The Immortal City

by May Peterson

  Another of her subtly revealing bits of insight. “I didn’t realize coming back as a ghost was an option. All right. Do you think ghosts always remember their lives? They don’t have blood. Lord Umber can’t buy their memories. Maybe if one of us died again and became a ghost, we’d get our memories back.”

  Her expression was complex, half shrouded. “Maybe.”

  “I change my answer.” I cleared my throat. “If we’re going back in time and completely rewriting how our deaths went, I’d actually choose to not die. I must have been in the middle of a life. I want to at least know what it was.”

  She paused so long that I began to think again that this was the end of the conversation. Then, “Maybe your death spared you things that are better not to have faced.”

  Of course I’d considered that. “All right. Then I want to rewrite time so that I never gave up my memories. I don’t think I mind being living-again. But I want to know who I was. I have no idea why I would have sold them, but even without knowing, I regret it.”

  The phantasm of a smile traced across her lips. “Why? What do you think it would change to remember?”

  I had thought so much about this answer, and even now I had to stop and give it more time. “I think for something to be real to us, it has to matter to us. There are mountains on the other side of the world that may as well be dreams, because they don’t mean anything to me. They have no effect on my life, on my mind, on what I want. So as far as I am concerned, this is the only mountain that’s real. But if I remembered another mountain? If I remembered the life the mortal Ari lived? It would mean something to me. The place he lived would mean something. It would be real. If I remembered who I was, there would be a world that was real that I could go to. You said you wanted to be a ghost so you could be free, free as air. That’s the same reason I want to remember. The strongest wings in the world can’t take me to a place that isn’t real. It isn’t real because nothing in it still matters to me.”

  Tamueji did not look at me as I spoke. She chewed on the wind, as if counting its breaths like she counted deaths. When I was done, she steepled her hands in front of her. “Ah. But there’s something you’re not considering, Ari. Those mountains on the other side of the world are real to you, even if you don’t notice, because they do have an effect on you. Every mountain shapes the flow of weather across the earth. When snow hits us, the way it hits was partly decided by those mountains. And when people come to this city, to live or to die, their journey over the tundra was decided by the snow. And Serenity is decided by those who live and die here. Everything comes back to those mountains and their contribution to all that happens. They are definitely real.”

  Had she not seemed so casually interested in this, so relaxed in her seriousness, I would have thought she was mocking me. “I don’t understand.”

  She smirked and held up a fist. “You’re talking about rewriting time. So we have one story that’s already written, and we write a new version of it. They’re now two stories, with two Aris, and two Tamuejis. If I rewrite the story, I’m creating a new me. Since different things are happening to the two Tamuejis, the Tamueji in one version may want very different things than the other. What if the new me wants the old me to not have rewritten her?”

  I blinked trying to absorb this, shaking my head. “Wait. You’re just saying that we might regret our choices. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make them.”

  “It’s more than that. When you make a choice, you’re not rewriting your story, just continuing to write it. That’s changing the future, not the past. If we could change the past, we’d be splitting ourselves in two. Maybe that’s all right, honestly? But you and I, we don’t remember who we were before we died. So we don’t know what those versions of us would regret, because we can’t feel it. They are the mountains on the other side of our world. They don’t seem real to us now, but they are. They decided a hundred things we don’t remember, like the mountains decide the weather, and we don’t know enough about them to know what writing a new version of them would do. Maybe the old Tamueji gave up everything to let me forget. A lot of people come to this city to forget.” She shrugged, gazing out over the bloodstain-colored sunset. “The versions of them they forgot are real even if we can’t see them. And those versions of them still made choices that matter.”

  I gaped, opening my mouth several times and closing it again before having the clarity to speak. “But... I would want to see those mountains, if I could. Why can’t I want to know the other me, on the other side of the world? Especially if there’s a chance he wanted to remember more than I do? I can’t be the only one who wonders if Umber took a little more than I actually wanted to sell. How can anyone be sure if the bargain was fully upheld, if we don’t remember the terms?”

  This appeared to trouble Tamueji. No. It wasn’t only her trouble I was feeling. The trouble was like weather, decided by things that were real but we couldn’t see, sprawling out between us and shaping the air we breathed. The trouble was the atmosphere of Serenity, at peace only because it also did not remember. This was the problem of everyone here who traded in memories, who accepted amnesia or asked for it by name. Only Umber knew all the versions of the story. Many people did recall parts of their lives, so he appeared to honor partial memory sales. But so many more had given up the past whole cloth. What if we hadn’t all always wanted that?

  It struck me like a blow. I wasn’t only lonely for friends. I was lonely for the other Ari. Sleeping on the other side of the world, being real whether I knew it or not. Maybe he wanted to stay asleep. Maybe he was desperate to wake up.

  I could have used a friend right now. Maybe, if I had the courage, I could ask Tamueji if we could be that for each other. Maybe I should.

  After a while, she stood, flexed her wings. “You, Ari, are a funny kid.”

  I chuckled in spite of myself. “Kid? I don’t think I’m that much younger than you.”

  “Child. I am over sixty.”

  I whistled. “Well, I can see why you’re arguing for staying the immortal version of yourself. You have an awfully strong back for someone in her sixties.”

  She patted her shoulder. “Stronger every day. I ought to go round up my crew, get the news. Take care, Ari.”

  Before she took off, I stepped forward. “Tamueji. Wait.”

  She paused with wings outstretched, brow raised.

  “If you ever want to talk about this version of you.” I gestured at her, at the snow-scented air. “Or about the deaths you remember...you can come find me for a change, if you want. I would be happy to listen.”

  The look of unvarnished surprise on her features was perhaps the most off-guard I’d ever seen her. In moments, it metamorphosed into a cool grin. “Perhaps I will.”

  Chapter Two

  The next day passed under the weight of a peaceful sleep, for once. This was the kind of oblivion I could get behind.

  But as usual, I woke before nightfall. And didn’t even wait for the sun to go down completely before I took off.

  I pulled on a black leotard, suitably ripped in the back to admit my wings. An assortment of lovers had told me the tears also showed off my back, which was apparently toned enough for that to be pleasurable. Flying was good exercise. My long wavy hair was tucked nicely into a firm knot, and then the pièce de résistance: a rough-cut diamond on a gold necklace, an old token from heaven knew who in my first months here.

  My hands were shaking as I clasped it. The thought kept ricocheting through my head: maybe I’ll meet someone. Someone who would actually remember me. Now that I was letting myself admit my loneliness, I felt strangely exposed, as if anyone could smell it on me.

  The air was cool under me as I flew, but my nerves didn’t die down. I hadn’t been amongst the reveling crowds for a while. Months. At one point, the din and heat and thirst had been unremarkable sensations. As common as wind or moonlight. But l
ike being in quiet for hours after loud noise, the distance seemed to have sensitized me. So much that the ghost of a strange boy’s face, his smile streaking to the earth, haunted my malformed dreams.

  I wondered sometimes if that was why the sun hurt moon-souls so much. The dark of the Deep—the nether realm of death—was so profound that even after coming back from it, we could never truly adjust to such bright light again.

  The cusp of the night-streets greeted me within minutes like a discolored grin, giving off sparkling gas. It widened as I descended. The region was not anywhere near as dark or quiet as its name suggested. Patches of red, bronze, green, and blue spotted it, but there was something menacing about the winking colors. Like they were the shining scales of some beautiful but poisonous lizard. And heat swam up through the atmosphere, forcing me to course correct on the way down. Pockets of geothermal heat warmed the ground nearer the heart of the mountain, gave rise to hot springs and vaporous emissions. It was a jewelry box jungle, laved alternately in snow and steam. Serenity was surrounded by an icy waste, but the mountain rested above deep pockets of magma that lent the rock a pulse of life.

  No roads led into its depths. Stone walls and gates, half derelict, set the entire area apart from the rest of the city. So much of the city was a crash of mismatched sculptures, neighborhoods of buildings that had fallen into disarray and then been repurposed alongside newer structures, as if several cities had been built on top of each other, and their styles were not the same. We were a graveyard of cities, of legacies, and thus Serenity itself was as much a living-again as the moon-souls who dwelled in it. The city did not remember all the things it had once been. Our new realms were formed in the cracks of those old identities. The night-streets were not actually contiguous streets but an overlay of multiple past neighborhoods, and we simply hadn’t built roads between the different sectors the way a city full of mortals would have needed to.

  One had to jump, fly, or climb down the inward face to enter. I floated gracefully to the light-striped ground, the thick sounds and smells of booze and bodies and sex hitting me like a fist.

  Ah. Already felt like wading in sweat. This was Kadzuhikhan and Umber’s domain, all right.

  A small crowd was clumped around where I landed. Food-stalls and liquor vendors dotted the worn crossing paths, creating natural clusters of activity. Kadzuhikhan also took part in the trade of aliment, especially booze, and most of all the silver-spiked booze that moon-souls enjoyed. This would be a well-catered event.

  Mortal visitors—or regulars—clad in white or black cloth, tight enough to make their bodies look painted. A bevvy of them turned and hailed as my wings were folding around me, calling and dancing in unison. Drunk as hell no doubt. I hailed back, my instincts still in place. Had to give a show. All the partygoers seemed to love a dove-soul, or so Kadzuhikhan had always claimed. It didn’t seem to only be our gift for healing. Perhaps it was the plenitude of myths about birds of peace, being with wings of rock and beige, pouring tenderness on the world.

  Do you realize you’re their god of pleasure? Umber had once said. It would take nothing to act the part.

  Good thing nothing was what I had, but I didn’t want godhood. Even though I let the newcomers flock to me, pawing at my wings and laughing. Some of them looked barely older than I did. I whistled and sang, let them drape their drunken fantasies on me.

  Ah, the night-streets. The home of noise, furious trading, and an eternal celebration scene. I would hate to live here, but it was a hell of a place for a party.

  Kadzuhikhan shifted through the crowd, and somehow he’d parted their number with a youth on each arm, one man and one woman. “Well, look who the hell decided to crack open his coffin. Good to see you acting like there’s some blood in you.”

  I gifted him a rude gesture, pulling wet laughter from his wards. “Thanks. I don’t know if I’ll stay long.” A dim anxiety was already slithering through my guts. Like I might wear out fast. If his companions were his workers, then at least they seemed in good spirits and not to be suffering, though I knew how illusory that could be. “Where’s the best place to have some fun with people who aren’t completely drunk off their heads?”

  His smirk reflected the red glare from behind me. “Relax. No one’s asking you to abandon your honor. And the sun is barely setting. Give it a second or two if you’re that urgent.”

  I considered that, whether it was a better reason to just go home or take his advice and unclench. My back already hurt from the tension. Then he grinned down at the young woman in his arms, her dreamy eagerness. “Want to play with your winged prince here, my love? Wouldn’t want him to get lonely.”

  Her nod accompanied a cascade of giggles, and then she slid to me. I curved a wing over her by reflex. Hmph. I hadn’t asked for an escort. But Kadzuhikhan was waggling his fingers, cat’s tail and the limp boy it was spiraled around fading into the flow. Fucker. But she seemed a partygoer rather than a regular worker, and either way it would be good to keep a careful eye on her.

  The woman clung to my arm like it was driftwood. “You smell good.” Oh, god, how drunk was she?

  I did my best to approximate Kadzuhikhan’s sensual purr. “Well, good evening to you too. You know what else may smell good? Kebabs. I bet you could use something to nibble.”

  The giggles escalated. “Maybe you could too.” Her palms were warm, sliding up my arms, around my shoulders.

  The picture became clear: her arms bare, neck exposed. Hair pulled back. A golden chain around her throat, with three ruby-red crystal beads clinking on it. She was here to give blood and be shown a good time in exchange. Each bead represented a sip of blood she was offering up. After someone had taken a good swig, she would snap off a bead—or, given how drunk she was, the drinker would do the honors. If they weren’t an asshole, and Umber had hell in store for people he found breaking the rule. As drowning as it felt to be surrounded by so many warm bodies, there weren’t actually that many mortals in Serenity. If any of them died by blood loss, Umber would start collecting heads.

  My tummy rumbled slightly. Urgh. Such a strange practice; we weren’t exactly designed to drink human blood. Even with the spirit of a prey animal animating me, I tended to crave ordinary meat. Animal flesh. Some juicy beef or chicken livers. Mere blood, of any kind, was more like candy. But for these eager young mortals, smearing the night like heat-radiant fireflies, to offer up drops of themselves felt intimate, ritual. Like making sacrifices to their personal gods, taken by the living-again.

  As long as we took care and tended to our donors, it did them no harm; I may as well indulge her request. Could always heal her afterward. I leaned in with a playful grin, tapping one of the beads. “May I?”

  Her eyes widened. She was absolutely flying, but it seemed more from delight than intoxication. “You may.” One of her fingers hooked under a bead and snapped it off.

  I deferred to her to pick the spot—upper arm. A slice against my canine, and blood gelled into a bead as dark as those around her neck. I licked it from her, let her have the sensual experience she’d no doubt come for. No reason to hurry, or to try to drink my fill. None of the moon-souls here would need turn to the life fluid of living newcomers to sustain ourselves, and we couldn’t starve. Moon-souls who bit deep, who drew more than they needed for a taste, were all pieces of shit as far as I was concerned. But also not exactly uncommon.

  A few drops in and my head was already growing lighter. Mmm. The burn in my mouth and throat were like stronger echoes of alcohol, but drink didn’t blur my vision like this. So she’d been sucking down silvered booze. The toxic effect of the metal was the strongest drug for us, but would leave her unscathed. It hit me like a wave of nausea—I wanted the haze, that weary half-oblivion of mild silver poisoning.

  She was loopy, snickering and kissing my ear as I sipped. But it was enough. My virtue pulsed forth as I drank—the cut was already healing, and I
wouldn’t make another.

  A pair of hands emerged through the sensations, suddenly separating me from my dance partner. I scowled up. Tamueji? She had pulled the eager young woman away, cradling her against a wing. Tamueji herself looked unnervingly calm and still, which was something I’d learned meant she was on alert.

  “Tamueji? What’s wrong?” I scanned the young woman who was now nuzzling Tamueji’s side. Glad the bead had already been removed, or she might have forgotten. But Tamueji didn’t seem focused on that.

  She gestured behind herself. “We need you over here—there’s been an accident.”

  My nod was mechanical, automatic. “What happened?”

  I was moving, being guided through the crowd. “Here.” She indicated a slope up from the edge of the street; orange and scarlet lights spilled down the side. “He just about got his belly ripped open. Time for you to pull your trick and put him back together.”

  A ring of figures lined the hill, which flatted out into an elevated sector. Silver poisoning made everything a little blurry. Winged silhouettes, staring eyes, and panther tails, bears pacing in and out of sight. The red glow of the lights seemed to thicken into actual blood, freshly scenting the air. Smelled like a good bit of it too. It took me a moment to determine the source.

  Another crow-soul was holding a body—no, not a body, or at least not a dead one. A young man. Bright slashes ran up his torso, bleeding through pads of cloth that were pressed into him. He was chattering weakly, softly, about how it was numbing. All the color seemed to have drained from his skin; a chain, empty of beads, hung at his throat.