering and made the rest of us drown in our own while she flourished. So what if she wanted to save me? That still left most of the world dying and dead. The Heir’s apathy would be worlds better than her violence. We could continue with the Door. If we did, the Crown would kill us. If we didn’t, the Door would open.

  “Do you remember?” Carlow asked. “All mortals are doors if you pry hard enough.”

  Wrist-deep in his chest, I froze. “You want to use Creek to make a new Door?”

  Every part of his death would be used—his loss for the Heir and his body for our work.

  “His noblewright was a piece of a Noble soul.” She paced around the table, ignoring Safia’s gestures for her not to, and peered into his corpse. “Finally, Del, you’re going to be useful.”

  “I’ll prepare him.” I looked at the sparse supplies of the room. “But we’ll need a way to get him to the laboratory.”

  “Bring him to the laboratory once you’re done. I’ll figure out how we can test it,” said Carlow.

  The Sundered Crown had threatened us all and told us to stop our research, but Carlow had come to this so easily. I grinned.

  “That’s a terrible plan. No sense at all.” Safia shook her head and patted Creek’s cold hand. “First, test out small pieces—bone, blood, and flesh to see what works best.”

  “Great,” muttered Carlow, “and if it works, we can drag him across the grounds, get caught, and be executed.”

  “Come.” Safia washed her hands clean and took Carlow by the arm. “Let’s give Lorena room to work.”

  They left me standing in the water I’d washed from Creek. I didn’t mind. I was soaking in the death of their friend, dress knotted around my knees and stockings off. I had nudged Creek toward death, so it was only fair I carry him through it. I placed his heart, two ribs, and a patch of unblemished skin aside. Carlow and he had spent so long trying to create things to stop the Door.

  “Maybe it was you all along,” I whispered.

  “Doubtful,” said Creek.

  I spun around. The room was empty, and Creek’s mouth hadn’t moved. I wiped his blood from my hands.

  “Just guilt,” I whispered and finished preparing him. “Rest well, Delmond Creek.”

  Carlow and Basil were in the laboratory when I arrived. Basil’s eyes were red, and Carlow’s hands shook. I set the box containing Creek on my desk. Carlow set the bowl of red dirt next to it.

  “You destroy some of the granules, and we trap what’s left in different versions of a lockbox made from Creek,” said Carlow. “We’ll see if using the body of a noblewrought keeps the granules from replicating.”

  Basil shuddered.

  “We create the containers first,” said Carlow, voice flat.

  We sat in a circle on the floor, the pieces of Creek and the Door between us, and contracted our noblewrights.

  From Creek’s bones, Carlow made a lockbox with one side so thin we could see through it. From his flesh and blood, Basil made a small puzzle box. From his heart, I made a chest no larger than my hand that would seal shut once I closed the lid. For it, I sacrificed some of the last good memories of my mother, and Basil gave up nearly all of their blood. Carlow refused to share her sacrifice. We had to spend two hours recovering after. Our wrights whined and ached.

  “Place three granules in each box,” muttered Carlow. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She placed three granules into two of the containers. I destroyed all six using Carlow’s blood as sacrifice, and she passed out immediately. The grains went up in smoke as they had every time before, and Basil caught the smoke in their bowl. I locked and sealed the other two. My wrights slumped against me. My awareness of them quieted.

  “That’s all I can do today,” I said, voice hoarse.

  Basil nodded. “That’s all I think we should do.”

  “Did it work?” mumbled Carlow, forehead pressed to the floor.

  Basil turned the box over in their hands and passed it to me. “See for yourself.”

  I leaned so that Carlow could see inside too.

  Inside the box, the black smoke of the destroyed Door pieces writhed and blustered but never reformed into granules. I peeked into my box. None had regenerated.

  “Well,” Carlow said, “he was finally good for something.”

  Twenty-Two

  The Crown came to my room the next day at noon. She did not knock or ask to enter. She looked at the papers on my desk and my exhausted face, her expression clearly implying that I had been found wanting.

  “Do you know why I like you?” she asked.

  I bowed my head. “No, Your Excellency. To be honest, His Majesty and I thought you would kill me.”

  “See? My reputation precedes me.” She glanced at me over her shoulder and smiled. “I might have if you were less interesting, but under all that bluster and fake honesty, you’re as furious as me. Was Felhollow ever what you wanted?”

  I was nothing like her.

  I had wanted my family. I had wanted Julian and Will. I had wanted Mack. I had wanted a home.

  “Yes,” I said, and she looked disappointed. “I wanted to survive.”

  “And you were happy like that?” In the chair at my desk, her dress fluttering around her as she cr
ossed her ankles, the wisps of her hair curling around her face, the soft slant of her mouth as her smile fell, she didn’t look threatening. She gestured for me to sit on the bed. “There was nothing else you wanted from life?”

  “I don’t mean for this to sound like an insult,” I said slowly and sat across from her. That was true enough; I didn’t want it to come across as an insult. “All I ever wanted growing up was safety and someone to trust. A home. Family. You always had that. You couldn’t understand.”

  Speaking uncomfortable truths always put people like her on the defensive. It was insulting that there was something she couldn’t understand.

  And she had killed her family.

  She took a deep breath, the muscles of her forehead tensing. I carried on before she could speak.

  “Your life was always this unreachable dream,” I said and gestured around me. “This was unreachable.”

  “You are dualwrought,” she said. “Nothing is unreachable for us.”

  “My mother feared what would happen to me if more than one peer wanted me. She was worried they would bind me too strictly or do something worse.”

  “She was right to fear.” The Crown’s tensions eased. “They would have bound you so tightly that every contract could have left you bleeding. They would have worked you to death by now or trained you up to assassinate me.”

  I would have failed, she didn’t say. She couldn’t be killed by the likes of me. It was the truth the same way gravity was.

  My mother would’ve loved this, killing the Sundered Crown. She’d killed enough of us. It was only fair.

  “You’re allowed to want more than surviving,” she said and unwound her spiraling bracelet, small joints snapping as it straightened. It unfolded into a long needle. “You have power many would try to deny you because they fear it or want it for themselves. You must stop fearing yourself. I can see it in your eyes when you sacrifice to your vilewright. Don’t be afraid to take power.”

  I took the needle and asked, “How did you get over the fear?”

  “I realized that without sacrifice, Cynlira would be torn apart by the squabbles of my peers and the council. They needed a strong figure to corral them. The people we sacrifice to the Door are hardly worthy of carrying on Cynlira’s legacy if they die so easily. Do not mourn them. Rejoice in what their sacrifice is building.” She held out her hand to me. “Destroy my memory of breakfast today. I ate alone and went over my correspondence. Losing it will be of no consequence. Don’t be afraid.”