Gabe played a card: the three of swords. “How goes Fauna’s search for the Empress?”
I answered, “She told me it’s as if they’d disappeared.” No kidding, Lark. I’d wanted to strike her baffled face. “Which, of course, they did.”
The Mistress of Fauna scoured the Ash, howling for revenge against the girl she believed had poisoned her mate. At least, Lark did so whenever she was awake.
For most hours of the day, she slept among her creatures, as if she were going into hibernation, shutting down from grief. What I’d urged her to do to Finn’s body seemed to have been the breaking point for her mental health.
Gabe said, “They could be back in Kentarch’s home country by now.”
Death deigned to reply: “He would never return to Kenya without his wife. Besides, the game will force us to converge.”
The Reaper craved that convergence. He was so strong, growing more so every day, and he burned to go out and punish his age-old foe. To keep him here, I was draining myself.
What a paradox. I garnered strength with each Arcana I trapped in my sphere; but keeping an unwilling one sapped me.
My sphere suffered as well, not expanding as fast as I’d hoped. But it did continue to spread in unexpected bursts. I’d almost captured Kentarch when he’d finally returned to spy on my progress.
I played the five of pentacles. “Lark also searches for Issa. The woman’s scent would’ve been helpful, but then, there are only so many females left in the Ash.”
Gabe laid down the knight of swords. “Would Kentarch turn over the Empress for her?”
Death pocketed the ribbon, taking an interest in this subject. “Easily.”
Then Evie assumed a huge risk by keeping her new ally around.
Gabe frowned. “And if this exchange should occur? What would happen then? I suppose it would only be fair for Death to finish her.”
I said, “I’ve been thinking about that eventuality.” Since Evie’s escape, I’d changed my mind about her future. I didn’t plan on killing her; I planned on keeping her for a time. My powers would only continue to grow with another Arcana in the sphere.
I’d already broached the subject of the cilice with Death, would ask again: “Wouldn’t you rather make her a prisoner, Reaper? We have the cilice; we should use it.”
“The Empress recently suggested that very thing.” The conflict inside him was palpable. “She probably knows how close I came to freeing her last time. You underestimate her charms.”
And you underestimate my influence, Reaper. Was I conceited? Yes, but I had every reason to be. Who was more powerful? The great Grim Reaper? Or the man who controlled Death?
I let the cilice subject go—for now. “Speaking of the Empress . . .” I played her Tarot card, winning the round.
Death narrowed his eyes with hatred.
“If looks could reap.” Gabe laughed. “How many times has she endeavored to murder you anyway?”
“She nearly succeeded twice. She’s as vicious as she is seductive. I can never forget that again.”
“Aren’t we all vicious at our core?” Gabe asked. “Aren’t all Arcana made to kill?” He’d certainly been enraged to miss Jack Deveaux’s throat with his wing claw. While Lark had been howling over the loss of her lion, Gabe had used his growing wings to destroy his room in the castle. Splinters and black feathers everywhere.
The Archangel had once been known as enlightened and forthright, the most fair-minded of all the cards. With his reversal, he’d turned hostile, underhanded, and petty.
Depending on how our resources fared over the years, I’d eventually be forced to cull my herd. I’d start with Lark. Then him.
Richter and Zara would be drawn here soon enough, and then I’d command them and their ungodly powers. What use would I have for Fauna when I had the King of Hell in my thrall?
“Of course we were built to kill,” Death said. “The gods selected us for a game with but one end. They didn’t choose peaceable individuals to represent them. I believe the heat of battle we all feel is our innate need to win. But I mastered mine for centuries.” He frowned, no doubt wondering why he’d lost control against the Empress.
I placed thoughts in his head: She’s taken even that from you. What more can she steal? Your honor. Your faith in others. Your hope of a line to come after you.
Clenching his fists, he turned his unsettling gaze toward the window again, all but bristling to go hunt her down. Who needed mind-reading when I could read faces so well?
Using ever more power to keep him in line, I daubed the perspiration dotting my upper lip. This study was warm—even formal Gabe had removed his coat—but using my abilities fatigued me.
The Angel turned to me. “What about you, Hanged Man? Are you a killer at heart? Perhaps you took lives even before the game began?”
“Never.” Often. From an early age, I’d recognized the power of treachery. To me betrayal was, I imagined, like flight was to Gabriel.
I soared.
And ending a life was the ultimate betrayal. My lips curled into an irrepressible grin. “I cared only about sacrifice and duty. I helped others,” I said, picturing my first serious girlfriend, a champion athlete. I’d helped her get hooked on opiates, even injecting her as she slept.
By the time she realized what I’d done to her, it was too late. The once-proud girl had lost everything, reduced to selling herself for her next fix. After my first year in medical school, I’d located her, offering my assistance with rehabilitation. By showering her with condescending pity, I helped her turn another corner.
She’d OD’d that same night.
I shuddered with pleasure to recall the betrayed look in her eyes. There was a point at which resentment became poisonous to the body and mind, when bitterness became lethal.
I enabled people to find that point. With my medical background, I’d been like a virus that spread suicide and “accidental” death.
Whenever my victims had gazed up at me with realization in their glazed-over eyes, I’d told them, Never fear me, for I mean no harm.
“Helping others is my calling.” Assuming a troubled expression, I said, “I tried to be there for Evie, but she betrayed me. And yet she walks free, with no repercussions.” Actually, she was knocked up out in the Ash. A special kind of hell, I’d imagine.
Death’s lean frame tensed, his gaze on the window once more.
I wanted him in my alliance, my immortal henchman. Even should I lose him, I would eventually reclaim him—I was certain of it.
These Arcana coveted my guidance. They needed it. Life was better with me. Considering how Death, Gabe, and Lark reacted within my sphere, they would hate it outside.
After the safety and order of this place, how could they not find the Ash jarring and incomprehensible? Much less without my clarity.
If the Reaper didn’t go mad outright, he’d be drawn back. Once I set my hooks, I set them for life.
Still, I had no intention of simply allowing him to walk away. I’d taken precautions to keep them all here.
One night the Reaper had told me, “I will join Lark’s hunt for the Empress.”
“No,” I’d said. “That’s not a good idea.”
In a flash of his old arrogant self, he’d said, “Do you really think you can contain Death, little man?”
Yes, Reaper. Yes, I do.
31
Death
The Hanged Man’s face was clammy, the yellow light behind his head flaring. He was probably straining the limits of his abilities to keep me here.
Amusing. Did he not understand that I remained here by choice? As strategy?
The need to ride out and slay my wife clawed at me inside—I still seethed over her words: our game is no fun if you’re weak—but I leaned on the Hanged Man. I used his power like a tool.
Some might say like a drug.
As the Archangel dealt more cards, I wondered why I had allowed them into my private sanctuary. Perhaps because I’d fe
lt weak when I’d run a hand over this desk—where I’d taken the Empress. Or when I’d gazed at the couch where we’d often read together. Her gentle affection . . .
My gods, I missed her touch. Sex with her had been stratospheric, but her mere touch coupled with a soft look had felled me.
I ran my fingers along the red ribbon in my pocket, some memento from Deveaux that I’d retrieved from her drawer. What does it mean to her? Before I claimed the Empress’s life, I would force her to tell me the significance of this crimson length.
No doubt she and the mortal had resumed their liaison. Though jealousy choked me, I pitied Deveaux. He believed the Empress was kindhearted and good.
I knew the truth.
A week ago, she’d phoned me again, informing me that they’d found a shelter out in the Ash. She’d been alone at the time of the call. She’d sounded at once healthy and lonely, seeming in need of someone to talk to.
“I, uh, don’t get out much here,” she’d admitted.
I’d bitten back the worst of my rancor to keep her on the line, attempting to discover her whereabouts. She’d been calling from some kind of echoing, enclosed area, but I’d also heard waves, wind, music, and people. A settlement on the coast?
In a casual tone, she’d told me Circe had contacted her and revealed the sex of our child. A boy.
What a brilliant ploy on the Empress’s part. Though I wouldn’t have cared whether I’d fathered a boy or a girl—either would have been a delight—her revelation made me imagine scenarios, such as teaching a son all that my father had taught me about being a man.
It made the lie more real.
It made the pain cut deeper.
Finally, I’d been unable to stand it any longer . . . .
“Must you carry on with this charade?”
“Charade? Oh, Aric, if only it were.”
“Why do you continue to call? You’re giving me clues about your location, which makes Fauna’s job easier. Be on the lookout for giant predators.”
“You won’t tell her where I am.”
“Will I not?” I asked, begrudgingly amused.
“You want to claim my icon yourself.”
True, I thought, but I said, “Care to bet your life on that, beautiful?”
Silence for several seconds. Then: “There’s no reaching you, is there? I can’t goad you into coming after me. I can’t make you remember what we had. And we can’t take on you and all the others to mount a rescue.” Before she abruptly hung up, she said, “I have all the information I need to make a decision.”
What decision? Again and again, I’d turned those words over in my head.
The Archangel rose. “’Tis exceedingly hot in here.” As he headed toward one of the windows, my gaze fell on his molting wings.
When inside, he folded them up, but his wingspan was mind-boggling. They seemed to grow with each hearty meal he enjoyed, the bullet holes healing with new feathers.
Like him, I was becoming stronger. Perhaps all the deaths across the land fueled my own transformation. Soon my power and speed would be unmatched among the Arcana.
When the Archangel opened the window, chill air entered. I drew in a cleansing breath, even as I regretted the waste of precious heat. Both he and Paul kept their rooms like saunas. When I’d said something to Paul, he’d reminded me that we no longer had to hoard our resources for a fictitious child and superfluous Arcana like the Empress.
The Archangel turned back, muttering, “Better.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than a gust blew in and sent the cards on my desk flying.
I stared at the disarray, my thoughts veering in strange directions. An Arcana had allowed in the frigid cold, displacing all the cards—as if this very room were Tar Ro, an arena manipulated by a mysterious entity. Like the gods, we controlled the weather, the play of the cards. We wreaked havoc on them.
My suspicion that the earth was a tilted stage had strengthened.
With surprising insight, the Archangel said, “So too do the gods play with us. I sense their return.”
“I as well,” I said, recalling the tumultuous night when I’d claimed the Empress as my own. So what would that mean for Arcana?
Paul gazed from me to the Archangel. He had read enough of the chronicles to follow along.
Only one card remained on my desk. The Empress. I snatched it up, hatred and lust warring inside me. I crumpled her card and threw it into the fireplace. Flames licked the image, immolating her.
Suddenly I sensed we were being watched. Had Fauna dispatched some creature to spy on us? Doubtful; she slept all day, hay in her unkempt hair.
No, this was another Arcana. I mentally murmured, You. I always know your unblinking gaze.
—Tredici. Tredici.— a familiar voice echoed in my mind. Tredici, the Fool’s name for me, meant thirteen in Italian. He materialized by my side. Or a projection of him did. He wore earmuffs, a thick jacket, and fingerless gloves.
From Gabe and Paul’s lack of reaction, I gathered they couldn’t see or hear him.
I rose to pour a vodka, giving them my back as I collected my thoughts. What do you want? How had the Empress ever viewed this player as anything but malevolent?
—You must see the future too, Tredici.—
My sight dimmed, replaced by a scene from some distance away. Salt water. Waves. Rain. Cold.
I relaxed into the vision, easing the way for the Fool’s delivery. I saw the Empress. Her face was pale, her wet hair whipping in the wind.
A mob of humans with bayonets were yelling, “Plank, plank, plank!”
She gazed up at me with a stricken expression and whispered, “Jack.”
I felt a jolt, then realized I must be experiencing this vision through Deveaux’s perspective, his senses becoming mine, his thoughts known to me.
The humans were forcing him and the Empress out onto a walkway of some sort that was positioned above a vast trench.
The men wielded bayonets. Deveaux tried to evade their strikes, to ward them off, but he could only hold out for so long.
Completely immersed, I let the scene unspool in my mind.
“You can’t take another stab!” Evie inched back, yanking on my hand. We were already past the midpoint.
When the plank teetered like a seesaw, I said, “Just hang on, you! Not another step.” Braving the bayonets, I leaned forward, but I waged a losing battle. The plank joggled again. “Putain!” We were going into the drink!
We started sliding backward, were looking up at the opposite end of the plank, about to be dumped. I clenched her hand hard.
She cried, “Jack!”
The plank pivoted; we plummeted—
Weightless.
Stomach lurching. Wind whipping over us. Falling, falling. FALLING . . .
COLD. We hurtled into the deep, the temperature snatching the breath from my lungs. I snatched Evie, and we struggled to the surface. We breached a wave, gasping for air.
Shock had me by the throat. Towering waves battered us, but we clung together.
My frantic gaze darted. Sheer wall. Jagged. Dark. “Doan kn-know where to climb!” My numb limbs were barely keeping us afloat.
Her lids grew heavier, her lips already blue. Her face was as pale as snow. “C-Circe will come.”
When? The cold would take us in moments. I pleaded, “You hold on! You’re a t-terror in the pool, remember?”
A swirling wave—a vortex in reverse—began to rise beneath us. My eyes widened. Seeing this right? A column of water, like a slow-moving geyser, lifted us.
“Circe?” she called weakly.
We continued to rise. “It’s her, Evie! Just hang on. Faster, Priestess! We’ve got to get her to land.”
Evie bit out, “T-too c-cold, Circe. Jack c-can’t take much more.”
“I can’t?” I was losing her!
A watery voice sounded from the column. “It’s not your time, Evie Greene!”
“Circe, she’s fading!” I yelled. �
��Ah, God, you stay with me, Evie.” Desperation strangled me. I burned to fight. To save her. I needed to give my life for hers.
Couldn’t do a goddamned thing.
Circe’s column wavered, her voice garbled. “I can’t hold this! The ocean demands its due. It always wins!”
“Then fight back, Priestess!” But we were out of time. Knew it, me.
Circe screamed, her control lost. Her waves began annihilating the side of the trench, devouring it.
We’re done for.
Evie’s heavy-lidded gaze grew vacant. “L-love you, Jack. So much . . .” Her head lolled, body gone limp.
Agony ripped through me. “No, Evie! NOOOOOOO!” I clutched her shoulders and shook her in the water. “You come back to me, bébé, PLEASE!” When my eyes met her sightless ones, comprehension took hold: She’s gone. My Evie’s dead.
A roar burst from my chest as my mind turned over.
When her body started to sink, I kissed her lips. “It’ll always be Evie and Jack.”
Then I joined her in the deep.
I cracked open my eyes, emerging from the vision. The Fool’s projection stood to the right of me.
I mentally demanded, What was that? Deveaux’s pain was worse than even I had felt over her demise in previous games—because I’d never loved her in the past. Not like I loved her now. Or had loved.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Has it . . . occurred? Was the Empress lifeless even now? Had mere humans been her downfall?
—Not yet. Soon.—
I swallowed. Her death was about to be stolen from me. Would Circe harvest her icon? Unacceptable.
You gave me her location. From the Fool’s vision, I knew where to find the Empress—she was in a settlement at the edge of a trench, due east of where I’d located her grandmother. Why let me see that? Because she can mesmerize me if I leave the sphere?
He blinked, as if waiting for me to get up to speed with him. —Can she?—
I regarded my drink. Shouldn’t she have been able to sway the mortals who’d doomed her and Deveaux? Her powers must still be muted, would be no match for the scalding animosity I’d stoked every day.
The Dark Calling Page 21