The Calyx Charm

by May Peterson

  We hadn’t yet elected how to commemorate Gino’s life, and the parts of his memory that came from Serafina. Her ardor, her extremity, her love. So many tender moments Tibario still had of his father had been written by her. The love she had wanted to show him, through the image of the father she’d wished for him to have. Parents that loved him in every version of the story.

  She had been wrong about herself. She wasn’t the same as my father. Father had been unable to change, unwilling to give up the one story of his life that had been acceptable to him. He had demanded control of every outcome, and it had destroyed many lives before finally destroying him.

  When it had counted the most, Serafina had proven herself capable of change. She may well do so again, in ways I didn’t have the heart to predict. But if her dragon rose once more, for good or ill, I would be ready.

  I stretched, rising to get washed and dressed. Tibario and I had proposed that one day a week he and I would run the shop by ourselves, so Weifan and Rosalina could enjoy a day with no work at all from dawn to dawn. They had agreed on one condition, that they do the same. So we rotated each week, the burden of operating the Rose becoming lighter as our community grew.

  This would be our day to do whatever we chose. I kissed Tibario’s temple. “In the meantime, there’s another reunion I had in mind. You and I grew up together, but so much has changed. It’s like it’s all new. I wondered if you’d go with me tonight to visit Mother. I want to reintroduce you to her. Properly.”

  Tibario’s smile was soft and bright as a full moon. “Sounds like a wonderful way to spend the night.”

  The future within me said she would be very happy to see us.

  We readied and stepped out into the moonlit night, stars studding a sky as endless as the Deep.

  Endless as the music of the days, of the future paving its way through infinity, our story going on and on.

  * * *

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  Acknowledgments

  In many ways this book is a celebration of the fact that I am still here. I give thanks for everyone who has given me strength, light, water, air, love. Everything I have needed to grow.

  I could never name them all here, but to speak to a few:

  My best friend Anthony, who rekindles my hope every time.

  My agent Courtney, who has kept me going strong.

  My editor John, whose insight helps me find the way.

  My beloved Jack, who is my home.

  I also acknowledge the trans community in its breadth and variety, its breathtaking majesty, and the force that we are in the world. There is a power that builds the future one moment at a time, and we are of that power.

  About the Author

  May Peterson is rumored to be some kind of magical creature, but exactly which kind is still debated by scholars. While they sort that out, May busies herself as a romance and fantasy author and freelance editor. May has always had a deep fondness for books, animation, and comics. She’s drawn toward both writing and reading stories that are magical, hopeful, and distinctive, as well as those that explore identity, queerness, and emotional connection. She believes that bringing a daydream to life with its own tale to tell is always a small miracle.

  You can find May on her website at www.maypetersonbooks.com, on Twitter at Twitter.com/maidensblade, and on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/mayberrypeterson.

  Now available from Carina Press and May Peterson:

  Read on for an excerpt of Lord of the Last Heartbeat, the first book in author May Peterson’s The Sacred Dark series.

  When I was nine, Mamma took me to the bay and showed me how to crack oysters.

  She spotted the oysters as magically as she spotted secrets, her red witch’s eye a gleaming carbuncle in the sun. I only found two by myself. Her hair covered her face like a surgical veil as she slid her knife between the glistening halves.

  I was such a little speck of a thing—and Mamma so convincing in her role of carefree Portian maiden—that no one thought much of us there, shin deep in the brine, laughing and splashing for oysters. Even in that postwar haze when families still foraged under the docks for food, a woman playing in the sand with her son wasn’t anything to worry about.

  She showed me the muscle that held the shells together, and how the oysters would fight to keep from being opened, violated, their hearts taken out. She explained with a silken calm how it was simply a matter of breaking their resistance.

  “Every heart, everything that moves,” she said, “will resist. Feel where the resistance is strongest and—” Snap, the shell opened. “Be precise about it.”

  With knife in hand, I trembled to open my little shell. Oyster meat was tastier and softer than almost any other kind, but I couldn’t do it. I wiped a tear away so she wouldn’t see.

  But she did see, and took my hand. “Never fear.” With a little shove, she guided my fingers, and cut the muscle.

  I gasped. Inside the shell rolled a pearl. A spot of sea shine—it looked like it would pop if I touched it.

  Mamma opened my palm and dropped the pearl onto it. “Now you understand why they resist.”

  I wanted to ask if the oysters could feel pain, but her face was so wise and sad that I dared not.

  She made me hide the pearl in my mouth, under my tongue. Anything else we found in the bay we could keep, though the best finds had to be paid for, but pearls went to the Pescatores, all pockets and hands checked when one left the sand. This theft was one more way Mamma showed her lack of fear of the other families. The Pescatores meant nothing to Casa Gianbellicci.

  Pescatore’s eldest daughter leaned at the boardwalk exit, beaming at us. “Find anything good?” A toll master’s inquiry, wrapped in warm curiosity.

  “Just more oysters than I could eat by myself. Not a better lunch under heaven.” Mamma winked her scarlet eye.

  The girl nodded, slowly, and cast her gaze around. Checking for bulges, Mamma would explain later, suspicious lines under clothing. She put her wide hand on my head and ruffled my hair. I shuddered. “What a cute little girl you have! What’s her name?”

  I had been a girl before, for some of Mamma’s ruses, young and small enough to slip into the role. Yet with her touch on me, feeling the role close around me, my whole body went as stiff as the muscles of that oyster.

  “Aw, thank you. It’s Mia.”

  Mia. Mio. Mine.

  The pearl felt huge and heavy under my tongue, like a mound of sand. My tongue convulsed by reflex.

  And I swallowed the pearl.

  Once we’d passed the girl, on the street, Mamma asked to see the pearl. Mustering my courage, I told her what had happened to it.

  She looked so shocked I was sure she was going to scold me. But then her face lit up and she smiled more broadly than I could remember, as though I had surprised her in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

  “Ah, well.” She shrugged. On the way home, she stole me a lemon gelato.

  Looking back, I was never sure if I’d failed or succeeded. I imagined this to all be some arcane witch’s lesson. But it was far simpler. That day at the bay had just been practical education. A master training her new pupil.

  On the night of the first new moon of my twenty-first year, she said it was time to go pearl hunting.

  * * *

  There was no way I would pass for a footman.

  I matched the real servants drifting in flotillas with their trays down to their minute nacre buttons and oiled hair. I had even spent ten minutes training
to stand like them while Tibario held a finger in front of my eyes. But their hands didn’t shiver, nor their glasses spill as they walked. And I was the only one hiding by the shrubs.

  Not that it was a very good hiding place. I stepped back under the arms of the trees, woven with calla lilies stained red to the roots. Delicate reflective coins were strung from the trees, setting the branches sparkling. I could almost hear the tinkle of the golden curse chains, binding the ghosts of monks who still decorated this courtyard for festival nights. The watercolor glow yielded no shadow for cover.

  The noise of the crowd made me want to disappear, leaving nothing behind but the tulip-colored velour. Tibario had gone off, hunting the priest whose heart was our oyster; I preferred to hunt in spirit.

  Fidgeting with my collar, I stepped back onto the grass. But a man’s grunt told me that I’d stepped on a foot.

  The man snarled and I squeaked in perfect unison. Before I could apologize, a hot hand grasped my free wrist, roughly turning me.

  “Ho, there, trying to trample me?”

  His breath was so thick with drink it made me gasp. The man who held me seemed broader than the trees but not nearly as decorated.

  “I—I beg your pardon, signor,” I stammered. My shaking set the glasses a-tinkle. “I did not see you.”

  He let go abruptly, and I almost fell back. I kept hold of the tray while managing a bow. The man laughed hoarsely, then coughed. Perhaps he’d been vomiting his festivities up into the fountain. Nice surprise for the monks in the morning.

  “You see me now.” His grin was nauseating. “How about keeping me company?”

  “Can I get you a drink? Maybe a glass of—” I glanced at my tray. The gentleman looked like he couldn’t take another drop of either the grape or the grain. “Squash? Fresh cherries.”

  “I do like cherries.” His fingers ran up my other arm, clasping at the elbow supporting the tray. Not with anger, but an entirely different intention. Oh, dear.

  “Mmm.” He leaned from close to very close, pawing my neck and stroking my hair. I couldn’t suppress a shiver. “Never seen such a short-haired girl. So pretty.”

  The glasses were practically chiming a melody now. It wasn’t that I was disgusted at being mistaken for a girl. It was that—well, some might think that gentlemen would be nicer if they thought one were a pretty girl. But really—they weren’t.

  I scanned the crowd, saw no help coming. Tibario would find me. One twinge of trouble and surely he’d swoop in with brotherly valor.

  “Come here.” The man yanked my arm, sending wine spattering down the tray onto his cuffs. I should have screamed—I should have used my tray as a weapon. But for some reason, it seemed in that moment crucially important not to drop the tray. I had practiced and practiced keeping it flat against my palm, holding the posture so I wouldn’t get tired. It made me sore, but I’d proved I could do it. Dropping it now would just be too much—

  The man jumped, slapping at his face. I flinched. Bright embers fell from him, leaving black ash lines on his skin as a cigarillo butt plopped at my feet.

  A voice rose from the shadows. “Do you truly not have staff at home you can do this to?”

  Someone had thrown a cigarillo at him.

  The flare of a match illuminated the speaker. A man, sitting by the fountain, even larger than my unwanted guest. He stood, grand in his darkness, the cigar flash of the next puff not revealing his face. Only his eyes caught the light, magnifying it and painting it silver.

  I backed by instinct against the trees as my unwelcome suitor bellowed and threw a swing at the newcomer. It was a clean boxer’s blow, but the shadowed fellow snared it like he was catching a stone, yanked the man off his feet by his cravat, and dunked him, face first, into the fountain.

  I winced at the sound of gargling.

  The drunkard came up heaving; the dark gentleman daintily lifted his cigarillo and breathed a cloud of smoke into the fellow’s face. “Well. Now that your evening is quite shot to hell, why don’t you do the noble thing and fuck right off? There’s a lad.”

  He let the fellow down on feet so unsteady the man nearly hit the fountain again. The jarring motions must have put the last straw on a drunken camel’s back. He covered his mouth, dashing out of the courtyard to retch out of view.

  I realized, then, how close I was to tears. Gratitude made my knees weak, but I couldn’t relax yet. After all, I didn’t know my savior any more than the first man. His shape was vast, and so shifting and black he could have been an avatar of the night. He appeared to smirk from his crown of shadows and took another puff.

  He was looking at me. I tried to turn away, but found I couldn’t. The animal clarity of his gaze was transfixing, stubbornly luminous as if to spite the dimness.

  He inclined his head as if to acknowledge me. “I suppose you get this sort of thing all the time, because of your voice.”

  “I suppose I do.” I couldn’t gauge his sobriety, but he was certainly quicker than the average drunk. “It’s not much expected anymore.” I hoped he let it end there. Castrating boys had been made illegal before the revolution, and I was no true castrato. Not by a knife, anyway. No doubt to these gentlemen I was as much a sparkling anomaly as any operatic diversion, but I was tired of explaining how I worked.

  “I also suppose I’ll stay here for a moment, until the coast has cleared, as it were.” Casually, a gesture of nothing made. Exactly what I wanted.

  “Yes.” I breathed, deeply. “Thank you, signor. I am grateful.” I should have shown him some greater favor, or dropped all and run. But there was another cause for joy: I had not spilled another drop of wine. Somehow that felt positively heroic.

  A stone column stood nearby, so I lowered my tray onto it. My arm protested the sudden movement, and the tray tipped. The gentleman appeared at my side and caught it with such grace it could have been magic. “Allow me. Seems you should have a drink yourself.”

  I smiled but declined. The last thing I needed was to lose self-control. I was calmer now that the crisis had passed, and I took my first clear view of him.

  Tall as a temple statue, and as striking. A smooth face under hair as dark as an ink swipe. And though it was subtle at first, a strong accent curled through his voice, lacing each word with trills and rough edges.

  “Then look the other way as I partake.” He took a glass of sherry. The flute looked hilariously small between his fingers as he sipped. A ruby-colored bead escaped from the corner of his lip, leaving a trail down his chin that he wiped with one hand. “Mm. You know what I ought to have done? Gotten red-mouthed with drink, then threatened to eat him whole for his transgressions. Baring my teeth for effect.”

  By way of example, he sloshed sherry in his mouth and flexed his jaw with a theatrical snarl. The garnet gleam of the liquid lent him a dramatic air, but most striking were his teeth. Or rather, fangs. Two long canines, all but glittering like knifepoints.

  Two realizations pierced me, like the ends of those fangs. One swam out of the debris of the night—the man’s strange atmosphere, his lingering in the shadows. His uncanny strength. The reflective sheen of his eyes. From it all emerged a word: moon-soul.

  Women and men who’d been called back from death, the spirits of noble beasts beating within their human hearts. They were made new, and immortal, by the strange virtue of the moon. My understanding was that the noble spirits never resurrected mages like Mamma or myself out of fear of magic, but moon-souls had mysterious powers of their own. Packs and flocks of shape-changing elite had once ruled this country. Now, the chances of coming across one of his kind should have been small.

  The second realization was softer but deeper—I was still laughing at his joke, unshaken by what he’d revealed. The reverence or fear that so many still felt for moon-souls had never marked my life. Not like it had Tibario’s, or even Mamma’s. I knew the polite thing to do: kne
el before him. Speak the name of his soul’s animal, if I knew it. Lord Lupo, Lord Orso, or whatever it happened to be. Avoid his gaze in obeisance.

  Yet...he was laughing with me, making no demands. His unexpected aid and easy manner were kindnesses that I had desperately needed tonight. Perhaps if my first impression of him had been less picturesque, I wouldn’t have felt so moved to see him in such a soft light. It was difficult not to warm to someone who’d defended me so effortlessly, and who’d asked nothing for it. I could not forget the sheer drama of him throwing a cigarillo in the other man’s face.

  Tibario and Mamma would likely distrust him, with his cool supernatural air and subtle audacity. But something deep and wordless stirred with him as I heard his laughter, as if a dark place in me was responding to his shadowy grandeur.

  He might be moved to offer one more kindness, if I dared ask.

  His grin widened. “Too far? Sherry doesn’t look enough like blood to give a proper illusion. Maybe I could taste a nip from your veins, eh?” He waggled an eyebrow. I’d read that moon-souls sometimes drank blood, though usually not human blood. And there was simply no way to read a real threat in it.

  I chuckled gently. “Would have lent your performance credence, anyway.” But my humor was dying. If I wanted to act, it had to be soon. “Signor, I—”

  “While we’re on that.” He winked and shook the last drop from his glass. “It’s not ‘signor.’ It’s ‘my lord.’”

  I glanced around us, at the golden cloud of lies that both suffocated and shielded me. I hadn’t expected a chance to escape my fate, but this might be an open window. If his curious gentleness was not merely the fantasy of my flustered misery, and if it would move him to heed my plea. In my pocket was a fold of papers. Shaking, I pulled it out, dipped my fingertip into the reddest of my wines.