“Trebor,” I stop him, staring into the piercing glow of Sura eyes.
He follows my gaze over the flagstone guard wall to the water. A second pair of eyes appears next to the first—and then another—and another. “A nest,” Trebor murmurs, and his eyes narrow. “Get down!”
I don't have time to question him. Trebor grabs my arm and swings me around, throwing me at the ground. I tuck and roll, skittering up to the flagstone, hands covering my head—something explodes in a burst of blacklight to my right, exactly where I was standing just a moment ago.
Trebor is crouched, predatory. I can see the flex of his shoulder blades beneath his tee-shirt, the sinuous curve of his body as he ducks and scans the shadows in the trees across from us. Whip-like, he lashes an arm out in the direction of the trees and a surge of light dances along his back, under his shirt, following the symmetry of his hidden tattoos. In the blink of an eye the light travels from spine to fingertip, flying out from his hand and forming a crude, luminous net. It collides with something hulking and dark, spreading over its broad form like an electric grid. In the brief flash of illumination, I catch a glimpse of pink gums and pointed fangs before all of it—Sura and net—disappears.
Trebor rises and hurries over to me, offering his hand. “Sorry I had to throw you like that.”
I shake my head as he pulls me to my feet. “No, it's cool. Rather hit the ground than have whatever that was hit me. I’m fine.” My heart is thudding, and the thrumming in my veins has come back like a slow boil, but I'm fine.
He keeps a hold of my hand, half pulling me as we run the rest of the way through the park. “Sorry,” he says after a while when we slow to a quick stride at the park exit on Main Street.
“Hey, like I said, it's okay.”
“No, I mean...that shouldn't have happened. I should have sensed it before it got that close.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Don't beat yourself up over it. We're both okay.”
He shakes his head. “One second later and you would have been gone.”
“Gone, like, dead?”
“Or taken. Or emptied.”
I swallow. Of the three options, emptied is the one that will give me nightmares tonight, I think. “But you were one second ahead, and that's what counts.”
Trebor clenches his jaw, shakes his head. “It's not good enough. I was distracted.”
“Hey,” I scold him. “I think I get to decide if my knight in shining armor is doing a good enough job of saving my ass. And anyway, I'd like to not need you to keep saving my ass. Being a damsel in distress isn't really my scene, you know? So if you really want to do a good job of keeping me safe, let's talk about that for a minute.”
Trebor looks at me, and the self-criticism and hardness drains from his face. He smiles a bit. “Knight in shining armor?” He puffs his chest out and struts as we cross the deserted street. “I like that. Okay, damsel, how should we do this?”
I make a face, but it twists into a smile before I can stop it. “I don't know. Can you show me how to throw fancy magical nets like you do, Spiderman?”
He deflates, but remains in good humor. “That's an Irin specialty unfortunately. But I wonder...” He studies me, making me feel...I don't know. Seen. “You can see Sura. And I can’t hide from you the way I can conceal myself from other humans. You must have access to magic, too, right? I mean besides the spells you've learned.”
I shrug. “I have no idea. I mean, I definitely have extra senses—I can see and feel things I shouldn't be able to. Sometimes I pick up on memories that aren't mine, and feelings, but only from things that are a part of these worlds that I shouldn’t be a part of.”
“That makes sense though,” Trebor decides. “Magic, if that's part of what makes you so aware—magic only works on other magical beings, or beings that believe wholeheartedly in magic. That's why Sura can't mess around with just anyone. They have to have your faith, draw you into their world, before they can harm you.” He snickers. “If it's true—if you do have access to magic—the Malakiim would be pissed if they found out.”
The idea of pissing off immortal angelic beings doesn't exactly make me laugh. “Why?” I wonder.
“Well, like I said—human magic can be volatile. If wielded properly, it can be very powerful. More than just communing with nature and fighting the occasional Sura. And the Malakiim don't like it when humans tap into their power.”
A streetlight goes out as we walk under it, and my spine tingles. “And what about you? What do you think?” I don’t look at him until after I ask.
“I agree, it's risky. And potentially dangerous. But, in all honesty, I'd rather give you a loaded gun to defend yourself with than leave you virtually helpless.” His eyes flicker over my face, then back to the darkness around us, keeping watch. “A lot of humans have abused their power in the past. Some still do. They make deals with Sura to gain magic and power, but when humans come by it that way, it's the magic that wields them, not the other way around. Eventually, it destroys the user, or changes them so completely that they’re no longer human. So it's really only a finite problem. But, still, they can create a lot of trouble in the meantime.”
“I didn't—I mean, if that's what you're suggesting, I didn't make any deals—”
Trebor laughs. “I'm not saying you did. I’d think you'd be slightly more competent with magic by now if you had.”
“Thanks?”
He smiles, but it falters. “Still, it does make me wonder. How did you end up like this?”
I shrug and repeat the litany that I’ve been telling myself whenever I ask why me? “My mother was of a particular heritage that keeps the old myths and spells alive, so I must have inherited some kind of ability from her. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
Trebor shakes his head. “Maybe, but it really doesn’t seem like enough. Even in the rare cases where humans have been able to see Sura, they’ve never been able to see through Irin cloaking.” ” He shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We’re here now, and you can see me whether I hide or not, and you can see Sura whether you want to or not. So. How would you like to proceed, damsel?”
I look up at the stars as we get closer to my house, thinking about the night walks I used to take with my mother where she first introduced me to the world of the Arcana—the angels and demons, and all the worlds they inhabit. But my hands are buzzing, and my head is so full of questions and worries and thoughts and wonderings and ideas…I’m not even sure what my options are right now.
“I would like to get a good night’s sleep,” I tell Trebor finally. “And talk about it tomorrow.”
Trebor nods. “Okay.”
“But you should probably get lost before I get to the porch, because my dad will notice you, and assume you’re a sinister teenage boy trying to get in my pants, and immediately hate you.”
He laughs. “You forget, I’m excellent at hiding, at least from people who aren’t you.”
Something switches in him as we walk up to my drive way. In the dark and knowing what to look for, I see the difference between visible Trebor and invisible Trebor, better than I could at the coffee shop today: he’s slightly translucent now.
“How do you do that?” I wonder, reaching out to see if I can put my hand through him, like a ghost. My palm lands on his chest, and it feels solid enough—but my hand is translucent now, too. I pull it back.
Trebor smiles as we climb the stairs to my front porch, where the light is on, waiting for me. “I’ll show you some day. Now get inside so I can quit worrying about keeping you safe for a few hours, damsel.”
I open my mouth to give a snappy reply, but I can hear my father moving inside the house, probably getting up from his chair in the living room to peak around the corner at the front door, where he can see my silhouette through the frosted glass. So I close my mouth and just look at Trebor, half exasperated and half smiling.
He half-smiles back. “Good night, Anastasia. Let me know when you’ve ha
d enough time to think—I’ll be lurking around.”
I nod, and after a few moments of wordlessly staring back, I finally turn and open the door, letting myself in. I catch a glimpse of my father returning to his chair in the living room.
“There you are,” he says mildly, as if he wasn’t worried about where I’d been. “What have you been up to?”
“Not much,” I lie, lovingly—because, how could I ever possibly explain any of this to him?
— 27 —
In my dreams, I am surrounded by Sura.
They are watching, waiting, evaluating. They do not speak, even when I shout at them. They do not move, even when I lash out and strike them. They are waiting, like the most patient spiders, webs weaved and traps set.
My mother is beside me. She wasn’t before, but she always is, I know that now. She remains on my left-hand side—left side is feminine: dark, yielding, receiving, she taught me once amidst candlelight and incense, within the boundaries of our sacred circle, cast under the cloak of the new moon—even as I turn about, whipping around and around, unable to take my eyes off the demons.
I’m dizzy and sick with fear, knowing they will pounce, knowing they will strike, the moment I let my guard down.
“What can I do, Mom?” I whisper to her, afraid they might hear my uncertainty.
Her words come clear and simple, as if the answer is obvious. Be brave.
“I’m not afraid,” I insist, but the rapid-fire rhythm of syllables drumming from my heart suggest otherwise. Shama Irin. Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim. Shama Irin…
Trebor appears on my right-hand side—the right side is masculine: light, forceful, giving, my mother taught me once, under the hot blaze of a Midsummer sun, laying belly-down in the tall grass, watching a tremendously antlered stag drinking from the creek—and there are wings, huge and imposing like the bones of a cathedra, merged with the divine beauty of a wild bird and a monarch butterfly, sprouted from his shoulder blades. He offers his hand to me.
I stare at it, more terrified of that hand than any or all of the demons present.
“I don’t need you,” I say to his hand, and feel the ghosts of tears trickling from my eyes.
“No, you don’t,” Trebor agrees, and comes to stand before me, both hands out, palms up. The gothic spread of his magnificent wings blocks the Sura from my sight.
“But I’m here, anyway.”
— 28 —
Morning comes too fast after a fitful night of dreams and semi-sleep. I doze through my first few classes, where more anxious dreaming makes me nervous and exhausted, regretting my decision to come to school at all. When my lunch period finally arrives, I’m too over-tired to practice violin—or to be much of a useful human being at all, really—so I go where normal people usually go to eat lunch.
Sitting alone in the cafeteria, I make the barest attempt to crack a notebook and study. I catch myself spacing-out, staring into the black-caramel depths of my coffee, when I'm shocked back to reality by the sound of Trebor's voice somewhere in the cafeteria.
I lift my head, turn, and find him immediately. He's talking to one of my classmates over by the long line for school lunches, body language casual and cool. I try to listen, but his voice only travels as a suggestion of words, indistinct but for inflection. The two of them look comfortable, friendly. Nothing seems amiss. Andy has managed to integrate Trebor into the student body fairly successfully, by the looks of things.
I wonder why in the world Trebor ever chose to pose as a high school student to begin with. I have to assume he's just doing his job, searching for this legendary key—but I have no idea why he thinks anyone here would know about it, Andy being the one exception. But Andy doesn’t strike me as the type to make deals with demons—although his charms have made my skin crawl on occasion, just as surely as the white-hot eyes that sometimes burn from the shadows.
I want to turn my attention away and let Trebor do his job, but this is the first time I've really had the chance to observe him. He's watched me more than once, I know—something that can be at times frightening and embarrassing—and now the tables are turned. What can I find out about Trebor when he doesn't know I'm watching?
But looking at him—really looking at him—for the first time, I realize that I've been avoiding it. Since we've officially met, I haven't wanted to see him. His voice has already crawled under my skin and twined its fingers around my insides, compromising my center of power. I feel both weaker and stronger for it, as if the sound of his voice could give me the power of flight, or bring me to my knees. It doesn't. It hasn't. I don't even think there is any real magic there, but it feels like some kind of power—and that makes me nervous.
And his face? I know he is handsome, in a strange, dark, almost swarthy way. I know he has eyes the same color as cut emeralds, perpetually cast in slanted shadows, and that they can shine incredibly bright when he smiles. I know his face is at times soft, and other times angular; his mouth can be cold and firm, and at other times a laugh made manifest. His expression holds a constant contradiction of sorrow and bliss, and I'm afraid I might get lost in that struggle if I let my gaze linger for too long.
But I am, now, watching him, because he doesn't know I'm watching, because I couldn't keep my eyes from finding him, because in my world of dusk and shadows, where the darkness looms, monstrous, he is a sunrise—promising. He glows.
No, literally, I see a shimmering outline around his body, now that I'm actually looking at him. It's a ghostlike, pearlescent fluctuation of rainbow-smoky hues that shine outward from him like a full-body lens flare, without glaring. I hear his voice again over the crowd, and he shrugs his tee-shirt-clad shoulders, hands in jean pockets, human, human, human...
But when his voice hits me, my breath flies from my lungs. I see it happen this time: a fork of lightning flashes, arcing from one conductor to another, stabbing through my solar plexus. And when the connection is made, he blinks hard, and his eyes shift, gliding in my direction without altering the expression on his face at all.
I turn fast away, hoping he doesn't notice that I was watching him. I stare into the styrofoam cup in my hands, considering my coffee.
But I'm not surprised when Trebor’s shadow falls over my booth.
“Hey damsel,” he says in a low voice. “Mind if I join you?”
I look up and shrug to demonstrate my indifference, then nod because I'm not, and for a fleeting moment I feel like it's imperative to keep him here. But I feel the need, after seeing him in my dreams last night, to seem un-eager.
He slides into my booth, across from me, and rests his hands on the table. They're big hands—not freakish, but large, with fingers long enough and nimble enough for the precision of delicate tasks. His nails are short—chewed down or clipped, I can't tell. There's nothing about him that gives me an edge on who he is, what he's really like inside that dark-featured head of his. I can’t look at him and tell how he drinks his coffee, or if he even drinks coffee at all.
Even in my dreams last night, I couldn’t take those hands up in mine. I might want to trust him because he seems like he has answers, maybe even solutions, but in reality I don’t know anything about him.
Or so I tell myself.
He looks at me with an open, earnest expression, constantly skirting the edge of sadness, even when the corners of his mouth turn up in a slight smile.
“So, what exactly are you doing here?” I say quietly. “I mean, why pretend to be in high school?”
His smile doesn't waver. “I have to gather intelligence in order to find the key before the Sura do. All the clues have led me to your village, and I’m thinking, based on some of the more deliberate Sura activity around here, there might actually be a student at your school who has the information I need. I need to find out as much as I can about them.” I get the feeling he's looking at something beyond me, or inside of me. I feel exposed, so I lean back, spin my styrofoam cup in my hands, and let my eyes wander to the crowd.
; “You could ask me,” I point out. “I'm a natural wallflower, observing is practically all I do at school.” I gesture vaguely to the rest of the school around me. “Most of them are all too wrapped up in themselves to notice.”
“Yes, but I need to know who’s watching the wallflowers.”
I turn back to him, eyes wide. “Were you asking them about me?”
He shrugs, and his watchful eyes drink in my response. “If they know about the key, they probably know about you.”
My brow furrows. “What the hell, Trebor? Couldn't you just ask me? I kind of thought me knowing you weren't human and you having seen me in my underwear and half-drowned would have developed a kind of trust between us.”
He laughs again, and his eyes smile brighter. “Ana, I trust you, probably more than my superiors would be happy to know. And if I need to know anything about you, I'll ask. But what I need to find out right now is who has noticed you.” He leans forward. “Their words don't tell me anything. It’s their eyes.” He straightens. “But I think I’ve found what I need. Anyway, I don't want to disturb your everyday life more than I already have.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “My everyday life has been deeply disturbed for the past four years. Trust me, if anything, you're the first clarifying thing to happen in a very long time.”
He studies me, something behind his eyes that I can't quite read—worry, perhaps? Or just more almost-sadness?
“Hey, look at this.” John Cassidy approaches our booth with a handful of other kids. “Looks like the Ginger Giant has a date with the new kid.” John first dubbed me with that dubious nickname when I was in fifth grade. He’s also the boy I fought in eighth grade—a fight that I won.
One of the girls in his posse—Kristin Leigh—slides into the booth next to Trebor and smiles at him, glossy pink lips stretching over bleached white teeth, long blonde hair falling in hay-straight curtains around her face. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, rests her chin on her fist, and stares at him. “Hi there, new kid,” she purrs.
The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) Page 11