He finishes the aria and looks at me expectantly. “So? How did I do?”
“Very well. I don’t think I saw your shoulders move once.”
He punches the air in victory.
“But you do need to work on not sliding up to the notes,” I continue, fiddling nervously with the chain on my necklace. “Hit each one right from the top—imagine dropping onto it from above instead of rising up to meet it.”
He nods. “All right.”
“Why don’t you sing...” I glance down at the pendant. An idea strikes me, and I grin. “The necklace’s song? Your mother’s lullaby?” Last time the song had been enough to take us both over. He’d closed his eyes then, and if he’d been anything like me, he’d gotten completely lost in the music—lost enough that he probably wouldn’t have noticed the glow of extracted elixir drifting away from him.
“Sure.”
I twist the locket open, and the tiny ballerina begins her dance. The bells tinkle. Emeric sings.
He cocks his head to one side as the lyrics knot the air between us, somehow pulling us closer even though neither of us has moved. For a moment I can almost imagine my mask is gone. That he’s seeing me—all of me. Monster. Manipulator.
Girl.
The momentum of the song’s crescendo builds, and his eyes flutter closed. His lashes send spidery shadows over his cheeks that slip in and out of his dimples, and I’m struck with the impulse to trace those creases with my fingertips.
I keep my hands on my pendant, but my eyes follow the places where I wish my fingers could go. Into those dimples, up over his cheekbones, across his brow, into his hair...
No. Now is not the time for distraction. My time has come.
Concentrating on the tug of his memory river and the way the undertow of it has ignited both the skin on my ankle where the symbol once was as well as the new rune on my thigh, I reach into the place where the moments of his past swirl.
The book described that for fendoirs, a person’s song brings up a view of a shining pool of elixir. Fendoirs simply reach into that pool and pull portions of it out through the person’s ears.
However, as the visions and emotions and sounds churn past me, I see no golden pool of liquid light. How did Les Trois manage to extract elixir if they could not see it? How did Arlette?
Maybe the symbol on my thigh isn’t working. It’s possible I was wrong about being able to use it in spite of its being carved on my leg instead of my chest. Perhaps the artist who did the depiction of Les Trois upstairs wasn’t entirely accurate when he painted the three gravoirs’ wounds.
Yet the thrill of Emeric’s voice pulses in that symbol exactly the way it does in the place where the Manipulation Mark used to be on my ankle.
It has to be working. I just need to figure out how to use it.
Gritting my teeth, I sink into a random memory. Maybe I’ll be able to locate the elixir somewhere inside the scene.
The recollection I find myself in is a simple one of him making his way home from the opera house. The air is cool, and the cobblestones are wet with autumn rain. His feet splash through puddles reflecting the grayish gaslights overhead, and his lips purse into a buoyant whistle. He tips his cap as he passes a Forgotten Child, digs in his pocket, and tosses the boy a gold piece. The child dives for it, and Emeric smiles as he turns the corner.
The shimmer of gold pulls my gaze, and I push back in the memory to the moment the coin hits the ground. Freezing the scene, I focus on the gold, begging it to give me a hint, a clue, some idea how to find the golden elixir that keeps it bright in Emeric’s mind.
I find nothing.
The memory fades; Emeric has reached the end of the lullaby. I nod absently at him to sing through it again. He closes his eyes once more and starts back up.
I return to the gold piece, staring and staring at it, frustration growing like embers in my chest. The longer I glare at the coin, the hotter my blood roils.
This was supposed to work. Why is it not working?
The gold piece gives off a sudden, bright flash of yellow and then fades back to its dull, brass color.
Grinding my teeth together, I focus every inch of power vibrating through the symbol on my leg on that coin.
The image of it quivers, and then the whole scene ripples as though it has liquefied. Gaslights and stars and cobblestoned streets swim before me. Beneath the waves, I catch glimmers of gold.
Excitement floods my limbs. I push forward, clawing through the fluid of the memory to whatever lies below. It’s like digging my way through sludge, and I strain my mind, force the fire in me to feed my power and make it stronger.
Then, finally, I burst through.
I stifle a gasp so as not to startle Emeric from his song.
Beneath the tide of his memories runs another river made of gold.
His elixir.
I stare, sparks dancing under my skin, a victorious smile threatening to take over my whole body.
Determined, I get to work. Much in the way I was able to erase pieces of people’s memories before, I suck in my breath as though I’m drinking through a straw, focusing every bit of my concentration on that golden glimmer. It resists at first, but I tug as fiercely as I can, and soon it comes loose, flowing out toward me.
I open my eyes. A soft, amber glow has gathered around Emeric’s ears. My power purrs, sending delicious warmth through my body as it surges outward, beckoning the elixir my way. The glow brightens, and a long, slender ribbon of liquid sunlight twirls lazily into the air.
The elixir sparkles as though it’s made of human soul, which, now that I consider it, maybe it is. I lick my lips as it flows toward me, and I’m seized with a sudden, unruly desire to send it straight into my own mouth just so I can taste it. I’ve never cared to try elixir before, but now I quiver with a thirst so strong my mind spins. Swallowing the saliva that has collected on my tongue, I direct the elixir down into the open vial in my belt and shove the cork in.
I dart a glance at Emeric, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed anything has happened. He’s still singing, his voice harmonizing perfectly with the music of my pendant.
The warmth and pleasure of my power shrinks back into my chest, leaving my hands and arms and the mark on my thigh suddenly cold in its absence.
I want more.
Whipping my head around, I scan the room for another vial, an empty container, a vase...anything. But I find nothing. I turn back to Emeric. The pull of his memories is a slow, tantalizing torture. My power reaches toward it, aching to drag more and more and more of it out.
Oh, how I want it.
All of it.
My mouth waters.
I plunge once again into the memory river. Deeper, deeper, deeper until I find the gold again, and I yank it out. My whole body is trembling with desire, with hunger, with need.
This time, I direct it straight into my mouth.
Ecstasy tingles through my soul when the elixir hits my tongue. I sip at it, wishing I could pull more of it out at a time, that I could swallow mouthfuls instead of sucking at such a thin stream. Maybe with more practice I could siphon it out faster. I’ve never tasted anything so exquisite in my life.
It tastes like honey and life and...caramel.
My body warms, brightens. My hearing grows clearer. My vision sharpens. I feel as though I could run miles without tiring—and I want to. I want to make my way aboveground and sprint into the horizon and never, ever stop. I want to fling my arms out wide, let the wind lift me up into the skies, and soar.
The textbook last night mentioned something like this occurring. Apparently for unmarked people, the elixir only augments memory and mental capacity. But part of what makes fendoirs and gravoirs so dangerous is how consuming elixir expands their bodies’ abilities. Senses, strength, speed.
It’s a tremulous, delicious
high.
The music halts, and I gasp as my supply of Emeric’s elixir cuts off abruptly.
I blink around at my room, realizing I’m not actually airborne among the stars, but still leaning against my organ bench a few feet from Emeric. I meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark coals. “You promised me you wouldn’t extract.” His voice is so quiet I might not have heard it were it not for his elixir pumping in my veins making my hearing so vibrantly clear.
“I—I was just practicing.” I yank the vial from my sash and hold it out for him. “I wasn’t stealing. I meant to give it back.”
He glares daggers at me, a vein pulsing purple in his jaw. He rips the vial from my palm, shoves it into his pocket, and strides toward the door. “We’re done.”
“Emeric, wait!” I dive after him and tug on the back of his jacket. “Please, don’t go. The memory loss isn’t permanent yet—not for another twenty-six hours. As long as you drink that vial, it’ll all come back.” My claim isn’t strictly true, considering I ingested a few vials’ worth, but I’m hoping he didn’t notice that part.
He growls and jerks his jacket out of my grip.
“I swear I won’t do it again,” I plead.
He whirls to face me. “How could I possibly trust you after that?”
“I know.” My stomach sinks. “It was stupid of me. I made a mistake.” If he leaves now, he won’t come back. The thought of not hearing him sing anymore, of never swimming through his memories again, turns my bones to ice.
“You’re a fendoir, so you don’t understand—you can’t possibly understand—what a violation it was for you to take my elixir without permission.” Though his words are still quiet, they ring in my ears as though he’s shouting. “Elixir is not just some...thing. It’s my life. There are people in my memories that I—” His voice breaks, and he turns away to take a calming breath. “There are people that I’ve lost, Isda. Every drop of elixir taken from me is a part of them that disappears.”
Guilt surges in my gut, hotter and more acute than I’ve ever known it. Does its severity have something to do with the way his elixir has made every sensation in my body stronger? Or is it just that I’ve never lived enough of a life to ever have a reason to feel this guilty for something before?
“You’re right.” I knot the pendant’s chain around my fist. “I didn’t realize that, and I didn’t consider what it would mean to you.”
He glances back at me, and I meet his gaze, searching for any hint that his anger may be softening. But where he’s always seemed warm and open to me before, now his stare is closed off and cold.
“Please,” I whisper. “You’re the first person I’ve ever—I mean, besides Cyril, I’ve never known anyone.” My words tangle around each other, weak and useless and stupid. “If you leave, I don’t know if I... I don’t know what I’ll... Please...”
He considers me for a long moment, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
I wait, my heart gurgling in my throat. I can’t go back to my old life, the one without his voice or his memories. Not with what I’ve already learned in the few moments I’ve seen of his sister. Not with how dipping into his past has made me feel like a whole, complete person who’s lived a life worth having. Not with the way his voice soothes my soul and makes me forget, even for a moment, what I am.
But it’s not only the loss of his memories, his elixir, or his voice that would crush me. It’s him, too. In only a few short days, I’ve become accustomed to the idea of having him here. Of him joking with the skulls in my catacombs and snooping around in my collections and making me laugh in spite of my better judgment.
I’d miss him, too.
So I wait, hardly daring to breathe.
Finally, he speaks. “I’ll make you a deal. I will continue to take voice lessons from you on two conditions. One.” He holds up a finger. “No more extracting elixir. Ever.”
I bob my head, swallowing. “Of course. I swear.”
“And two.” He holds up a second finger and meets my gaze directly. “You get me a key to Monsieur Bardin’s office.”
“What?” I step back. “Why?”
“Those are my terms.” He crosses his arms. “I have no idea why you want me to take these lessons so badly, but I won’t do it unless you promise me those two things.”
“What do you want from Cyril?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, I’d say it matters a great deal.”
“Why? He’s not your father.”
“He’s—he’s—” My hackles rise.
“Why does he keep you locked up down here, Isda?” Emeric’s voice is almost soft but for the sharp blade around its edge. “What’s in it for him?”
“I told you, he’s a very good friend. Like family. He...he cares about me.”
Emeric barks a laugh.
My anger flares. “What do you know of it? You don’t know me. You don’t know him. You don’t know anything of the situation at all.”
His eyes trail all over my mask and finally rest on my glare. His brow furrows. “I do know that it’s cruel of him to keep you locked away like this. Living in the sewers like an animal, surrounded by rats and darkness and rot.”
“What other choice do I have?” My voice comes out shrill. “I’m not like you. I cannot just live out there. Not with my face. Not with what I am. He’s at least given me a better life than what the world would have offered.”
“I don’t claim to understand his motives, but I do know that someone like you—with talent and spirit and fire—does not deserve to be treated this way. And—” He pauses to draw a long breath. “I also know that whatever Cyril Bardin has been to you in your life, whatever he has given you, whatever he claims to be, he does not care for you.”
My body quivers. Rage boils, hot and ravenous, and it sears away everything in its path. “Get. Out.”
“I wanted to warn you. He’s—”
“I said GET OUT!” I scream.
“I was just—”
I raise a hand as though to strike him, and he flinches away from me.
The fire in my chest roars to life, coalescing into a great beast with snapping teeth as the elixir in my system throws every detail of Emeric’s trembling fear into sharp relief. My laugh slices the night and watches it bleed with satisfaction.
“Please, Isda. At least consider that Cyril—”
I hiss through my teeth. “I thought I told you to leave.”
“But—”
With a roar, I whirl, snatch up a candlestick, and hurl it at his face. He ducks, and the candle smashes into a lantern on the wall. Glass shatters. Oil spatters down the stone and all over the floor.
My body burns from the inside out. Fire carves its way through my veins, sets my heart thundering, fills my mouth with venom. I glare down at Emeric’s cowering form and step forward.
He scrambles out of my path, wrenches the crypt door open, and disappears.
I growl, slamming the stone shut behind him so hard the wall cracks. Emeric’s elixir tears through my body, making my hands quiver with power.
I twist to face the room, and my gaze catches on my mirror in the corner.
Crossing to it, I scrutinize my reflection and force myself to breathe. In and out. In and out. Find my center. Settle into the silence.
The fire inside of me recedes.
Shrinks.
Cools.
I reach up to touch the edge of my mask, pause, then pull it away from my head.
I meet my own gaze in the mirror as my mask drops from my grasp and hits the floor with a soft thud. With a shaking hand, I trace along my rigid, gnarled brow, over my disfigured knot of a nose, across the sunken hollows where high cheekbones should be. My skin is rough and bubbled, a patchwork of purple and dark gray with vivid splotches of crimson. My mangled l
ips pull back as I suck in a breath.
I shudder.
Who am I fooling? I put on pretty dresses, sew glitter into a mask, and pretend to myself that I deserve to live in this world. But I stole a piece of Emeric’s soul, drank it in like a rabid animal, and then screamed at him for being upset about it. Shame creeps hot down the back of my neck and raises the hairs on my arms.
I pretend to be human, but the mirror does not lie. This face marks me as a gravoir, and as much as I want to believe that still means I’m human, deep down I’m not so sure anymore.
Even now, the elixir thrumming in my veins calls to me, makes me tremble with thirst for more. More. More.
But on the edges of that hunger, Emeric’s words eat away at my thoughts. I wanted to warn you, he said.
How proud. How self-righteous of him to presume he knows what’s best for me when he understands so little of what it means to be what I am. How dare he suggest that the one person who has ever been able to bear the sight of me might not care?
Emeric was wrong about Cyril, about me, about everything. Even so, the image of the anger and fear I saw on his face fills me with humiliation.
Emeric’s claim was ungrounded and unfair, but I behaved like the demon they say I am.
And now he’s gone.
A strangled sound chokes out through my throat. I turn away from the glass. Pressing my palms to my eyes, I sink to my knees and sob.
Chapter Twelve
Emeric does not return the next night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that.
Watching the operas has lost all promise and excitement. Now that I’ve heard Emeric’s voice, even the lead soprano’s performance is lackluster, her tone sounding more nasally than I remember it, her vibrato warbling and uneven. And after having seen Emeric’s memories, the performers’ pasts leave much to be desired. They’re too colorless, too drab, their emotions too dull and distant to be worth perusing.
My nights are lonely, and I find myself talking to Albert on my way in every evening.
Sing Me Forgotten Page 10