by Kim Smejkal
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Act 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Interlude
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Act 2
Interlude
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Interlude
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Act 3
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Interlude
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
More Books from HMH Teen
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Copyright © 2020 by Jeannette Kim Smejkal
Map illustration copyright © 2020 by Virginia Allyn
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhbooks.com
Cover illustration © 2020 by Emilee Rudd
Cover design by Jessica Handelman
Author photo used with permission of the author
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Smejkal, Kim, author.
Title: Ink in the blood / by Kim Smejkal.
Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt , [2020] |
Summary: Celia and Anya, friends who use tattoo magic to send divine messages, must rely on one another to survive when they discover the fake deity they serve is very real—and very angry.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019001116 (print) | LCCN 2019002955 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358164500 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328557056 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Magic—Fiction. | Tattooing—Fiction. | Goddesses—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S5945 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.S5945 Ink 2020 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019001116
eISBN 978-0-358-16450-0
v1.0120
For my děda,
Ladislav Malek,
who believed I was a writer
long before I did
Prologue
The tattoo appeared around Celia’s ankle in the night. The magic woke her, the pain alarmed her, her mothers comforted her.
The thin black line summoned her to serve the Divine. It meant Celia was special.
So Celia asked for a chocolate. She figured the worst her mothers could say was no (like always), but if they were ever going to say yes, it would be when they were so proud of her they couldn’t stop crying.
But first they asked her to tell them the Divine’s story. Celia was already six years old and knew the story well enough. Standing in front of the hearth so the snaps and crackles of the fire would add to the performance, she cleared her throat and began.
A thousand years ago, a child found a magic box with some magic ink. With that special ink, the child tattooed people without touching them: when she drew a temporary line on her own skin, it became a permanent line on someone else’s. Didn’t matter how far away they were, either.
It was as if the child could talk directly to the angels. Her tattoos were mystical, and her messages were . . . pure. She wanted to help people make good choices.
Her mothers nodded and smiled. So far, so good.
But a few people got scared because the tattoos were so personal. Of course, they were meant to be personal. Those scared people got even more scared, and a few of them drowned that long-ago child. Held her underwater until she stopped breathing. They didn’t want her tattoos.
Celia inhaled. She hated that part.
But the child didn’t leave. Not really. She transformed into the Divine, still guiding us with her ink from afar.
Here, but not here. Celia fluttered her hands in the air vaguely. It was just like whoever had drawn her tattoo was here, but not here.
Then another child tried to claim the ink as hers. She tried to trick people. This was Diavala.
Celia loved saying that name, stretching it out, a word of whispered screams: Deee-aaah-vaaah-laaaaah . . .
But the clever faithfuls weren’t fooled. They exposed the second child’s treachery and killed her too. Diavala joined the Divine in that other realm, and they’ve battled for souls ever since: Diavala trying to lure people to hell, the Divine guiding them toward heaven with her magic tattoos. One day, when the Divine can best Diavala for good, she will return to us.
Celia bowed and politely asked for that chocolate.
Her mothers didn’t give her one; they banged on neighbors’ doors for hours, collecting as many sweets as they could. It became quite a party.
The next day, even after her mothers took her to the temple and left her there, Celia felt their love. She’d almost gotten sick from all of it.
If they were honored that their child had been called to serve the Divine, it had to be a good thing. It didn’t even occur to Celia to think it would be anything other than wonderful.
That’s how stupid she’d been.
Act 1
Chapter 1
Another question mark bloomed on Celia’s forearm, bigger and bolder than the others. The ink unfurled in an oily black stretched-out tentacle, wrist to elbow, the dot on the bottom a furious splatter. An hour ago Celia had still tried to hide Anya’s messages by tugging her shirtsleeve down. An hour ago she’d still cared that she was in a busy shisha lounge, surrounded by people who might notice the strangeness of Divine tattoos appearing, then vanishing, on her skin.
But lovely absinthe made cares like that disappear.
Celia pressed her finger to the angry splotch on the bottom. I’d tell you where I am, Anny, if only I knew! Her gaze drifted over the haphazard collection of empty glasses on the table in front of her. “Huzzah, absinthe.”
The rest of the room was alive with clusters of pretty people doing flirty things: enjoying their drinks and smoke, unwinding after a long day of doing whatever it was normal people did all day. Shimmering tenors, as individual as fingerprints and much more visible, shone around each body. Tenors were usually the boldest thing about a person’s look, but there in the lounge their glint and vibrancy blended in the fog of shisha smoke that swirled from the colorful hookahs. Glasses clinked, laughter swelled, and everything fluttered: colorful sleeves, loose pants, long hair, light from a hundred candles, jingly jewelry hanging from ears and wrists and necks.
With her black everything—short hair, suspenders, tie, top hat, attitude—Celia stuck out like a monochrome stain amid all the color and life. Judging by the lounge owner’s fluency in scowls, they’d finally noticed.
Not bothering to right her awkward sprawl, Celia smiled as they approached.
Or maybe it wasn’t a smile, but a frown.
> Whichever way was up. Whichever way was down.
“Time to move on,” they said, their voice a deep baritone.
No, time to take a hostage. Pulling the hookah to the floor, Celia clamped the large bowl between her legs and hugged tight around its neck. They wouldn’t muscle her out with so much expensive blown glass at risk. “A few more blasts, good soul,” she said, jiggling the mouthpiece in her hand and then putting it to her lips.
The smoke trapped in the bowl tasted like all the people who’d touched the pipe that day, swirling together. Dia, how long had she been sitting there, doing nothing but staring?
The owner raised their caterpillar eyebrows as Celia struggled to hold in a violent cough. “You’ve had the green fairy; you’ve had some shisha. Now out you go, Lalita.”
A flush crept up Celia’s neck. Fragile bird, my nimble little ass.
A few people had turned their attention toward the standoff, and as Celia hugged her hookah tighter, the lounge owner’s lips formed a grim line. “Here, hire a gondola and get home.”
As they dropped her own kropi back on the table—each copper coin etched with the creepy four-faced image of the Divine—the edge of a black tattoo peeked out from under their sleeve. Both reminders of “home,” the place no amount of absinthe could erase. Their big hands found her armpits. They lifted her up, an arm wrapped around her waist, and eased her out of the lounge.
On the wet street, mist replaced pink smoke, darkness replaced candlelight, gray streets replaced warmth and color. Someone shouted nonsense or poetry from a nearby balcony, their voice echoing in the night. As they rambled about a love gone wrong, (or perhaps their cat was missing?), Celia considered transforming the lament into a duet. Woe to the inklings who cannot escape! Mumble, mumble, rhymes with escape . . .
Another voice interrupted. “Cece!”
Anya. That same angry friend who’d messaged Celia all night. A twinge of guilt flared to life, and Celia stifled the urge to dart back into the lounge.
As she strode toward Celia and the owner of the lounge, Anya’s black hair lapped at her shoulders in tidy waves, her midnight-blue top hat perched perfectly straight. A buttoned-up trench coat flared out behind her thighs, and her umbrella doubled as a walking stick, tapping a rhythm into the cobblestones. Anya looked perfectly composed. Then, and always.
Long and low, Anya muttered “Dia . . .” under her breath as she approached. The lounge owner startled at the curse, dropped Celia’s arm, and took a step back, reacting as if Celia was the devil Anya had just named. Their look of shock was quickly replaced by one of anger and youth these days . . . no respect. They turned and stalked back into their bar, violently brushing the stain of blasphemers off their coats as they went. If Celia’s loitering hadn’t banned her from coming back, Anya’s curse just had.
Stifling a smirk, Celia bowed. “My love, my love, you’ve found me. The smoke was pink tonight. The shisha was happy.” She swore the smoke changed color depending on the shisha’s mood, logic be damned.
Anya steered her away, but they made it only around the first corner before Celia grabbed the nearest wall and painted her boots with a swirl of green fairy absinthe. Huh, looks exactly the same coming up as going down. She knocked her feet against the brick wall and wondered if someone would lick it later, grateful for a free drink.
Anya rubbed Celia’s back, her words tight despite the calming gesture. “You’re a disgusting creature, Celia Sand.”
That wasn’t news. Groaning, she pushed away from the wall and prepared herself for the lecture.
The air around Anya flickered in an aura of red hues. Everyone projected a tenor—an oscillating personal spectrum of gender in myriad colors. Tenors showed something infinite about a person and gave it over to concrete, manageable language: He, They, She, or No Thanks to Any of That. There were as many tenors as people in the world, and Anya’s tenor burned so familiar that Celia would have recognized it in a crowd of thousands. She knew Anya better than she knew herself, which meant that even before meeting Anya’s gaze, Celia knew she’d find a withering stare.
“You’re almost at the docks,” Anya said, grinding her teeth so the sound crunched its way up Celia’s spine.
Celia blinked in surprise—and a fair bit of pride—that she’d made it so far from the temple without remembering any of it. That explained the stronger than usual stench of fish.
“I know you got my messages,” Anya said. “Why did you ignore them?”
“I didn’t have my quill?” Celia ventured.
Inklings always had a quill. Usually many. One day Celia and Anya would wake up to find the raven feather fused to their fingers.
More horrible grinding, Anya’s whole jaw working hard until her nostrils flared with a deliberate exhale. About the biggest tantrum Anya was capable of throwing.
But no lecture came. Instead, “You have to get back.”
It took a moment for Celia to process Anya’s words. “What? Another one?” Her mind sputtered. She’d assumed that after the afternoon she’d had, she wouldn’t be missed for a while. She should have known better.
Anya nodded, and Celia’s cloud of guilt blossomed into a wild thing, growing heavier as Anya turned tender: tucking Celia’s hair behind her ears, straightening her top hat (a losing battle), and adjusting her blouse.
“Vomit everywhere,” Anya whispered. She wiped her fingers on the bricks beside them, her frustration fading away to sighs. She wrapped an arm around Celia’s smaller shoulders and squeezed. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Cece. When it’s over, when you’re okay, I need to know.” Only a short lecture, then. A familiar one.
Celia stared blankly, ignoring the occasional claps of arguments or drunken laughter assaulting her on the otherwise dead streets. The buildings were tightly pressed together and built upward, competing for space amid a crisscross of canals and bridges. More gondolas than rickshaws ferried the few people still about. So much water everywhere: it fell endlessly from the sky, was constantly underfoot, and . . .
Earlier that day, the temple had punished Celia with water. Cleansing, they called it: only a little, strategically poured, but enough to perfectly mimic drowning. The stories said that the Divine had drowned a millennium ago, which somehow justified repeating the horror on misbehaving inklings.
The punishment itself didn’t last long. A few minutes after she’d stood up from the wooden floor, soaking and gasping, Celia could have found Anya and told her it was over. She should have. But it wasn’t the first time she’d experienced that particular punishment, and it wouldn’t be the last, so what if the point was that she was never okay?
Celia took Anya’s hand and laced their fingers together, squinting into the creeping fog swirling over the canal and searching for a wayward gondolier for hire. If she could stretch her gaze around corners and westward, away from the Lassina Sea that hemmed them in, the stagnant Asuran canal must eventually find a real river. Far beyond the masses of buildings, docks, and mold, the land would gradually lift around her. Eventually they would leave the sogginess of Illinia behind and enter Kinallen, with its famous plateaus and spectacular hills. She tried to imagine it—crisp, dry air, bright sunshine, green cliffs, a country so breathtaking poets wrote songs about it—but it was like trying to savor a slice of ripe, rare apricot on your tongue while standing at the gallows.
The temple had more work for her: another Divine tattoo to complete, another person’s life to affect. If she took too long to answer the summons, she just might end the night as she’d started it: on a wooden plank floor with water pouring down her nose and throat, breaking off breath.
Woe to the inklings who cannot escape . . .
The prow of a dilapidated gondola broke through the thick gray fog—all peeling red paint, rotten wood, and ragged gondolier at the helm to match. His tenor flickered in silver hues, its natural brilliance dulled by the heavy air. Celia raised her arm to him. “Does anything rhyme with escape?” she
asked Anya.
Taking poetic license, Anya came up with quite a list as she stepped onto the boat: “Scrape, reshape, agape, agitate.”
She helped Celia in, continuing, “Translate, mistake, urinate, charade . . .” as the gondola sailed off into the mist.
Any of Anya’s words could have fit into the next line.
* * *
The Profetan temple stood atop the only hill in the waterlogged delta. Every alleyway, building, and canal in Asura boasted a good view of the looming stone turrets and waving flags. The algae-coated bulk was the city’s pride, the biggest red dot on every map of Illinia.
The giant statue of the Divine—the temple’s marble crown—perched on the highest tower, up so high it pierced through clouds. Human shaped enough to be familiar, inhuman enough to be sinister, the omniscient Divine was depicted as a robed figure with one head but four faces, each facing a different horizon. The Divine’s outstretched hands had one palm facing up to the angeli in the heavens and the other turned toward the diavoli of hell.
Each face and both palms boasted one large eye.
Those six eyes, gazing into all worldly horizons and the hidden realms of the afterlife, somehow comforted believers, as if omniscience equaled altruism. Celia had realized long ago that the Divine was either wildly malicious or didn’t exist to see anything at all. If she was so pure, all-knowing, and compassionate, how could she let her own religion turn so crooked?
Where the Divine supposedly guided the temple’s followers toward heaven, Diavala, the wicked trickster, lured victims toward hell. Carved into the same marble centerpiece as the Divine, Diavala peeked out in anguish from beneath the Divine’s robes. Reaching one crooked hand out for help, her lips hung open as if she’d been squashed mid-sentence.
The pathetic look was part of Diavala’s con, but Celia had always related to her position. She tipped her hat to Diavala in greeting, since her existence was far more likely.
Then she tipped her hat to the guards, who let them in after checking their expertly forged permission papers. Authentic passes giving inklings permission to leave the temple grounds were as rare as an Illinian sunny day, but the guards didn’t know that.
