Pocket Full of Tinder

by Jill Archer

  “We decided to try to beat Kalchoek to the top of Mount Occasus so we flew—”

  “Flew?”

  I arched a brow at him. “Are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes, we flew. Ari shifted and I shaped a drakon with my magic.”

  Rafe’s expression was wistful. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

  “Bet you regret leaving to train with the Ophanim now,” I joked, but my former Guardian didn’t share my levity.

  “For many reasons,” he agreed somberly.

  “Guess you weren’t where Ari and I needed you to be after all.”

  Rafe winced.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, “I don’t feel bad anymore, so you shouldn’t either.” He looked at me as if he were trying to decide if I was kidding or not, but he had to know I wasn’t. “Anyway, we beat Kalchoek to the top of Mount Occasus, but he arrived later with two other retainers. At the time, I thought he was one of them – just a regulare demon working for a modicum of adoration from the Hyrkes here who adore strength above all else. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t a regulare. And he wasn’t here to work for the adoration of people who adore strength. He was here to ensure the continued subjugation of the weak.

  “Ari and I separated. He went to the top of the tower to guard the Magna Fax and I stayed at its base with the retainers. Before we figured out who he was, Kalchoek attacked us. He tried to kill me by blasting me with magic, but I survived. When I woke up, one retainer was dead, the other was unconscious, and Kalchoek was on his way to the top of the tower. So I reshaped my mount and flew to the top where the Magna Fax was, but Kalchoek and Ari were already fighting.”

  I paused. Maybe this was a bad idea. Confessing to Rafe.

  “And?”

  But his question wasn’t specific enough to compel a response.

  I should get up now and leave. How was self-incrimination in my best interest?

  “Noon, what happened next?”

  I opened my mouth and shut it and then finally said, “I killed Ari.”

  “You killed Ari?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. “And you’re doing it again, by the way. Repeating what I say.”

  We stared at each other. Rafe’s face was partially concealed by his mop of hair. But the portion I could see was angular and set, as if he were carved from the same rock he was sitting on. He reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear and I remembered the most incongruous things about him. How he could cast silent spells… How coarse his hair was, except at the nape of his neck. How his potentia seemed limitless… How his clothes were always stained, ripped, or worn. Even now, in the shadows, he looked dirty, dingy… and deadly.

  “Why do you think you killed Ari?” he asked. “Did your magic set off the explosion?”

  “No… or rather, yes, indirectly, but it wasn’t the kind of magic you think. I cast a spell.”

  “You—”

  “YES! I cast a spell.”

  It took Rafe a while to think of a question that wasn’t just dumbly repeating what I said, but he finally came up with, “Which one?”

  “Ichabye.”

  Rafe stood up from the boulder he’d been sitting on and stared out at the river. “But Ichabye would never kill anyone… How did you even learn it? Who taught it to you? Are you sure you actually cast it? Maybe you were just repeating the words… And why then? How would Ichabye have stopped Kalchoek?”

  I told him everything then. I told him about my mother sending the prayer primer, Fara suggesting I give it to Tenacity, me agreeing to spend the night of Frigore Luna with Cliodna, the fact that Tenacity cast Ichabye over me before I left and that, later that night, I used the spell to avoid the curse of Eidolon’s Alternate Ending…

  “Eidolon’s—?!” Rafe ran his hands through his hair and groaned. “Onyx, only you. Only you would get yourself mixed up in magic like that. Is that how you cursed yourself? You viewed the painting?”

  I nodded. “Twice.”

  “Twice?” And then we both kind of lost it – Rafe because he’d reached his limit of credulity with me, even with the wine assuring him I was telling the truth, and me because I was sick and tired of him repeating everything! But we calmed down a moment later with no magic shed. We faced each other, hands fisted at our sides. I sat down first.

  “The first time I saw the painting,” I said, “I stopped the curse by casting Ichabye.”

  Rafe’s eyes were wide but he did not – thank Luck! – say You stopped the curse? Gah!

  “But not the second time. After Ari died, I…” Suddenly, I didn’t want to admit that my grief had driven me to such a desperate act as viewing the famed painting I’d first escaped. But I think Rafe knew.

  We sat in silence. Rafe drew in the mud with his stick while I contemplated the moon and inwardly lamented my lack of glamour. Finally, Rafe said, “I understand why you cursed yourself, but I don’t understand why you think you killed Ari. Ichabye didn’t kill him; the explosion did.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said, growing increasingly irritated. I was tired of sitting on this boulder and I was tired of Rafe not understanding. “Casting Ichabye was selfish and shortsighted. I’m Host, Rafe. I’m descended from Lucifer’s warlords. There’s demon blood in my veins. My father is executive of the Demon Council and my mother is a Ferrum. You think Luck would let me cast without consequence?”

  But it wasn’t just the spell. It was everything. There were so many other things I should have done differently… or not done at all.

  I should have figured out that Kalchoek was Displodo much earlier…

  I shouldn’t have separated from Ari… ever.

  I should have said “yes” when he asked me to marry him…

  I shouldn’t have experimented with my magic… or fired that gun…

  I should have let him carry me off…

  We should have lived free and died… together.

  “You know you’re suffering from survivor guilt, don’t you?” Rafe asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  “But you were.”

  “And you would know,” I said dully. “Look, Rafe, we’ve each done things that, in a wild coincidence only Luck himself can have orchestrated, impacted the same person... and now that person is dead. No amount of regret will bring him back.

  “So you coped by studying Grace and I coped by cursing myself. What difference does it make to the world whether we suffer or how we cope? Or that we don’t? So what if I decided to try to fix myself… and I botched it? Who cares?”—I raised my hand toward him, palm out—“And before you say, ‘I do,’ I know you do. I know that’s why you came. The old me would say thank you, but the new me? She doesn’t care. A situation I’m grateful for, by the way.”

  Rafe threw his stick into the river, stood up, and walked over to me. “You know no one can master Grace, right?” When I didn’t answer his clearly rhetorical question, he said, “Which is why I chose to minor in something.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “You,” he said, like I should already know. “And your story doesn’t add up.”

  My eyes narrowed and I flushed with anger, but Rafe waved off my ire. “I’m not saying you’re lying – obviously, you’re not. But you’re not seeing things clearly either.”

  I wanted to argue, but how could I? I hadn’t been right in the head since Ari’s death. First I’d been mentally crippled by grief, now I was psychologically hobbled by a curse.

  “Noon… who is responsible for Ari’s death – you or Kalchoek?”

  I looked away, suddenly conflicted. One part of me wanted to continue my argument that I was the one who was ultimately responsible for Ari’s death. I hadn’t been able to stop him from dying. There were things I could have – should have – done differently. So my actions or failings had caused his death. Hadn’t they?!

  On the other hand, Kalchoek had been targeting Rockthorn Gorge’s patrons and their dam project for months. Before I’d even arrived in the gorge he’d attacked the da
m four times, killed the former patron, and made his first attempt on Ari’s life. Under those circumstances, was it logical for me to blame myself for Ari’s death?

  “Kalchoek,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I was without fault.”

  “No one’s without fault, Noon,” Rafe said, peering pointedly at me. “But that doesn’t mean they should be condemned to lead loveless lives.”

  I said nothing. There was a long, pregnant pause before Rafe continued.

  “There’s one other thing that doesn’t add up – the matchbook. You said Kalchoek found it the night of Frigore Luna. If the celebrations up here are anything like what they’re like in New Babylon, you and Ari were probably… distracted.” Rafe was no longer peering pointedly at me. In fact, he was studiously avoiding my gaze. But, as before, I said nothing. Felt nothing. Until Rafe finally got to his point.

  “My guess is Kalchoek planned to steal the matchbook that night, which means he didn’t find it by accident. So how did he know where to look? You left that part out of your story.”

  Instantly, I felt ice cold. My epiphany happened so quickly I nearly trembled. I’d experienced the intensity of my remaining emotions during the morning melees this week. But the scalding heat of battle rage was nothing compared to what I was feeling now. Because, suddenly, I knew I’d hadn’t been fairly beaten; I’d been shamefully duped.

  Kalchoek had been Displodo, but he hadn’t been working alone.

  Why had it taken half a bottle of Black Gilliflower to make me see the truth?

  Because of my hereinbefore mentioned infirmities. Because of my addled brain. But now I saw what I should have seen immediately after Ari died. Zeffre’s theory – that Displodo was one of the demons in Ari’s camarilla – had been close to the truth.

  The conversation I’d had with Ari months ago replayed in my memory like a ghostly echo.

  Where was the matchbook hidden? Do you know?

  It was disguised as the tabula ansata on the statue of Servius Rockthorn…

  Who else knows that?

  You, me, Cliodna, and Yannu… It’s been safe there for millennia.

  Nothing stays hidden forever…

  I smacked my forehead against my palm. “Either Cliodna or Yannu told Kalchoek where to find it,” I grumbled.

  “Uh-huh, and which demon do you think it was?”

  Once again, I found myself wanting to lie. I desperately longed to say Yannu. After all, if I could somehow pin Ari’s murder on him, even as an accomplice, Cliodna would easily win the patronship and I’d get that fantastic job reference, future job offer, and possibly even a commendation.

  But Rafe hadn’t asked me what I knew. He’d asked what I thought. And flawed though my instincts might be now, I’d never once sensed anything duplicitous in Yannu’s signature. Oh, there was no doubt he was aggressive, threatening, even hostile at times. And he was probably more of a separatist than he’d like for me to know. But, to my knowledge, he’d never done anything against Council policy.

  Cliodna, on the other hand, often felt deadly. She was a swan, but she reminded me of a siren. She’d even warned me that “melees weren’t her style” – that any attack of hers would be indirect and/or remotely caused.

  I’d heard her, but I hadn’t listened.

  So I sat in front of Rafe with my jaw clenched shut, not wanting to reveal the extent of my failure.

  “Noon?” Rafe prodded, frowning. Was he wondering how I was evading the wine’s compulsion? It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure.

  My mouth opened…

  If I said Cliodna, I’d be admitting that Displodo’s co-conspirator had not only deceived me, but victimized me as well. Answering Cliodna wouldn’t just be embarrassing; it would be humiliating. I’d be disgraced and my future would once again be in jeopardy.

  I was just about to speak when I realized I had another option. I stood up and started pooling my magic—

  “Don’t,” Rafe said, his voice unnaturally steely. “Don’t even think about striking me.”

  “Scared?” I taunted, flexing my fingers. Fire raced along their edges.

  Rafe nodded. “Of casting a spell over you that you won’t want. Now, tell me, which demon do you think helped Kalchoek kill Ari?”

  Was it my imagination, or had Rafe just laced his voice with magic?

  “Cliodna,” I said, spitting the name out like it was poison. In a way, I guess it was. “I hate you, you know,” I told Rafe, backing away.

  “That’s because of the curse.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s the truth. I wish I hadn’t talked to you tonight. I wish I’d never talked to you. Ever. I wish I’d never even met you. I’m sick of you witnessing my heartaches and heart breaks. I’m sick of you trying to patch me back together. You can’t fix me this time,” I said, taking another step back. “So just stay away from me.”

  “What if I could?” Rafe blurted out before I turned my back on him completely. “Not take away your grief, but cure you of the curse – would you want me to?”

  I froze. And slowly turned back. “How?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve learned stronger love spells than Ichabye, but none of them work on unwilling targets.”

  Rafe wasn’t trying to trick me like Cliodna had. He was telling me up front that he could reverse the curse of Eidolon’s Alternate Ending. But did I want that? Madness wasn’t appealing, but did I really want to be tormented by the miseries of love again?

  Who did?

  But then again, who wanted to be cursed?

  Wasn’t it in my best interest not to be cursed?

  Rafe offered me his hand. I narrowed my eyes at him but stepped toward him and slipped my hand into his. On the ground where he’d been drawing, the fiery blue outline of an endless knot flared to life. He pulled me forward into the middle of the sigil – toward the X at the center of the two interlocking hearts.

  “This is going to hurt,” he said, “Even more than the last time.” Before I could react, Rafe raised his hand and pressed it to my chest.

  His touch was infinitely gentler than the knife thrust he’d used to cure me of the suffoca ignem curse… and yet infinitely more painful. The instant his fingers brushed my signare-marked skin, my heart seemed to blister and pop. Every second of grief I hadn’t felt for the past week – over half a million fractured moments – ripped through me like shrapnel. But instead of being blown into me, they were blown out of me.

  Their exodus nearly killed me. I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t breathe. I wanted, ohhowIwanted, wanted, wanted, not to feel what I was feeling. My knees buckled and I collapsed. Rafe caught me and held me as I gasped for breath, shuddering on the ground, my vision blurring and my psyche shattering. At least the last time he’d lifted a curse from me, I’d blacked out. Not this time. Not so lucky. I squeezed my eyes shut, stiffening against the onslaught of tears I knew were coming. In a last attempt to stop them, I kicked the outline of Rafe’s sigil, breaking it.

  But it was too late.

  The curse was lifted and I sobbed in Rafe’s arms.

  27

  PENULTIMATE ENDING

  I spent the next two hours clutching at Rafe in a state of near-lethally postponed grief. But eventually anger began to replace sadness. I knew it was only temporary. I knew my feelings of loss, desperation, and hopelessness would reassert themselves eventually, but sometime before midnight my need for revenge galvanized me. I swiped the back of my hand across my face one final time and stood up.

  “Will you come with me?”

  Rafe didn’t even ask where, although I’m sure he suspected. Rafe never seemed to care where I was headed. If I needed help, he gave it and that was that.

  “I’m going up to Cliodna’s sanctuary,” I said.

  He nodded. “We should get Fara. It might be helpful to have another Angel along… just in case.”

  “You want Nightshade to do what before we confront Cliodna?!”

  “Blind us – but only temporarily,” I told Fa
ra, turning to Night. “Can you do it?”

  We were gathered in the rotunda’s atrium, at its edge, near one of the lit torches. The guests from the fete were gone and it was only Rafe, Fara, Virtus, Nightshade, Nova, and me.

  Nightshade frowned. “Healers usually help the blind to see.”

  “Yes, but I have no desire to view Eidolon’s Alternate Ending again.”

  “So your plan is to confront a rogare demon – one who’s caused almost a hundred deaths and who has masterminded multiple attacks – blind? How will you even climb up the mountain to her sanctuary, let alone survive any battle that ensues?”

  “There won’t be a battle,” I snapped. “Cliodna will either try to trick us or trap us. But she won’t have time. The moment I see her, I’m going to kill her.”

  “But you won’t see her,” Night said, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. He ignored me and addressed only Rafe. “You said you knew how to cure the curse. Can’t you just cure everyone again once you’re finished up there?”

  Rafe shook his head. “I won’t be able to cast the cure if I’m cursed.”

  Night turned back to me. “I’m not blinding you – any of you.”

  I stared at my brother, frustrated. “Fine,” I finally said. “I’ll just go by myself. If Cliodna somehow tricks me into viewing the painting again, then Rafe can cure me when I get back.”

  “No!” Everyone said it at the same time. It might have been funny if it weren’t for the fact that I was barely restraining myself from leaving immediately – with or without the Angels, blind or not.

  “Wait,” Fara said. “I’ve got a better idea.” She ran to the statue of the Watchman and grabbed its shield. “Use this.”

  I laughed. “What on earth would I use that for? Your shielding spells are worth a thousand of that – no, a million.”

  She caught the nearby torch’s light and reflected it back in my face. I blinked.

  “It’s a mirror,” she said.

  “So?”

  “Don’t you remember?” She asked me. “This is how Perthius defeated Morridusa. Legend says that anyone who gazed upon her face was turned to stone. So Perthius used a shiny shield to slay her.”