by Kim Smejkal
Off balance, Marco slammed into Dante’s chest. Dante put steadying hands on Marco’s shoulders, but stared around him at Celia. As if he didn’t recognize her.
Maybe he didn’t.
Marco sidestepped the stranger he’d barreled into, flushing wildly, and peeked into the hall. He backed away, hands up, as long-robed mistico stepped forward, flanking Dante on all sides like wraiths, barring the hallway completely. Their energy was hard to ignore. It thrummed from their robes down to the floor and touched Celia’s bare feet, charring like lightning. Excitement, barely suppressed. They knew the Mob was somehow linked to the prophetic tattoo on Ruler Vacilando’s body.
Rhythmic popping drew Celia’s gaze; Nero stood right beside High Mistico Benedict at the back of the group, cracking his knuckles, not looking too pleased with his new assignment. Damn. She’d been stuck in close confines with him for so long she’d forgotten how big he was. With the other mistico there for scale, even extra-tall Benedict, Nero looked like an utterly different species.
“Welcome back, Inkling Sand.” Despite Dante’s wooden voice, he didn’t let go of Celia’s eyes. It wasn’t coincidence that led him to be the one opening the door, but what was it? How much did he know of what was going on? As Celia stared at him, trying to figure it out, an infuriating prickle started up behind her eyes. I can’t believe I actually missed you, you asshole.
The corner of Dante’s mouth twitched—as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Tomorrow night, you and the Rabble Mob of Minos will be publicly executed.”
Without any warning, Marco punched him in the stomach.
Not much of a punch, considering that Marco was half starved and weak, but Dante staggered back a step. Recovering, Dante shook his head, his gaze now locked on Marco. “Be smart. Fighting like that won’t work.” It was whispered and subtle, too soft for the mistico to hear.
Something passed between Dante and Marco—a magical, instantaneous shift when they realized they were on the same side—and Celia was surprised that the aftershock didn’t rumble through all the cells and down the hallway, knocking everyone over. Anya had contacted more people than Celia had assumed, and Celia was infinitely relieved. She didn’t want to die with her friends believing she was evil.
It disoriented Celia, seeing Dante and Marco together. Both so handsome it was barely fair to the rest of the world (despite one’s swollen nose). Practical Dante to passionate Marco. As they appraised each other, they seemed to notice something of the same thing.
Dante exhaled a long breath and shook himself off. He glanced at Celia again, this time with a quizzical eye, before stepping back, deferring authority to a few chattering mistico. He’d volunteered himself as bait. A no one tasked with opening the door and being the first body to meet danger if the troublemakers inside had any fight left in them.
High Mistico Benedict—Diavala—pointed at Seer Ostra. “You first.”
“Her first, what?” Celia pressed herself in front to shield Seer, as if they couldn’t go right through her.
“Just to get cleaned up,” one of the mistico said, holding out a gallant hand to her. Seer moved into the hallway and waited patiently while Diavala offered instructions on how she wanted Seer presented. Seer left with her makeover crew of mistico, asking a very good question in her sloth way: “What . . . do you know . . . of style?”
None of the remaining mistico wanted to touch Celia or Marco. They talked among one another, Diavala interjecting her opinions as they examined the pair from top to toe, moaning about the work involved in getting them costumed and presentable for their necessary public death. Seemed that they were the last cell because they were the most work.
Dante raked his gaze over Celia in an all-too-familiar way, taking inventory of her flaws. Her face flushed, and she thought perhaps he deserved another punch to the gut. How great would he look after a month in a prison carriage?
Probably still great. Asshole.
“Sounds like you have something spectacular planned,” Dante murmured, so low that Celia made out the words only because she read them on his lips. He pressed his hand to his forearm significantly, indicating the spot where Anya must have messaged him with heretical disappearing ink.
It hit her then, what a big deal it was for Dante to even be there, considering the magnitude of what was going on. Survivalism was Dante’s signature style. He never did anything to stand out, neither good nor bad, but walked a line as close to invisible as possible. Even if all he could offer was a familiar face, a word of encouragement, and some confused frowns, the fact that Dante was risking his carefully crafted image and associating himself with their catastrophe made those infuriating eye prickles come back.
She nodded to Dante—hating the way her gut twisted when she thought about the plan—and tried to give him a devious smile. “So spectacular,” she whispered. So damning. So terrible. So necessary.
Finally, a pair of mistico settled on Marco, who cleared his throat before leaving the cell, his hand grazing Dante’s hip as he passed, as if in apology.
Before Celia lost the opportunity, her thoughts scrambled as she tried to grasp something, anything, that she wanted to pass on to one of the only friends who might survive this. The crowd was thinning too fast.
“High Mistico Benedict? Do you remember Halcyon Ronnea of Wisteria Township?” Celia’s words rushed together in a near-unintelligible torrent.
“I don’t.” Diavala’s expression didn’t even flicker as she gestured to the two remaining mistico to collect her.
But Celia set her jaw and tried to look as if she knew a million things Diavala had overlooked. “You should take better care of your loose ends. Halcyon knows your life from the inside out: every success and every failure of the past thousand years. Every secret. Every weakness and flaw.”
Careful not to look at Dante, Celia willed him to take note of Halcyon’s name. They’d paid too dearly for it to evaporate into nothing, unused and abandoned. She needed to know that even if they failed that night and Diavala reigned, there was still hope.
High Mistico Benedict’s gaze turned steely even as he smiled. “Interesting. If you feel this Halcyon is your salvation, it’s too bad for you he isn’t here.”
It took a moment before Celia registered what Diavala had said.
He.
Without a tenor guiding the way, they was always the proper address. There was no question that Diavala remembered who Halcyon was.
But she was right: Halcyon wasn’t there, so Celia’s false posturing evaporated into nothing. Still, Remember that name, Dante. Tell Lupita, tell Zuni; if this doesn’t work, tell anyone who survives.
Diavala leveled her gaze at Celia, and something softened. “Enough of the past, Celia. Our final dance is all about the future. And here we go.”
The mistico herded Celia out of the cell and led her away, and she basked in the resurgent warmth in her veins, the flush of her cheeks, the pounding of her heart.
She loved that Nero nudged her shoulder with his elbow as he fell in line with her—as if they were solid allies. He might not live under the umbrella of Us with them, but perhaps his massive meat-cleaver hands held it over their heads. He’d given Anya a quill and she’d gotten her voice back, so she could tell Celia exactly what she needed to hear.
Even if it was horrible. Final. Gruesome.
Celia loved that when she glanced back, Dante nodded and held her eyes. A silent promise. I’ll remember the name.
The thing she loved most was that all of it together meant she still had some hope.
Chapter 33
Celia hadn’t been to the temple’s main square in so long, she expected it to look foreign, but the same familiar wet cobblestones, torches, and awnings greeted her. The same six-eyed stone statue loomed over it all.
Only one thing differed: on the high, wide platform in front of the main temple doors stood the devil’s bell jar. Shiny and clean, but with the same ominous hairline crack
s, it was recognizable to anyone who’d seen or heard of their show.
The guards lifted the heavy dome and threw her under it, shuddering when her forked tail grazed a sleeve, blanching when she turned her heavy-browed gaze up at them. On her hands and knees, breathing heavily, Celia waited until they left. Until it was she alone, a cleaned-up devil in a bell jar.
Flogging day for the new Diavala. A Return to the mortal realm for the omniscient Divine.
Celia barked out a laugh, then stood and took out her frustration and rage on the glass. Since she’d first set foot in the temple ten years ago, it had been Diavala’s show; Celia had always been a prop. She harnessed every feeling of impotence and misery she’d ever had and pounded against the bell jar, shrieking and screaming for good measure.
The scurrying inklings slowed to watch the devil rage. Celia screamed nonsense at all of them. Possession wasn’t as loud and obnoxious as Celia made it look—much more terrifying in its subtlety—but they were lucky enough not to know that.
As the first cracks of morning light began sneaking into the square, the scurrying became more pronounced. Still, the gates remained closed and Celia remained alone on that stage. Unprecedented, to have Saturday worship in the evening, but it was an unprecedented Saturday. The curtain wouldn’t rise until nightfall.
In the late afternoon, inklings began lining the sides of the square in rows two or three bodies deep. Dante positioned himself much closer to the stage than he normally did. The space around him seemed emptier without Celia and Anya with him. Smartly, he avoided her gaze. Wallis stood with the other fleas, holding their crossed fingers to their chest and staring at her with none of the same sense of self-preservation as Dante.
Celia stumbled when she saw Zuni standing sentry near the main gates. The crypts were hidden at the opposite side of the temple, but perhaps Anya had asked her to look out for Lupita, help her. Lupita would be too stubborn to stay away, but she just might break from her mourning. Celia pressed her clawed hand to the glass. I found so many feathers for you, Zuni. So many.
At least triple the number of guards went to their stations, and peppered among them were the officers who’d escorted the Mob from Malidora. Nero would come out only with High Mistico Benedict—and Celia wondered briefly how he’d feel when he realized he’d actually been promoted to the Divine’s bodyguard.
Captain Andras had become Celia’s new shadow, standing beside the bell jar. The whip tucked into her belt flicked its nine tails with every movement, ready to find Celia’s back. She smiled with a lot of teeth whenever Celia looked over at her or at the whip on her hip.
Emerging from behind thick doors, Ruler Vacilando assumed her place at her personal balcony, all of her ink on display, including the fresh one prophesizing this event.
“You think the ink staining your body marks you as important,” Celia muttered to her, “but you’ve been used your whole life, and you don’t even see it.” Ruler Vacilando smiled down at her as if she’d heard, nudging her shoulder in Celia’s direction to remind her of the mark there that had heralded this event. Celia hissed, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Celia spent her last day isolated in a swarm. Her gaze found Dante’s, Wallis’s, and Zuni’s, over and over, the only friendly faces among hundreds.
Workers lit the torches as the sun went down.
* * *
The stone steps leading to the temple became the path toward the new Rover field. The gates opened for the show. Instead of ticket sellers collecting coin and handing out playbills on their stilts, a gaggle of guards and officers welcomed everyone.
Still, a show.
Lupita was one of the first inside. She groped her way through the crowd, pushing people out of her way, until Zuni took her arm. Lupita wore no eye scarf, either because she’d forgotten or because she wanted to unnerve. Celia leaned toward believing the latter.
No procession of morose lemmings existed that night. The people barreled in, shoving and jostling to get to the front as quickly as possible while still remaining respectful enough not to get kicked out for overexuberance.
It took only half an hour for the square to fill. They packed in and squished together, smaller people on the shoulders of bigger ones. It wouldn’t be the regular Saturday worship circulation of bodies as they went to the front to speak with the mistico and then made room for others: tonight the ones lucky enough to get in would stay.
The mistico jostled among themselves too, trying to be close to the wonder that was about to happen.
Perhaps they expected the Divine to float down from the clouds to the stage after the executions. Perhaps they thought that the six-eyed stone statue would break free of its moorings and take a bow. Whatever they believed, they knew the Rabble Mob of Minos had something to do with the Return. Something glorious would happen.
The gates closed, locking out the unlucky thousands who still graced the 180 stone steps. From above, the stream of people must have looked like a long, curled tongue licking its way from the mouth of Asura to the delicious treat at the temple.
Everyone stared at Celia, alone onstage under her bell jar.
Anya, still somewhere backstage with the rest of the Mob, waiting to be ushered in for their part in the script, inked one last clandestine message to Celia: No matter what happens—if they failed and the whip came down, if they’d miscalculated again and Celia was flogged as Diavala, if everyone died with her because their terrible, wonderful plan didn’t work—remember I’m holding your hand, Cece.
Celia inhaled. She would be brave. She wasn’t alone.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
The large stone doors leading into the temple creaked open slowly, and every set of lungs in that square stuttered to a stop. Framed in the doorway stood High Mistico Benedict. So tall, his features angular and sharp, with a deep blue robe on instead of the usual black one, he was the perfect figure to command attention. Immaculately put together, back straight, knowing smile. He’d personally orchestrated and overseen it all—of anyone in that square, he knew the most about what the night might bring. He took only two steps before one of the middling mistico fainted. Commotion in the front row of the crowd told Celia that the mistico wasn’t the only one.
“Are you kidding me?” Celia muttered.
High Mistico Benedict stepped forward. Alone, so no one could deny who was in charge. Arms wide, so everyone saw a greeting, a welcoming hug. That in itself was extraordinary—a smile on a mistico, a posture of warmth and happiness—and already people reacted with an underwater roar. Nero, newly promoted bodyguard to the High Mistico, stayed well back so as not to intrude in the moment. Cracking his knuckles, his gaze swiveled as if he didn’t recognize the world anymore. It seemed to elude him how he’d even gotten there.
As Diavala passed the bell jar, she tilted her head to the right, a slight gesture of acknowledgment to the devil trapped inside. Hear that, Inkling? Everyone is so excited to meet me.
To meet us, she meant.
It had always been between them.
Oh, and they were excited. Celia heard it clearly, a rising wave of sound. If she’d taken all the sound ever made inside the temple walls—conversations, whispers, even the screams of the Touch—and wrapped them up together, even centuries of sound wouldn’t compete with this.
Diavala walked to the front of the stage, shushing the incessant roar with uplifted arms. With a commanding voice that flowed to all corners of the square, she set the stage: explaining how a trickster, disguised as an innocent inkling, had escaped the temple with the intention of spreading lies and vice throughout Illinia.
Celia began pacing. Her gait had a slight limp because her knee bothered her from an earlier baton hit, but maybe the people would wonder if it bent the wrong way, like a goat’s. Her hands flew around, making unheard exclamations. Her curled horns shimmered with wetness, as if she’d crawled out of a swamp. Her forked tail swished behind her with her steps.
Every once in a while, unpredictable and sudden, she’d slam her hands on the glass, raging against her prison. Hideous, she wanted them to say. She belongs there, she needed them to think.
For now.
So far, Diavala was doing everything Anya had predicted—providing backstory, setting up the hero, the villain. The show was unfolding as planned.
Soon would come the side characters, the prelude to the main event of the reveal, the flogging, the ultimate triumph.
With perfect dramatic timing, the main temple doors creaked open again. One by one, the members of the Rabble Mob were led out.
The alluring plague doctor was first, the one with the roguish smile and secrets. He’d always begun the show by offering temptation and ended it by passing judgment. Many in the crowd had danced with him, been held in his arms. It had been a rightness and a wrongness at the same time; maybe they’d felt guilty for liking it so much, as Celia had. He stood onstage, legs spread apart, gloved hands clasped in front of him, sweeping his gaze from one side of the crowd to the other, judging them again with a wide, rakish smile on his face.
Despite where he now stood, flanked by two guards and a mistico holding a dagger, Celia knew that most of the crowd would still jump at the chance to dance with him. Those arms would give them the darkness they craved.
He met her gaze—mask to mask—and she remembered their first dance. They’d started as devil and plague doctor, had made it to Celia and Griffin, and, closing the circle, they were the devil and the smiling plague doctor again.
He stepped forward and bowed twice: once to the audience, and a deeper, longer, fuller bow to the creature under a bell jar. One more dance, devil.
The others followed the plague doctor’s lead as High Mistico Benedict introduced them—by stage name so they were instantly recognizable—each bowing with their own signature flair. Kitty Kay, in her phoenix orange dress, artfully went up on her toes and reached her hands to the sky, her hair an immaculate red waterfall with one gray streak, looking as if she were off to a regal ball rather than an execution. She didn’t bow when she came back to the ground; she nodded to the audience, to Celia, and then put her hand on her heart.
