by Kim Smejkal
Celia swallowed, but managed, “Aw, you do like me.”
His deep brown eyes drilled into her but were slightly less crinkled in the corners.
“Sorry I ruined your night,” she said.
He cracked his knuckles, went back to the curtain, and peered out again. “I never got my card reading. It’s the only reason I came.”
“Well, let me tell you something about that. It’s horseshit. Like the ink, like the temple, like our lives. Like everything in the world.”
Nero stared at her with a blank expression. “You don’t believe that.”
“Oh, I do.” Celia put her head down and stared at the floor.
At least, she used to.
* * *
Nero hadn’t lied about Captain Andras. She was a vaguely human-shaped shard of obsidian.
“The Rovers have all been questioned,” she barked at Nero, tapping her toes with her long baton as she paced, accentuating every word. A jagged tattoo crept up both sides of her neck, ringing its way deep into her hairline like a chokehold of ink, and Celia would have bet her life that Captain Andras hadn’t tilted sideways to see a different message.
“We’re escorting Celia Sand back to Asura so she can face Profeta’s judgment.” No mention of Anya or anyone else, so Celia took a moment to daydream a cartwheel.
Then the captain shoved her baton in Celia’s face. “The beaked young thing who looks like death is going to be a big pain in my ass, and you put that thorn there. I don’t like thorns.”
No.
That sounded as if everyone would come with them. Her mental cartwheel stopped mid-spin, leaving her tilted all wrong. Celia smelled the tang of copper, saw the wet, glistening end of the baton. Was that fresh blood on it? Plague-doctor-being-a-pain-in-her-ass blood? How hard and how many times would you have to hit flesh with a baton to draw blood? “I hope it was worth it, Celia Sand. Your extra-special heresy will deserve such extra-special treatment, I can’t even imagine.” Her eyes glimmered as if she’d already tried, very hard, to imagine, and had enjoyed every moment.
As she loudly complained to Nero about the logistics of travel, a group of her officers came in, muscling Anya and Kitty Kay into the chairs beside Celia. They were both bound, but where Kitty Kay looked angry and discomposed, Anya was tattered to the point of ruin. A still-bleeding scrape wept blood down her cheek before getting soaked up by a gag, which looked to be made of her own previously white dress. From the way her ocean-blue eyes blazed, Celia knew she’d brought that chaos on herself.
The rush of blood to her head made Celia’s eyes burn, and Nero stared at her hard, peeling back her reaction layer by layer. She made herself shrug with indifference and nodded to Kitty Kay. “But these people aren’t guilty of anything except stupidity. We conned the whole troupe. They didn’t know what we ran from.”
Kitty Kay stared straight ahead, jaw clenching. “No, that’s not entirely true. I knew. I covered for you and diverted the Mob’s questions. You’re not that clever, devil. I did all the heavy lifting for you.” She stared at the ink on Captain Andras’s neck when she spat out, “I hate Profeta so much that my shield was impenetrable.”
Pretending this was news, Celia arranged her face into anger at the insult, then confusion, then grudging admiration. “Well then,” she mused. “I’d thank you, but given the circumstances . . .” She gestured at their captivity.
Anya threw in a violent, muffled scream of frustration, but in her case, she wasn’t acting.
Nero raised a dubious eyebrow and crossed his arms but said nothing at their little exhibition. Didn’t even snort his opinion again.
“I have no idea what’s going on here.” Captain Andras said, looking between Celia, Anya, and Kitty Kay as if she expected one of them to tell her. “Fortunately, it’s not up to me to figure it out. Un fortunately, your mask came off on my turf, and I have orders to return you to those who own you. Un fortunately, I’ve been instructed to bring an entire freak show along too. What were you even doing here, Ferrara?” A barked insult, not a legitimate question, so Nero didn’t bother responding.
Who was issuing these orders?
The curtains fluttered, and two people entered. When the lamplight illuminated their faces, Celia moaned. Beside her, Anya sucked in a breath.
The first mistico was one from Sabazio, who’d been there to confront Kitty Kay about the Mob’s message but had ended up having to slit the throat of a Touched colleague instead. “Nice to see you again, Solemn Mistico Aurelio,” Kitty Kay said, her tone saying the very opposite.
The second mistico stepped forward. Iron-gray eyes peeled back the layers of Kitty Kay’s forced calm as he’d done countless times before. A slight smile lit High Mistico Benedict’s lips when he looked between Celia and Anya.
They understood Diavala’s greeting. Hello again, Inklings.
High Mistico Benedict cleared his throat. “On Ruler Vacilando’s order, you’re to return to Asura with us.”
Mistico Aurelio fumbled in his satchel, wordlessly producing a letter with Ruler Vacilando’s seal, holding it up for Kitty Kay to read. She promptly turned her head away. Even amid the tumble of her emotions, Celia appreciated that.
High Mistico Benedict’s lips twitched again into something resembling a smile, if a smile had fangs laced with venom. Every line on his face etched deeper.
Celia’s bees nudged her. This is not coincidence. This is calculated.
Panic started overtaking her senses. Red and bright. Hot and fierce.
This is a culmination.
Cold sweat dotted Celia’s forehead as she battled through not pissing herself. Captain Andras left with Aurelio, and now only Celia, Kitty Kay, and a rigid, mostly clueless Nero remained.
Along with the High Mistico himself, who’d come all the way from Asura.
Celia’s panic became a monstrous force; she felt ten times bigger yet antlike at the same time. And then a wide smile—so bright it felt like something held back for a lifetime—took over High Mistico Benedict’s face.
Diavala set the brightness of that smile on Celia and Anya. “Of all the things to overlook in your scheming, Inklings, to forget that my temple has been looking for you for weeks was woefully stupid.” The way she smiled, so knowing and sure.
Thrilled.
Culmination, Celia’s bees said again.
As if Diavala had always intended to end up exactly there, backstage with runaway inklings, using High Mistico Benedict’s body.
As if she’d had centuries to set up that moment.
Anny, we missed so much more than I thought. Looks like we missed it all.
Some tears tracked their way through the blood on Anya’s cheek, making streams. Her nostrils flared and her chest heaved, silent fear compared with Celia’s.
Celia found that she couldn’t stop laughing and babbling. Maybe if she kept talking, she could pretend this was still a matter of revenge. “Too bad we screwed you out of Kinallen and Bickland. Shame your plan for the devil in a bell jar didn’t amount to anything.”
Kitty Kay tried to shush her.
Nero didn’t seem to be trying too hard to sort out the conversation. He’d been tasked with managing a mad performer, and now she spoke true madness. He cracked his knuckles in a rhythmic beat, glancing between Celia, Anya, Kitty Kay, and Benedict, as if wondering who would bite him first.
Celia traced Diavala’s route backwards, body by body, from the temple all the way to that moment. Diavala had tracked them down using Mistico Dominic. It must not have been too difficult, given their connection with Lupita and the loud chaos of the Rover show in Asura. She’d caught up with them, watched them perform in Sabazio from a distance, been intrigued, seen an opportunity. She must have used Dominic to maneuver Benedict into place. Perhaps the initial message to Benedict had been: watch the Mob, don’t move in, something’s coming. Anything Dominic had told Benedict would have felt bigger as soon as he’d been Touched. Then Diavala had possessed Vincent, and all
the while Benedict had listened, lurked, watched, convenient and close already, for Diavala to be able to hop into him when she was done with Vincent.
Diavala was a sheepdog, manipulating a herd. What else had she maneuvered into place using Dominic and Benedict these past weeks? After birthing and grooming an entire religion for centuries, it felt as if Profeta was Diavala’s concerto to play, she needed only to strike the right key.
Kitty Kay tried to talk over Celia’s shaking and tears, still rigid in her stance that the rest of the Mob had nothing to do with the runaways. In the corner, Nero shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable, and since he didn’t know what was going on, Celia kept looking at him, hoping to latch on to some of his blissful ignorance. High Mistico Benedict waved him away when he noticed their eye contact. Nero didn’t argue and was gone before Celia could beg him to stay.
Diavala crouched into a squat so she was eye level with Celia and Anya. Side by side, hands tied behind their backs, chests panting, they stared at the face of the gray-eyed monster who’d plagued their life at the temple and now hid a new monster inside. Kitty Kay and Nero had faded, and it was just the three of them: the deity and the inklings who stole from her.
“How could I pass up an opportunity like the one you handed me?” Diavala dug her thumb into the wound, tortured them by drawing it out, smiling all the while.
What did we hand you?
A predator watching its dinner. “And to reach such astronomical fame in a matter of weeks!”
Diavala had wanted them on that stage for this. But what was this?
Anya hiccupped and gasped around her gag, choking. Celia had frozen like a rabbit, all her previous babble spent.
“Now,” Diavala said. “You can make sure my Return is unforgettable.”
Immediately the room rushed back. Kitty Kay slumped forward in her chair as if her guts had fallen out. Her vibrant red hair veiled her face so she was half-daytime, half-nighttime Kitty Kay. Stuck. Either, neither, or both. Still, even as her body showed defeat, she mumbled that the Mob had had nothing to do with any of this.
Anya met Celia’s eyes and whimpered, a sound so foreign coming from her that it tore Celia open.
“Your Return.” Celia’s voice cracked and wobbled. The logic snapped together quickly. Perfectly set up. Horribly perfect.
As the Divine, she was invisible yet revered, unknown yet among them. If the manipulation and games were becoming too dull, what would she want?
She’d want a true face.
A deity walking among the people would only solidify their adoration. She could erupt from the shadows and truly reign. With Ruler Vacilando bowing to her, Diavala would control the treasury, the army. She could take Profeta into other nations personally: a Divine in the flesh rather than carved in stone. She’d tried it before and had failed on a spectacular level—been flogged for it, retreated—but she’d had centuries to make sure she didn’t err again.
All the dogma about the Return of the Divine already existed; she’d needed only the perfect blend of timing and circumstance.
And they’d handed it to her.
“Ruler Vacilando received her prophetic tattoo a few days ago,” Diavala said. With Ruler Vacilando’s fresh tattoo—the Divine walking among the people again, a lightning bolt—the fourth tenet of Profeta had been heralded. The countdown would soon be complete.
“All of Illinia will know that you stole the ink—”
You did steal the ink, Celia’s bees pointed out.
“They will know you tried to subvert Divine messages—”
You did subvert messages.
“Then you tried to spread your influence to the masses—”
Your dominion of the stage leached into the streets.
“You’re more than a devil in a bell jar, Celia. You’re the new face of Diavala herself.”
You’re Diavala, her bees confirmed.
“How could the Divine not return, exactly now, under exactly these circumstances, to stop such heresy?”
You’re Diavala, her bees hummed. She will be crowned the Divine.
“And I’ve found the perfect body,” Diavala continued. As High Mistico Benedict, Diavala straightened to full height, towering over them. “I already have all of Profeta’s mistico behind me. The lore that foretold the Return is engrained. I have the ruler of Illinia ready to welcome me. Once the Divine is unveiled in Asura, belief will only harden. And spread. I’ll take Profeta into Bickland and Kinallen myself. I never needed you for that. Your show was only an opening act for mine.” She shook her head in pity; then her eyes glinted. “There hasn’t been this much excitement in hundreds of years. Everyone is watching.”
And when High Mistico Benedict cleared his throat, a rough exclamation point to everything Diavala had just laid out, Celia’s bladder decided it had had enough.
Chapter 28
“This isn’t over yet.” Kitty Kay staunchly retrieved her revenge red as officers and mistico assembled her Rovers in the field. She gave her family ferocity to look upon: a defiant chin, a proud spine, glittering orange like fire under the lanterns’ light. Celia and Anya were the only ones close enough to see her hands shake. The Mob had been officially charged with just one crime so far—willfully spreading heterodoxy—but it was enough to get them all back to Asura. Ample time for more charges—and punishments—to be laid down.
“We’ll figure this out,” Anya whispered, her voice hoarse. They’d finally ungagged her when it looked as if she would choke to death on the hem of her own dress. “I have an idea.”
Most of the Mob seemed confused more than scared; they pressed together and whispered, looked around for guidance. The plague doctor stood apart from the rest, flanked by three officers. His shirt was ripped, and his raven cloak had lost a wing, errant feathers occasionally tugged away by the breeze. Even from far away, his breathing looked irregular, his chest heaving too much considering that he stood still. Marco didn’t try to hide his rage as he engaged in a tug of war with one of the mistico. Only those two were bound, as were Celia, Anya, and Kitty Kay.
In whispers, Kitty Kay told them this would still all work out because it had to. “Damn her for coming into my troupe. No matter what happens, my family will never be the same after this; it needs to be worth the loss. Get your spunk back, both of you. Harness your rage. We will still have a stage; we can still do some damage. This isn’t over yet.”
“I have an idea,” Anya whispered again, her eyes closed as she imagined the color and shape of this phantom new idea.
High Mistico Benedict had summoned Nero back to their side as he organized the officers and mistico for the cumbersome trip back to the temple. Celia recognized some of the mistico from Asura. Others were new, called to the scene from the smaller temples in Malidora, she presumed. Every single one made sure to glare at her. Diavala herself had tried to advance her scheming under their watch, and they didn’t look likely to forgive that.
Celia soon noticed how their anger pointed almost exclusively at her. For the most part, they glanced over Anya and Kitty Kay. That was encouraging. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost after all.
“Where’s Remy?” Celia couldn’t find her. Her absence was glaring, but Celia didn’t know what to make of it.
Then, through the din of conversation and orders, Celia heard a sound. A hoarse cough. A shout.
A whisper of “Oh no . . .” from Anya.
That one shout turned into a stream of words, growing louder. A sea of dark robes and colorful dresses turned toward the approaching sound as every conversation stopped.
The sudden silence amplified the lone voice.
Celia tried to shout, but the words got stuck. Large hands clamped around her wrists to keep her from running toward the sound.
It was Remy who emerged from behind a back wagon first. Out of breath, flapping her arms, a wild look on her face. “I’m trying!” Her hands went to her short hair, her gaze darting around looking for someone. She
landed on Lilac and lurched toward her, oblivious to the officer who grabbed her arm and held her back. “He wouldn’t take it anymore. He was awake, and he threw it on Seer’s vegetables, and I don’t know where you keep the chloroform! I couldn’t make him stay put!”
The officer forced her to her knees even as she kept yelling and apologizing, and the image of such a tiny young person muscled around by a large, unwelcome person shook the Mob free from its compliance. Ravino went to tip the scales in Remy’s favor; Grisilda and Fawn harnessed their practice as bodyguards and pushed their way to the front of the Mob, linking arms. The plague doctor shouted for calm and acquiescence even as he struggled against the officers holding him.
Anya twisted against Nero’s grip, Celia twisting with her. As he fought to hold on to both of them, they fell to the ground. He stepped on their bound wrists, one pair under each boot, not hard enough to crush, but more than enough to pin them. And together, Celia and Anya watched Kitty Kay, free of Nero’s grasp, run down the slope awkwardly, her hair streaming behind her, and tumble down, hard, when she tripped, all the while crying out terrible ululations. Shaking, shattering, she struggled to get up.
Celia and Anya were sideways on the ground when Marco temporarily won his tug-of-war and took off, his captors giving chase. He didn’t run toward Remy, but toward Vincent, who’d just staggered around the corner.
“Oh no,” Anya moaned again.
Kitty Kay’s ululations peaked as a mistico grabbed her.
Celia pressed her face into the wet grass.
It had been too long—hours—since Vincent had been dosed. The jipep seeds had loosened their hold. Vincent’s tortured shouts were summoning his own execution. The plague doctor’s resistance grew more urgent. Had he told Remy to hide with Vincent in Seer’s cellar, thinking they both might be safe there? He twisted and bucked, no longer appealing for calm. Captain Andras bashed the back of his knee, and he folded.
“I feel these things!” Vincent yelled, then added a guttural moan mixed with a scream. “So quiet but so loud! From working alone on a hill to the clutches of a devil to hundreds of years looking at the world through someone else’s eyes . . .” Pale and gaunt, his clear eyes reddened, his sharp jaw even sharper, he was a shredded version of the friend Celia had walked with.
