Dakryma.
As Ophidia twisted in agony, Freya watched as he drew his hand back, his fingers splayed, and then thrust his arm straight into her chest and wrenched out her heart. He held it, black and hard, in front of her face for a terrible moment, and then crushed it so that it became nothing more than sand that he blew away with a single breath.
“The end,” he said.
What remained of the demon Ophidia sank to the ground, an oozing carcass of black sludge. A haze of dark smoke slowly materialized, engulfing her writhing form before pulling it away through the cracks and crevices of the floor. The Verge had her now.
It was one of those singular late fall days in Seattle, the kind of day that reminds you of life and death in equal measure. Only a few stubborn leaves clung to the trees lining the sidewalk, their fallen comrades creating dense blankets of decay on the wet cement. But the sun was shining and the air had a freshness to it, even in the middle of the city, which sparkled with the verve of nature’s last hurrah.
She walked down the familiar curving street toward Imogen Beldame’s grand mansion. Rusty strode with sure, heavy steps by her side, carrying the old woman’s portrait. Freya was glad he had come with her. She disliked even being in the same room with Beldame’s painting, and she had major qualms about touching it, so she was thankful he had volunteered to carry it. He had it casually tucked under one massive arm, the haunted face on the panel covered by her black scarf.
It had only been a little more than a week since Halloween, but Freya couldn’t stand having the painting in her home any longer. It seemed to her that the Beldame staring out at her from the glistening surface was a little too convincing a likeness. The only parts of the image that retained the desolate blackness Dakryma had created were Beldame’s intense eyes. Their glistening inkiness alternated between appearing baleful and intensely entreating. The effect was unnerving. She told herself that it was just the interplay of light and shade that made the painting so alive, but she knew that there was more to the world now than met the eye. She had no doubt that the real Beldame was trapped there within the painting’s right angles.
It was Dakryma who had suggested putting the painting in Beldame’s home. It was an ironic move that satisfied his melancholy nature, a megalomaniac collector imprisoned among her possessions. After Dakryma had ripped out Ophidia’s heart, terrifying the remaining demons in the Vestiges Club into submission, they’d found her belongings and along with them the keys to Beldame’s mansion. Freya had worried briefly that it might appear a little suspicious to be seen poking around Beldame’s home after her unexplained disappearance, but she wasn’t overly concerned about getting caught up in a missing persons investigation.
Unsurprisingly, it seemed, Beldame had made many enemies during her relentless and often ruthless pursuit of objects, and the police department didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to track her down. Plus, Freya didn’t have anything to hide so there was nothing to lie about, and the truth was unbelievable anyway.
They rounded the bend in the road and approached the dense hedge in front of the towering façade of Beldame’s home. As her feet sank into the layer of wet debris that now covered Beldame’s once-immaculate walk, Freya wondered what the mysterious professor Dakryma would do once he was freed from his portrait.
As it turned out, a certain Slavic witch residing in Seattle’s deep Underground had agreed to break the bonds that kept Dakryma hobbled to Stuck’s painting. Baba Yaga, proud, sly, and powerful despite the ravages of a New World, had been behind the scenes the whole time pulling some strings; first as a mentally unstable homeless woman with a penchant for clairvoyant proclamations, and later as a striking redhead with a proclivity for unusual baked goods. Now that the upstart Beldame had been dealt with and the fragile balance between this world and the Verge was once again secure, she could afford to make Dakryma work for his freedom. He’d need to do a few favors for her first. Then she would relieve him of his ligature. She’d made no such guarantees about the dream catcher though.
If he ever succeeded in getting himself free from his various magical manacles, Freya thought, he’d need to be a bit more vigilant in the future, but the wistful pensiveness that was his natural state didn’t lend itself well to practical of-the-moment considerations. For her part, Freya still hadn’t figured out whose side Dakryma was on. He’d carried her so tenderly to the Convocation only to throw her mercilessly to the demons upon arrival and then rush to her aid when she was dying in Ophidia’s arms. Maybe he did have warm feelings for her deep down, or maybe he just thought fighting off Ophidia was a good way to kill the succubus, and in that respect, of course, he had been right. Freya suspected she would never know. The only thing that was certain about a demon like Dakryma is that you could never be certain of him.
The one person she could count on was Rusty. Freya had recovered spiritually from her encounter with Ophidia relatively quickly; she’d always suspected she had a deep reserve of soul. And Rusty had been by her side the whole time, even, and especially, when it became apparent they would now share Ophidia’s particular brand of parting gift. Her face was marred by a ring of angry red marks where the succubus’s teeth and bitten into her skin. The wounds were deep and likely to leave scars. But Freya felt at peace with that. They would serve as reminders of her strength, her resilience, and the series of events that had brought her to Rusty; their feelings for each other were more than skin deep.
Indeed, with Ophidia’s demise, Rusty seemed to have freed himself of a great burden. Freya had even seen him smile, briefly but genuinely, when she had regained enough strength in the days following the Convocation to repeat the beautiful night they’d had together after returning from the Underground. Each day their feelings grew in intensity, and each was guardedly optimistic. Both of them were used to being loners, but the things they had been through together had created an undeniable bond. It wasn’t love yet, but it was very close.
Freya put the key in the lock of Beldame’s solid oak door and turned it until she heard a satisfyingly heavy click and the door slid open on silent hinges. They stepped inside the dark foyer with its airy chandelier and solid wood furnishings and headed down the hallway past the staircase with its disturbingly realistic caryatids. The intricate Persian carpet muted their footsteps as they padded across the anteroom just outside of Beldame’s study.
The spectacle of the oddities and wonders in Beldame’s wall-to-wall glass fronted cabinet of curiosities still filled Freya with a kind of odd longing for places that she would never see and precious things she would never be able to afford. There was still a bit of the collector in Freya, and the over-the-top display reminded her, just like last time, of the hidden but insistent desire she kept close to her heart, that slow-burning will to possess, to know, to keep as her own the marvels of this world and others.
It took a very specific kind of person to amass a collection like Beldame’s, and Freya, much to her horror, realized she had the same internal raw material. All it would take was the will, some cash, and the impetus to abandon her principles. Then with a swallow and a blink she came to her senses. There’s a little good and evil in all of us she thought, and it was her job to make her own imperfect, messy way forward, striving to be neither irreproachable nor irredeemable, but simply a human doing her best.
The study door creaked open, and Freya grabbed a hammer and nail from her back pocket and hastily pounded the little piece of metal into the solid oak paneling of Beldame’s inner sanctum. Then Rusty handed her the portrait and she quickly hung it on the wall, being sure to touch it as little as possible. They both stood back and looked at the old woman staring at them with that impossible spark of misery and rage animating her black eyes. Then they turned away, and without a second glance, left the study and the house, locking up the heavy front door behind them.
The portrait of Beldame didn’t change. It was only oil on canvas after all. But for a moment in a swiftly shifting interplay of light and
dark, the painted Beldame seemed to scream, a silent cry that reverberated throughout the house. Then there was only silence, silence and a collection of which she was now a part, a woman subsumed by her desires. The house creaked, the dust settled, and the painting of Imogen Beldame became just that: a series of brush stokes on a flat panel. No spark, no glimpse of emotion, only oil and pigment and cloth. An object among objects.
This novel is the realization of a lifelong dream, and it wouldn’t be complete without taking a moment to thank the people that played a part in its creation.
Thank you, Mom, for being my biggest fan and always believing in my writing.
Thank you, Dad, for introducing me to the wonderful literary worlds of fantasy and science fiction and instilling in me an early love of reading.
Thank you both for being the greatest parents a girl could ask for.
Thank you, Elisha, for having the patience and wherewithal to read one of the earliest iterations of On the Verge and the insight and dedication to read the last.
Thank you to my friends and family who always showed interest and, more importantly, faith in this crazy project. Your kind words and encouragement meant the world to me along the way.
Thank you to my editor, Steven Bauer, for your perceptive analysis and spot-on critique of my writing. On the Verge is a much stronger novel because of your expertise.
Thank you to my cover designer, Daniel Cullen, for On the Verge’s amazing cover. It exceeded my every expectation.
Thank you, Polgarus Studio, for making the onerous task of digital formatting smooth and straightforward.
Thank you, Nora, for your unadulterated enthusiasm, your verve, and your wit. I never stop being inspired by you.
Thank you, Rosalee, for the challenge and motivation that comes with writing while pregnant and with a newborn. I started this book before you were born. I finished it as you began to sit up and engage with the world. This story is done, but yours is just beginning.
And finally, thank you, Igor, for your unconditional love and support. I’m so glad I get to share this life with you. Love you. Always.
I'm a lifelong resident of Seattle. I married my Russia-born-America-raised high school sweetheart, and we have a four year old and a new little one born in February.
I like coffee shops, bookstores, dancing in my living room and singing in my car. The opening scene of Up always makes me cry. The Three Amigos always makes me laugh. Fashion magazines, croissants, and long, long baths are my guilty pleasures. They might occur separately or together. I prefer boxing classes to yoga, and I get some of my best ideas when I'm running. I loved school and spent more time than one really should getting a business degree in marketing and a master's in art history. In an ideal world I'd go to bed at 2am and wake up at 10am. I've never been an early bird, and I feel strongly that alarm clocks kill dreams.
Learn more about me and read my blog, Scriven by Garen, at garenglazier.com.
And follow me on Twitter: @GarenGlazier
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Garen
On the Verge Page 25