"Pretty sure. I just don't want us to lose momentum, you know?" The priest adjusted his glasses again.
Two days. Satara took a deep breath. She could do that. It was two more days to collect herself and prepare for what happened next. And if it turned out she couldn't wait, one word to any of her friends and they would put the heat on Basile.
Silence fell again, and her gaze drifted down to the book. It wasn't more than a few minutes before she realized she'd read the same paragraph about eleven times, however, and lowered her head to rub her brow.
As she did, she peered at the sarcophagus. He'd given them some brief backstory, but she had so many questions. Maybe her focus would improve if she took a break? At this point, the least he owed her was some further explanation, if only to relieve her curiosity.
"Basile," she said, drawing his attention, "I understand why you put your mother in this coffin. But why do you keep it here with you?"
The priest seemed surprised she was asking. "Well ... I decided to keep it with me so that people wouldn't find it and open it in ignorance."
"But so close? Right here in your living room? Why not just keep it in storage, or somewhere else that only you can get into?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "I was afraid you might ask me that. I really don't want people to screw around with it, but…” A pause. “I also keep it as a reminder."
She tilted her head. "A reminder of what?"
A somber expression crossed his usually so pleasant face before he was impassive again. He looked away from her and, after a moment, sighed heavily and closed the tome he'd been thumbing through. His air was suddenly so gloomy that she wondered if he would actually answer.
"Well, Satara ... it's a reminder of what I am, what I could become ... and what I've already done." He stood, fixing the sleeves of his cassock. "Sometimes I need to remember that, even if I died tomorrow, I've already done a little good in this world."
He left her, then, and went to the window, arms crossed behind his back. What he saw out there, she didn't know. She got the feeling that if she joined him, she still wouldn't.
At length, he spoke again. "I didn't always dress like this, you know. There was a time in my life where I wore pants, can you believe it?" After a brief glance over his shoulder, he went back to his hawklike vigil. "But it wasn't the same. When I started putting on the cassock, everything ... changed. People—everyone—started to notice I was there. Even here in New York. They'd look me in the eye. They'd stop me. They'd touch me. People won't touch a police officer or a doctor, but a holy man ... any holy man, they'll touch."
"Is that a good thing?"
Basile shrugged a shoulder. "It's good for them. For me, it's ... I don't know. Draining? On top of being a priest, I'm a soul guy. You all fight about who's more important, who's too different, who's better and stronger and why." He planted his hands on the windowsill and leaned forward heavily. "But no matter how hard I look, all I can see is how you're alike. All I can see is your souls. And the souls of the people you forget about are just the same, you know? Homeless families reach out and stop me—they touch me—and all they want is to know that I can see them." He huffed and shook his head, gesturing upward. "If He can see them."
Satara hugged her knees to her chest. He sounded perturbed, almost. But not as though he was annoyed. More like … bitter. "Does that bother you?"
"I—" He was quiet for a second. "I don't know, Satara. Should it bother me that I've been lying to these people? Should it bother me that I wish I wasn't?"
"What do you mean?"
Basile threw up a hand, apparently at a loss briefly. "Catholic, Jewish, Muslim—it doesn't matter what it is. I just figure it's nice to believe in unconditional love. If I screw up, it's all over for me; Odin doesn't have the patience or frankly the capacity to forgive me. He can be a real selfish bastard."
Satara tilted her head. "You could believe if you wanted. There's nothing saying you can't. The Pantheons were born; something needed to create them, create the universe. You could decide what you wanted to believe in."
"I don't know how to believe in anything anymore. Maybe I never did." One of the hands on the windowsill turned into a fist. "I can't be sure of even one thing I'm doing. I can't be sure if this is all for nothing. I can't even be sure..."
He trailed off, and Satara waited for him, watching his back with a dour look of her own. This was not the same man she had met two days ago. This was not the man who spoke carelessly of human lives and dismissed peoples' suffering. Something inside of him was festering—poisoning him as surely as her wings poisoned her.
"If I keep doing this," he began, voice quieter than before, "if I keep trying to help people, taking spirits into me ... is it true that I'll get emptier? If I don't stop, one of these days, am I just going to wake up so hungry that I … I'll be evil? All because of the damn soul?"
She watched him closely. "If you did, what would you do?"
"Well, now that you're here, you can kill me." Basile looked over his shoulder. "Eternal life isn't worth much; take it from me. I'd rather die well and have people say I was a good man. Or whatever I am."
"You are a good man," Satara murmured. She patted the stone coffin. "And you always have been. Remember?"
Basile watched her for a long moment. Then, as if they'd never had the conversation, he turned and switched gears immediately. "That's enough of a break. We don't want Edie and Marius to catch us shooting the breeze when we're supposed to be plugging away. Plus, I’ve only cleared my schedule for the next week.”
He sat down again, opening his book. Satara returned to hers as well, but the thoughts racing through her brain did little to help her already struggling focus.
After a few minutes, Basile relieved her. With a hum, he pointed to something on the page he was reading. "You know, I've only visited the Wending a few times, but I always forget that for you living people, it doesn't really feel like a physical place."
"The other Worlds are physical, though, aren't they?" Satara asked. "If I knew the way, I could walk to the gates of Asgard right now."
"That's right. But the Wending isn't like Hel or Midgard or Alfheim. It's not a World, it's a plane. A ... layer. A space in between." He waved a hand. "They're easier to get to from other in-between places. Something to think about."
She nodded.
"There's also the issue of figuring out how to get you inside while you're still alive." And as suddenly as he'd switched gears a moment ago, the priest switched them yet again. He pinned her with a stare. "Why don't you want to be a valkyrie?"
Satara was taken off guard by the question, and she hesitated for a moment. He was an agent of Odin, Lord of the Valkyir. Was this some kind of test? "I don't know what you're talking about."
He squinted. "Now, that's just not fair. Anyone with eyes could see it. You're a melancholy one, you know that?"
"I really don't—"
"Whenever we talk about your investiture, or valkyir, or anything having to do with any of it ... you freeze up. Go cold." He huffed. "I mean, good lord, you're more scared of dying than you are excited to become one of the most important beings in the universe. Do you know how crazy that is?"
"It's not crazy," she returned firmly. Her patience for his attitude was wearing thin. She much preferred the thoughtful, frightened man she'd conversed with a few minutes ago. "If you knew the life I have ahead of me, you wouldn't have to ask."
"I know a thing or two about valkyir."
"And I lived with one. I saw."
Basile searched her face thoughtfully. "All right ... then tell me."
Satara took a deep breath, setting aside the book in her lap and pressing her temples. Perhaps it was best to start at the very beginning.
"In the forest surrounding the village I grew up in, there was this oak. It was huge, and ancient, and there was a hollow in the trunk so wide that my brother, Darras, and I would climb in and hide for hours. As he grew older, he couldn't fit into it anymore, and it wasn't any f
un without him, so I abandoned it, too.
"But we still went to the forest together. He was training to be a defender. Not a warrior; he was adamant about that. A defender. He was always armed with this enormous shield, and no matter how hard I pushed on it, as a child, I could never make him waver. We'd play games where we faced a challenger, and he'd guard me as I pretended to cast magic and heal him.
"One day, while we were playing, he ... he suddenly went still. Looking into the forest, like a deer. Listening. I yelled to ask him what was wrong, but he never answered. He just picked me up, shushed me, and shoved me into the hollow of the oak. I was barely small enough to fit."
Her hands shook. She almost paused to collect herself, but no—she had to be out with this story in one stroke, or it would never come out at all.
"Before I could even guess at what was happening, a troop of men tore out of ... nothing. Darkness. There were so many of them, and they all jumped on Darras. I shut my eyes and hid my face, but I could hear them fighting: the cries, the swords, his shield digging into the dirt. Then I heard … it sounded like water—"
Satara closed her eyes. No. She couldn't touch that memory.
"My brother died defending me, and when his attackers stopped to search his corpse, I slid out of my hiding place and I ran. I warned the village that there was a hostile party coming, but … the men never came. Our scouts only ever found Darras's body. And a few months later, my training began. Training to become a warrior." She could feel her face crumple but could hardly stop it. "They trained me to fight, like what I had done wasn't good enough. But I was only a child."
Basile slid off the couch, sitting on the floor across from her. "And what does all that have to do with being a valkyrie? You don't strike me as the type to be contrary for no reason."
"I've seen Astrid," Satara whispered. "I saw what her life was like. She was sad and lonely and angry all the time, Basile. I don't want to forget what it's like to be human. I want to love and be loved, without weapons and armor strapped to me. I don't want to be waging war my entire life.” Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. “I can’t spend every day on the warpath like Astrid did."
"Right. Astrid." The priest was thoughtful for a moment. "Tell me ... if you weren't forced to be a shieldmaiden, if you weren't destined to become a valkyrie, what would you do with your life?"
She blinked, wiping her eyes. No one had ever asked. Not even Edie, who had a penchant for absentmindedly asking deeply personal questions. "I always wanted to tend the dead ... to help them and their families move on. Like my mother and father. They're a death priestess and an undertaker, respectively. Or to maybe be a battle healer, like my great-grandmother."
"My gods." A bemused grin split Basile's face, and he laughed, gesturing to her. "You know you can do exactly that as a valkyrie, don't you?"
"But—"
"Valkyir choose who lives and dies in battle—and yeah, that's hard. But listen ... a battle healer cuts throats just as much as they patch up wounds. A death priest helps the dead pass on and leave their bodies behind. Both of those things are exactly what valkyir do."
Satara simply stared. "Valkyir go to war all the time. That’s how Astrid's battlemother died."
"Yeah, valkyir sometimes do battle." Basile held his hands up. "Sure. But everyone does once in a while. Most of the time, they're either reaping souls or just sitting around doing whatever the hell they want. Whatever they're good at, ideally." He quirked a brow at her. "Apparently Astrid was good at sitting around being angry."
"But she always said..." Satara trailed off and frowned.
"Well, she would, wouldn't she? What immortal being isn’t convinced they’re right about everything? But her box isn't yours." He laughed again. "You know, I once saw two men after a battle, both soaked up to their elbows in blood. One was a warrior, bathed in the stuff after mowing his way through the battlefield. The other was a medic, covered because he'd been amputating limbs and suturing gut wounds." He clapped his hands together, apparently proud of his anecdote. "They looked the same, but those are two different vocations. See?"
"You say I can just do whatever I want”—Satara sighed—"but valkyir are aspects of Odin. We have duties we have to see to."
"Yes, but like I said, they're duties you seem to already like. And besides those? It's all up to you. Hell, I've met valkyir who are poets." Basile shrugged and sat back on the couch. "Odin is the god of poetry, after all. War, too. And death. He’s got lots of facets, and so do valkyir. No two of you are exactly alike.”
Satara went quiet, idly flipping through one of the books in front of her. She wasn’t sure what to make of what Basile was saying. Even beyond her apprehension, there was still so much to think about—going from human to valkyrie was a transition she could barely comprehend. Her life, her very being, would change in every aspect. And not to even know what to expect … even if she decided she didn’t mind the idea so much, it was a lot to think about.
After a period of silence, the priest stood, grabbing his empty mug in one hand and a book in the other and meandering into the kitchen.
Left with her thoughts, Satara spared a glance over her shoulder. As if in answer, her fledgling wings sprouted from her back, stretching out with a gentle shimmer and a puff of down. They were more opaque than they had been when they’d first appeared. But the past couple days, she’d noticed how easily the shadowy feathers came loose in her hands.
These wings were heavy, so much heavier than she ever could have imagined. They truly had no substance, were barely corporeal at times, and yet her body strained to hold them up.
Why had Astrid left her with these, and no guidance on how to be rid of them?
Satara folded them up again, and they disappeared. With Astrid gone, she would never get a definitive answer. It was time to stop asking the question.
She could either forge ahead into the unknown, or let this kill her.
Chapter Seventeen
"You said Scarlet was there?" Edie said into her phone, already passing the bag she was holding to Marius so she could block out the sounds of traffic with her other hand. Whatever Cal had just said, she must have heard him wrong.
"You got bugs in your ears, Holloway? Yeah, Scarlet. The bitch herself. She was at this asshole's house tryin' ta ice Frankenstein."
Edie exchanged a glance with Marius, mumbling, "One sec, Cal," before lowering the phone. "Adam's friend asking him to hang out was an ambush."
"Wonderful," the vivid replied with a sigh, watching the traffic from the sidewalk where they had stalled. "I suppose that means lunch is canceled?"
"For me, anyway. He got out alive and he's home, but I should probably go over there." She turned, looking at the nearest subway station, then back at Marius. "Can you tell them what happened?"
He seemed apprehensive but nodded anyway. "Fine. Just take care. Wait, your food—"
Edie had already started trotting away. She called over her shoulder, "I'll be fine! Just keep it!" When she reached the subway entrance, she lingered, lifting her phone again. "I'm on my way."
“Make it snappy,” Cal replied, and hung up.
She made the trip in record time, and when she entered Adam's apartment, she found him and Cal sitting at the dining room table, a large book open between them.
"So ... the dice tell you how strong you are?" Cal was saying.
"Yeah, you roll the dice to get your stats, and your stats determine what kind of armor you can use, your weapons, what skills you're good at, things like that. There's lots of different ways you can roll them—"
"Wait, but what if the dice give me a real shitty number?"
"Then ideally you want to put that number into your dump stat. Your least important stat, basically. So if you're a Wizard or Warlock, you could dump strength, or a Barbarian might want to dump intelligence—"
"What, my guy can't get his GED? I can't roll to watch some PBS or somethin'?"
"Uhhh, well, I guess
you could use your Ability Score Improvements if you really wanted to."
Edie crept a little farther into the room, closing the back door behind her. "Whaaat is going on here?"
Adam almost jumped, looking over his shoulder sheepishly. "Oh, Edie. Hi."
She approached the table, lifting the cover of the book. "Player's Handbook." She glanced at Cal. "For what?"
"Doorknobs and Dickholes!"
"Dungeons and Dragons," Adam corrected.
"Dragons, Drive-Ins, and Dives."
Adam looked at Edie. "I give up."
"Thought it might make him feel better to talk about somethin' ... ya know, familiar." Cal leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Imagine my surprise when he starts talkin' to me about elves and dwarves and shit."
"It was a little less overwhelming when I thought those things weren't real," Adam mumbled. He closed the player handbook, addressing Edie. "You didn't have to come over here if you were in the middle of something. I'm okay."
It was nice to see him doing all right emotionally, but he looked like he had one foot in the grave. She was used to a similar sight in the mirror after using a ton of magic. "Judging by your face, I'm guessing you were able to fight her off?"
He nodded. "I mean, as best as I could. It was more of an ... expulsion than anything."
Cal pulled a face. "Expulsion?"
"It could be worse," Edie said with a shrug. "You could be magically constipated."
"Consti— You motherfuckers are gross."
"I’m not sure if my situation is any better, Edie. I don't wanna hurt anyone."
She sighed. "When you see more from the Gloaming, you will want to."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Well," Cal said casually, "if you wanna make sure you don't hurt anyone on accident, you'll need to manage your magic better. Make it less like explosions and more like lasers. You thought about getting a focus? Like a wand or somethin'?"
"If you're about to send me to Diagon Alley, you can shove it up your ass, Cal."
The revenant raised his hands in defense. "Well, excuuuuuse me for trying to fix your problem!"
Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3) Page 17
