The star was silent for a minute, and her luster dimmed. “You planned this, did you not? That is why you asked me to return today.”
“I can’t let you go,” he repeated. “But you’ll see. Now they can’t take you back, and we can be together.”
“Release me,” she said. “You know this is wrong. I would never choose it.”
“I can’t,” he told her a third time, his voice like stone.
Days passed, and the star clung to the back of the cage, weeping. She refused any food or drink the man offered and shied away when he reached through the bars. “You’re here for your own good,” he asserted. “Can’t you see how your court only tries to control you? Regardless of what they claim, you haven’t hurt me.”
The star turned her face from him.
More time passed, and the man attempted to paint. First the brush was wrong. Then the paint wouldn’t mix properly. When he couldn’t get the undercoating right, he tossed the canvas away in disgust. “Help me,” he urged, but the star remained curled up in a ball, her back to him. “I thought you valued my art. Or was that another lie?”
The star paid him no heed.
Over the next few weeks, the man tried and tried to paint, yet nothing came forth. “What have you done to me, you stupid woman?”
The star remained withdrawn, only glaring at him through her tangles. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and tearstains marred her face. The corona limning her frame seemed a faint mockery of what it had been.
One morning, after another failed attempt to create, the man approached the cage and unlocked the door. “Enough,” he said. “Come here.” The star cowered. “We’re meant to be together. You’re meant to inspire me. Why are you doing this?”
When she didn’t answer, the man brutally pried her from the cage. “If you won’t be with me, at least you will inspire me.”
The star stared at her bare feet, now caked in grime. The man jerked her chin up so she had to meet his wrathful eyes. “Speak!” She swiped at him with her nails, but that only enraged him further. He beat her with a wooden broom handle. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
The star fought back, scratching and slapping and even scorching the man. Yet in the end, he was well rested and nourished and she was not, and so she capitulated beneath the broom’s onslaught, folding into herself and shielding her face with her arms.
At last the man stopped. Blood, silver and viscous as mercury, coated the handle of the broom.
The star spat at him, but the man stood entranced by the blood. “What manner of light runs through your veins?” He scraped every drop into a clay dish.
“This,” he told the star, herding her back into the cage, “must be the source of your power. I’ll let you go once it’s mine. I just want my art back.”
Then, disregarding the burns on his wrist, he dipped his brush in the blood and waited for the outpouring of inspiration.
When nothing happened, he swore. “Why isn’t this working?”
He hurled the dish at the wall, where it splintered. A sliver of red-brown clay rebounded and punctured the side of his thumb. Cursing, he ripped it out.
The lips of the cut grazed the silvery blood on the shard, and the man drew in a loud breath when the cut not only closed but vanished altogether. The burns on his wrist, too, were gone, the skin whole as if they had never been.
“So your blood does have power,” he said, his mouth contorting into a slow plague of a smile. “Just not the kind I thought.” The star made no reply, but it was too late. He knew.
The man left without another word, abandoning the whimpering star in her cage. When he returned, he carried a clinking satchel. “You stole my vision from me,” he hissed, “and now I must find another way to make a living. There are many who would pay for what your blood can do.”
“No,” she begged. “Just let me return home. I will say nothing of this to anyone; you have my word. Only let me go.”
“Hardly,” said the man. He emptied his satchel of its glass vials. “I gave you so many chances to return my vision to me. You wasted them all.”
“How could I return what I never stole?” the star objected. “Your vision is still in you, as it has always been. All I did was wake it.”
The man laughed. A glittering blade appeared in his palm. “I have a different vision now.”
And, ignoring the star’s pleas for mercy, her screams of pain, he began to bleed her with small, careful strokes of his knife.
5
Sheetal screamed, and the web of song tattered all around her.
When she came back to herself, she lay on the floor of Dev’s room, right in the pile of rejected compositions. What was that?
Her heart thundered so hard she thought she might faint.
The scenes with the star and that horrible man—her lover?—had been so clear, like a movie. The thought of being able to walk freely among humans, back when they still believed in magic, blew Sheetal’s heart wide open with hope. Total freedom, even acceptance. Her whole body hungered for it.
But superimposed over all of that was the bloody knife.
Her hands tingled and tingled, aching like the pins and needles that came from sitting in one position too long. No, like lines of fire running just beneath her skin. She tried massaging her palms, but that only made them hurt more.
Above her, still in bed, Dev rubbed his eyes. “I had the weirdest dream. This is why I don’t nap.” He blinked blearily at her. “What’re you doing down there?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I had a nightmare.”
“You, too? I guess we’re both allergic to naps. Are you okay?”
Sheetal shifted so she could hide her hands under the bed. “I’m fine. What was your dream about?”
Dev rolled his shoulders before switching on the bedside lamp. The sudden light made Sheetal squint. “My cousin and me at some family picnic.”
“That doesn’t seem so bad,” she said. “Unless, I don’t know, you don’t like eating outside.”
“Well, it got weird after that. My grandfather started telling us a story.” Dev frowned. “Huh—I haven’t thought of that day in years.”
Cousin, family picnic, grandpa telling a story. The question slipped out before Sheetal could catch it. “Wait, was the kid with the curly hair Jeet? Like in the picture?”
His frown deepened. “What?”
“And the story,” she rushed on, “the one your grandpa told about the . . .”
Her tongue lurched to a halt. Even with all the momentum behind it, she couldn’t bring herself to say stars.
You must never let anyone know what you are.
Her brain caught up with her mouth two seconds too late, and Sheetal blushed hard. What was she doing? Dreams were creepy sometimes, but that was no reason to make him think she was, too. “Never mind.”
“What about the story?” Dev asked slowly. He wasn’t quite meeting her eyes.
She tried for casual. “I think we both dreamed about your family. Isn’t that funny?”
“What exactly did you see?” Dev’s tone was cautious, as if taking care not to spook a feral animal he’d found on the street.
That decided her. She didn’t need to be gentled, thanks very much. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d even believe her. “A man and a star woman.”
“A star woman,” Dev echoed.
And then, because she clearly didn’t know when to stop, Sheetal added in a spooky voice, “And a knife.”
Dev stared at a poster on the wall, nothing relaxed or easy about him now.
Anxiety flickered deep at her core, kindling her flame. Why wasn’t he teasing her back? “Dream logic, right?”
Dev took his time replying. “What happened with the knife?”
Well, Sheetal had already stuck both feet in her mouth as far as they would go, so maybe she should just tell him the rest, and then they could make fun of her over-the-top subconscious together. “The man trapped the star in a cage and then cut her. F
or her blood. Isn’t that awful?”
“He cut her,” Dev repeated, still looking at the poster. “You saw that.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, creasing and uncreasing the nearest discarded song draft. Okay, that had been a terrible idea. Now he just thought she was into violence or something. “You know what? Forget it. Who knows why anyone dreams anything?”
Dev ran a hand through his messy hair. “Jeet was right,” he muttered. “I don’t believe it.”
That wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. “Right about what?”
He faced her again, his expression oddly clinical. “Damn. You really did, didn’t you. You saw my dream.”
Sheetal felt like she was moving underwater. Everything was blurred and unreal. “What?”
She vaguely remembered singing to him as he’d slept, remembered the way her flame had sparked and taken her over as she’d reached for his heart with her own. But that had been part of the dream itself, hadn’t it?
Or was she still dreaming right now?
When Dev spoke, he sounded awed. “You saw my granddad’s story.”
Sheetal’s palms tingled even more. Now he was scaring her. She sat on her hands, hoping they’d go numb. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have told you I knew.”
Sheetal had to go over his words three times before she could parse them. “Told me you knew what?”
Shoving more pages out of the way, Dev joined her on the floor. His apprehensive glance skated past hers. “I’ve never talked to anyone outside my family about this.”
“Okay . . . ,” she said as patiently as she could.
“So. This is the moment where I make my grand confession,” he said, but the attempt to lighten the mood fell flat. “Argh, this is— Let me put it this way. It’s not . . . it’s not just a story. It’s a memory. My memory.”
Sheetal looked down to see she’d been ripping at her cuticle. She’d never heard of being able to see other people’s memories or dreams or anything like that. “I don’t get it.”
Dev blew out a breath. “It all really happened. A long time ago.”
The ground felt like it was tilting, uncovering new vistas she’d never imagined. What was he saying, that stars really used to walk among humans like it was no big deal? And that there had been other half-stars?
A suspicion buzzed at the back of her mind like a mosquito she couldn’t reach to swat: And wouldn’t that mean he knew stars like her were real?
“Ha, ha,” she said, though she couldn’t be less amused if she tried. “So funny.”
“I know how it sounds, but I swear I’m not making it up,” Dev went on. “That guy in the story, the artist? He was my great-great-great-great-whatever-grandfather.”
The artist in the story had pulled a knife on the star. Had imprisoned and bled her. Sheetal backed away, her heart contracting with horror and sadness. “Your great-great-whatever-grandfather tortured a star?!”
Charumati’s vague warning to stay hidden echoed in her ears, resonant in a way it had never been. Where there is magic, there will always be hunger to possess it. You must hide what you are.
Dev ran a hand over his face. “Well, this is going great.” He started to reach for her, then stopped himself. “Listen, I’m so sorry. You have to know that.”
Her head whirling, Sheetal slumped against the bed. She scarcely felt the metal frame biting into her shoulder blades.
She still had to be dreaming, she thought desperately. None of this made any sense. Forcing the horrific vision aside, she asked, “But why aren’t you surprised I could see your dream?”
After all, if she hadn’t known she could do that, there was no way he should be taking it so well. Right?
Dev looked confused. “Uh, because you’re a star?”
The mosquito buzzing cut off. It was just Sheetal and the cosmos, holding a collective breath for her reply.
“What?” She laugh-snorted. Normally she would have been mortified, but that was before she’d woken up in Bizarro World. “Wait, you’re serious? You really think I’m a star?”
It sounded pathetic even to her, a last-ditch effort to throw him off the trail.
“Look,” Dev said, brushing at the back of his neck, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I knew, but what are you playing at? I don’t get it.”
“What are you playing at, saying I’m a star?”
His gaze flicked to the pictures on the wall. “My family’s always known about stars, but it’s more like a superstition at this point.” He shrugged. “You know, like saying you’re related to Cleopatra. I didn’t even really believe it until I met you.”
Because you’re a star.
Dev kept talking, describing how his forefather had gone on to become the first star hunter, but it fell on her ears like white noise.
He knew what she was. He’d known the entire time, and he’d let her think he didn’t.
How had they gone from cookies to this? If only she could rewind the past hour. Her nail dug deeper into the wound on her thumb, making it scream.
“And then you inspired me, and it wasn’t just a story anymore. . . .”
Sheetal’s head jerked up. Her hands were on fire, the pain dialed up to ten. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”
The ghost of the starsong chimed as if in contradiction.
Dev was studying her like he wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not. She stared at him, arms crossed, willing him to explain. “You do know I’m not your manic pixie dream girl or whatever?”
Understanding crossed his face, making his eyes crinkle. He even laughed. “No one told you stars are muses? How do you think I finished my song? You inspired me. Like, with your light.”
Outrage and incredulity boiled at Sheetal’s core, sending her flame roaring high. Her whole body grew hot with shame until she was sure she’d singe the carpet and all the false starts that littered it. This human boy she’d met three months ago knew more about her than she did, knew more about her magic. More than her own family had ever bothered to tell her.
The world had dissolved under her feet, leaving her unmoored.
She glared at the ceiling, wishing she could pierce it with her gaze. Wishing she could pierce the stars so they hurt like she did.
Her mind was a tornado of doubt and wrath and dread. She seized onto one thought at random, gripping it close like a life preserver, and rounded on Dev. “Oh, gods, were you going to bleed me, too, for your songs?”
He shook his head hard. “No way! How can you even think that?”
“But you knew I’m a star, and you let me inspire you, and . . .”
The clutter on the floor, which had been cute before, felt oppressive now. All those versions of his song, inspired by her. Just like his ur-grandfather and his poor star muse.
If Dev hadn’t just been using her, her heart raged, why hadn’t he been honest in the first place?
“I didn’t let you inspire me!” Dev protested. “You just did it. It’s what you do.”
What she did? Sheetal couldn’t move. What was happening to her? First her hair, now this ability to see into people’s dreams . . . and inspire them without even trying.
Fear made her shout. “You knew what I was and pretended you didn’t!”
“What did you want me to say, Sheetal?” Dev yelled back. He’d crushed the hem of his T-shirt in both fists. “My family hated stars? My great-whatever-grandfather tried to kill one? Because yeah, it’s true, he did. But here’s the thing: nobody except Jeet even believes you exist anymore—”
“Dev. Stop,” she cried. “Even if they don’t believe it, why would your family want to remember a story like that? That man would’ve wanted me dead. He would’ve wanted my mom dead. What would Jeet say if you told him you’d found me?”
Dev looked as miserable as she felt. “He’s actually the one who told me where to find you. He wanted me to get to know you
, but—”
“He what?” Sheetal’s knees trembled. What was she supposed to do with all of this? With the silver flame crackling violently at her core?
She scrutinized him, this beautiful boy she’d kissed and confided her silliest thoughts to, who made her alternately laugh and swoon, whom she’d thought she might love. She traced the planes of his face, the arch of his lips, the mischievous, dark eyes that never failed to make her melt—until now.
You didn’t lie to the people you cared about. You definitely didn’t pretend to like them.
Her cheeks burned. She was a fool.
Dev reached for her again. “I should’ve told you I knew sooner. I wanted to—”
“My mom warned me about people like you.” The words fought their way free of Sheetal’s mouth, ready to scald everyone and everything to cinders. “I can’t believe you knew all this, and you didn’t say a word. How am I supposed to trust you?”
He bowed his head. “Will you please just listen—”
“I have to go.” She needed to get away from this house owned by people whose relatives had—had—and who might still . . . She couldn’t even think it, it was so huge and awful.
All of this was so huge and awful.
Sheetal sprinted down to the kitchen for her bag, skirting the island so she wouldn’t glimpse the leftover cookies. The thought of them just made her want to throw up or cry or both.
In a daze, she went outside and texted Minal. The first rays of the setting sun spilled down, a sweet-tart torrent of mango juice that meant Dad would be home from work soon—and the sidereal song would be back in full force.
Naturally Minal didn’t answer, and of course Sheetal didn’t have any cash for a taxi or even a bus. And it was too far to walk. Of course.
She figured she might as well do the one thing guaranteed to make this crap day even worse.
Sheetal called Radhikafoi to come get her.
An hour later, huddled on the burgundy leather sofa in Radhikafoi’s Pine-Sol–scented living room, Sheetal watched her cousins jab buttons on their video-game controllers while her auntie and Dad talked in low voices. This latest model would be gone within a day or two; Radhikafoi had just cooed to Dad about a gold-and-green Victorian settee in a local antique store. It wouldn’t match any of her contemporary décor mixed with Indian folk art, but since when did that matter?
Star Daughter Page 5