by Kim Smejkal
Celia swallowed. “Did you feel it?” She swallowed again. “The Flogging?” She thumbed the tracks of scars between her fingers before forcing herself to clasp her hands tight in her lap.
Diavala boomed a hearty laugh, so toxic and strange coming from Vincent’s mouth that Celia thought she’d be sick. “My history is ancient, Inkling. Why waste your breath on a question like that?”
But it hovered between them, the acknowledgment that something had gone wrong in Diavala’s lengthy story. And with it, the acknowledgment that she’d been Divine once, trying to help people with the ink. That they’d repaid her by drowning her. She’d fought to return, bargaining away her own power over the ink. They’d repaid her again by flogging her new mortal body to death. Her pivotal moments are of death and torture, of something good twisted into something bad. Celia’s gut clenched. When exactly, on that long road, had she turned cruel? When did her mission become one of power instead of altruism?
She’d been invisible since. Anonymous. Stealing body after body. Taking away choice and free will, punishing all descendents of those who’d wronged her in a subtle game only she knew about.
Celia lifted the hem of her dress, exposing the hairline tattoo that labeled her an inkling. Without knowing why, she whispered, “Do you miss this?” Such an intimate betrayal, to awaken the ink’s power in the mortal realm and then lose the ability to use it.
“I can follow the ink wherever it goes. I miss nothing.” But despite how hardened the statement was, Celia knew the lie of it. Diavala did miss things; otherwise she would have discovered Celia’s and Anya’s temporary manipulations with the ink long ago.
Diavala exhaled and broke eye contact.
And because she looked away, because it was the first time she’d been anything other than wholly confident in her words, Celia noted them.
Diavala saw her noting them.
Vincent’s eyebrows knotted in confusion. He glanced around his room as if he didn’t remember getting there. Maybe he didn’t.
“What were you saying?” he asked.
With shaking fingers, Celia folded Vincent’s now-soaked blanket and gave him a light hug that turned into a hard hug. She yearned to reach into his throat, find the thread of Diavala’s essence, pinch it between her fingers and pull it out and wind it around a spool and use it to sew a new, dry blanket for Vincent to replace the one she’d made damp. With the embrace, she said, I’m so sorry about your humming bones, Vincent. I’m doing what she wants. I promise this is for you. But her words answered, “Only that the show always goes on.”
“As long as you bring me more believers, Celia.” Diavala.
This was a madness she couldn’t handle.
Laughter burned its way out of Celia’s throat. But as she laughed, Diavala’s last word echoed . . . Celia, Celia, Celia . . . For the first time, Diavala had said it without rancor.
“Or,” Diavala said, “it will end with your friend Zuni weeping as ash falls from her pyres, coating her like snow. Don’t forget what you need to do here. Everything in your world extends only as far as my patience.”
Tipping her head in a minute bow, Celia choked back all the things she wanted to scream and heard herself say, “I’m focused, Diavala.”
“Why so obsessed with the devil, Lalita?” Vincent shifted on his bedroll and, with a frown, reached to pick up the family portrait again, tracing the faces of his old family.
Enough.
Her mind told her to go back, continue the conversation. Her feet moved in the opposite direction. She ran out of the wagon and away, no destination in mind except distance. “Did you win your tile game?” Caspian called after her as he trotted off to clean dishes. Anya must have told a white lie to keep people away.
“Nah.” Celia forced a laugh. “My opponent is too good!” She darted behind the head wagon, her laughter transforming to retching. How could Anya still believe they could overcome something that ruled the religion of the land, that precious few knew the truth about, that couldn’t die, and that wore the face of a friend?
But even as she emptied her stomach, her skin on fire and her insides buzzing, she thought about Diavala’s pause, her quick retreat, almost as if she needed to collect herself. A moment where Celia had seen something new in the devil herself.
Weakness.
Chapter 17
Despite wagon-to-main-stage origami, the underbelly of the head wagon stayed constant. In the dark crawlspace underneath, amid a labyrinth created by stacks of boxes and props, Celia sat where the wooden slats above her pressed together and wouldn’t betray her hiding spot. The fleeing-from-the-conversation-with-Diavala tumble of her stomach wouldn’t settle.
After lighting a candle and putting it on a crate next to her, she lifted her sodden skirt and stared at the bare expanse of skin on her upper thigh. At the temple, it had been her favorite body part for inking Divine orders: a large enough space to accommodate the design, it didn’t require too much contortion, and she could use either hand.
Zuni . . .
Celia imagined inking a message—on her thigh to Zuni’s. Something sweet first. A message only Zuni would understand: a collage of all the feathers Celia had ever found for her. Then questions: Are you sleeping okay? How are our favorite skulls—Bruno? Jasmyna? Saccharine?
Divine tattoos were always inked one-to-one—they’d been taught that the image had to be drawn exactly how and where it would appear on the receiver’s body. But with Diavala’s bravado ringing so false, it was foolish to assume that was exactly how the ink worked. Celia couldn’t stop thinking about the question posed by Wallis’s stressed-out friend weeks ago: Can the image change size when we send it to the receiver’s body? At the time, Celia had brushed it off as the lament of an overwhelmed apprentice, but now?
If everything they’d been taught served Diavala’s purposes, it was possible that they knew little about the ink’s true capabilities.
Then she imagined inking a plea: Tell me what to do, Zuni. I have no idea.
I can’t see more death. I refuse to cause it.
But what if Anya was right? What if there was a chance to take Diavala’s power away? Use her ink in a way she didn’t expect? Their entire act depended on a loophole. Celia’s existence as an inkling was because of one, and it was clear now that Diavala didn’t have as much power over the ink as she let on. Could they find a loophole big enough to pull Diavala herself through it?
The twinkling candle on the crate beside her kept her company as her heartbeat counted out the seconds. She couldn’t ink Zuni without putting her at risk, and even if she did, Zuni couldn’t respond. But Celia pretended, tracing the images and words she wanted to say with her fingernail on her leg, trying to find comfort. Trying to assuage her crippling fear.
The sounds of the Mob got louder above her: people shouting exclamations as they enjoyed the rest of their break; laughter and footsteps; some muttering about her. The rain had lightened enough for them to head outside and stretch their legs, and she wondered if Vincent was among them. The bangs, exclamations, and giggles piled on top of one another, threatening to crush her under their weight.
Someone opened the hatch leading to her hiding spot. With a quick lick of her thumb and forefinger, she pressed the wick and extinguished the candle. She expected Remy, who excelled at finding her when she didn’t want to be found, but the steps landed too gently.
Celia watched the plague doctor make his way through the maze of items, hunching so his hat didn’t knock against the low ceiling. A small purple flame hovered an inch above his outstretched palm, lighting his way. He strode with purpose toward the opposite corner of the basement room.
If she tried to hide herself better, she’d definitely knock something over. If she called out to let him know where she was . . . he would know where she was.
So she let him rustle around and go about his business (muttering constantly in some personal version of Riddlish), waiting for him to leave. She peered down at where her leg would
be—if she could see it—as if she could touch Zuni with the intensity of her stare. Or tell Wallis and the other fleas a bedtime story. Or even see Dante, stupid crooked smile and all.
Celia learned the hard way that the plague doctor could throw his voice. The muttering hadn’t changed volume, he still sounded a safe distance away, but the purple flame in his hand turned the corner to reveal Celia.
“Privacy!” she shrieked, shifting and dropping her skirt.
He held his hands out at his sides in a gesture of peace, one hand absently tossing his purple flame so it flitted up and down like a feather, but he didn’t leave. “What are you doing?” His head cocked to the left.
Despite covering herself, she’d assumed an awkward pose, both of her hands pressed against one thigh. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I live here.”
“Well, so do I, smart-ass.”
His shoulders went tight, as if holding in laughter; the bobbing flame froze. “No. I meant, I live here.”
“Here,” she said, deadpan. “In storage.” All this time she’d assumed he slept in the same wagon as Kitty Kay. She’d thought it vaguely weird, but since everything about the Mob was vaguely weird, she’d accepted it.
“Well, over there.” He tossed a spark of purple flame over a rack of costumes in the far corner. “So you’re in my bedroom, in the dark, with your skirt up around your waist. Why—exactly?”
Coupled with her already madly thumping heart, blood rushed to her face so fast she saw stars. She grabbed for a smart comeback, but it eluded her. She grabbed her candle instead. “I didn’t know you slept here. I’ll leave.”
“No, no, no. I insist you stay. This is the best spot to conduct nefarious plots of any kind.” He paused significantly. “Or whatever else you might have been doing under your skirt.”
She flushed deeper. Everything an opportunity for innuendo with him.
Although, now that he’d mentioned it, that wasn’t the worst idea.
But instead of retreating to the hatch, he grabbed a crate and sat opposite her. Close. With his elbows on his thighs, he made the sparrow-size flame hop from one palm to the other. With every jump, his mask flashed periwinkle or plum.
Celia watched it dance. “Are you trying to hypnotize me?”
The plague doctor didn’t respond.
Until he did. “Let’s have a conversation.”
Those words meant that this couldn’t possibly go well for her. “All right. Tell me how you make your fire.”
His lips quirked into an even wider smile, but it was tight, painful-looking. “A secret for a secret?”
Trap. “I don’t have time for your games. If this is about my little . . . our . . . thing . . . driving the wagon . . .”
“Our dance?” he offered.
She nodded. “It was stupid, and I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not surprised we fit together so well.” His tone still said irritating.
She smoothed her skirt with clenched fists and made to stand, but she stopped when his smile stumbled, then fell away completely.
“Let’s try five minutes, Celia.” He pressed his hands together and extinguished the sparrow. “We can do this.”
Flushed and embarrassed as she was, being pitched into abrupt darkness didn’t calm her. Her heart moved to her collarbone and expanded, hot and huge, trying to force its way into her throat.
He’d blended into dust and shadows. “My purple and blue flame is made from a spectacular but harmless combustion of a common powder mined in Kinallen. The place where the land is so high, so flat, you can reach up and touch the stars. It’s only magical for people who yearn to see magic.”
Rustling met her ears, distant and close at the same time because the boom of her heartbeat had overtaken the world. He reached through the darkness and opened her palm. “Rub your hands together, then open them quickly.”
If he’d dropped something in, Celia couldn’t feel it. Only the warmth of his hand cupping hers from underneath.
He guided her motions—taking both hands, pressing them together lightly, back and forth, then opening—and out of nothing burst a tiny purple flame. With the slightest pressure from his movements leading her, the flame bobbed. “Create movement in the air, slight and small.”
Mesmerized by the light, wondering again if the plague doctor could hypnotize, she took over the movements. The flame responded to every subtle shift, as if held by an invisible string. She raised her hands in front of her at eye level, trying to give the bouncing flame a rhythm. If she thought about it, she lost control. It became more a matter of willing the flame where she wanted it to go, and the subconscious movements of her body did the rest.
“Whatever you do, don’t sneeze.”
A bark of a laugh erupted out of her. The flame shot the small distance toward the plague doctor, but he snatched it from the air before it hit him.
The renewed darkness swallowed them, but not before she caught a glimpse of the face of the maskless plague doctor sitting in front of her.
“Or laugh.” His rumbling chuckle was nothing like his megaphone laugh. “Are you disappointed it’s not true magic?”
“No. I’m disappointed that I didn’t notice you’d taken off your mask.” Celia had never spoken such an understatement in her life. Nothing of his image had coalesced. Her bees erupted, their chaos absolute. They fought to stretch the glimpse out longer, pulling and tugging at the gossamer threads of impossibility.
“Well, the plague doctor doesn’t give away his secrets. Especially ones that steal from his allure.”
“But Griffin does?”
A slight pause. “I suppose so.” He exhaled slowly and shifted. “I don’t tend to give him much thought.”
Why? she wanted to ask. Where did Griffin go?
Only more subtle rustling as an answer, her ears coming alive with the sound of movements she couldn’t see. “Quite a few years ago, there was an actor in the Mob named Stash. He played Gemello in the main show, and he only spoke while performing. It was as if his tongue worked only in front of a crowd. ‘Is Stash short for mustache?’ I’d tease him. And he’d smile and nod, like, ‘Whatever you say, infant.’ I followed him around like a puppy, waiting for him to talk to me.”
He paused for so long, Celia wondered if the story ended there. The darkness suddenly felt like his protection, warm and thick, heavy and soft. “And?”
The maskless plague doctor in the dark stayed silent for a long time. He cleared his throat. Shifted. Leaned closer so the air around her got warmer. She imagined his lips hovering inches from hers in the darkness: waiting, unsmiling, true.
When he spoke again, she didn’t hear a trace of a smile in his words. “This standoff with you isn’t as much fun as I remember the one with Stash being.”
He put his hand on her thigh gently. Even for the plague doctor, it was too intimate a touch. With it, he told her he knew something was wrong. “I just wanted to say . . .” He paused. Inhaled. “Seeing death is hard for me too.”
Celia pulled away as if he’d transformed into a snake. “What? How did you—” How could he possibly know her fear?
“If that’s what it was like for you, no wonder you needed to run away. I never imagined the taking of a life could be so . . . routine.”
The mistico in Sabazio. The plague doctor thought she was acting strange because of the trauma of watching Mistico Dominic die. And he was right, but it was so much more. “I—” She swallowed. “I don’t—”
All her usual instincts when someone touched too close to truth—denial, flippancy, misdirection—abandoned her. They’d entered a quiet moment of parley, impossible to fight.
If what Lilac had said was true, if he’d died and gone somewhere other before coming back, he’d know better than anyone whether that other was something to fear.
He might know where Salome was. Where her mothers were. Where so many souls Celia loved had gone.
What might hap
pen to Vincent if they failed.
“What’s it like?” Celia could barely ask the question, didn’t know if she wanted the answer. Everyone knew the plague doctor didn’t talk about it. But he had touched the inevitability they all traveled toward—the one she was terrified Vincent would be shoved into much too early because of her.
“I described it out loud once. Alone. To see if I could.” He hesitated, clasped his hands together, close to her, warm but no longer touching her. “It felt all wrong. And now those words are out there, floating around where they don’t belong. They don’t belong here, Celia.”
“If it was wonderful, you’d talk about it, wouldn’t you?” she whispered, so glad he couldn’t see the buildup of tears in her eyes.
The ache in her throat had grown.
He answered her by not answering. “I hope one day you feel safe here.” The sobering tone of his voice, smileless, maskless, ripped a tiny fissure in her heart. For the first time, he sounded completely sincere. What in devil’s hell was she supposed to do with that?
When she didn’t respond, the ache too overbearing, he took his whisper with him as he left, his warmth pulling away at the last possible moment. She heard him don his mask, clear his throat, and leave her behind in the darkness. Another Your move, Celia, but this time she didn’t hear a sharp edge at all.
She heard an invitation. Maybe the same one he’d repeated from the beginning.
Chapter 18
Fans at the Rover gates in Malidora greeted them as they approached. The plague doctor had to pull the stage wagon, and therefore the entire caravan, to a halt. He shouted instructions for the unruly crowd to move out of the way and persuaded a drunk to come down from his perch atop the arched gate lined with oversize Commedia masks, where he’d been swinging a bottle and singing a bawdy folk song about one of the Commander’s conquests.
“It wasn’t like this in Sabazio,” Anya whispered from the corner of her smiling mouth as she waved. It was a good thing—exactly what Diavala wanted—so it felt ominous.
Someone began playing a banjo; more voices sang. The plague doctor shook his head as he clicked his tongue and flicked the reins to get the horses moving again. “No, it was not,” he said. Slow, measured, pleased but perplexed.
