Dark Light of Day

by Jill Archer

  If I couldn’t prove I could hold my own against Brunus, who had less waning magic than me, then how would I fare against a demon?

  I blasted Brunus with a magic jolt that was about as shaped as a mushy ball of pie dough. He crashed to the floor, hitting his head and losing his hold on the nadziak. It clattered to the ground a few feet away from where he fell. I had to resist the urge to run over to him. I truly despised him, but I hadn’t wanted to hurt him. I’d just wanted to stop him from hurting me. He picked himself up off the floor and stood up. His badly cropped, matte brown hair stood on end. He rubbed the back of his head and when he removed his hand, it was covered in blood.

  This was way worse than the bloody nose. Way worse. Because everyone in the room had sensed how little effort it had taken me to press Brunus back. It was only my lack of desire to harm him that saved him from me. It dawned on me that, if I wished it, Rochester might also let this sparring match play out the other way.

  It was dawning on Brunus too. He realized that he might be in real danger from me, and he hated it—hated me—hated my very existence. He walked over to the nadziak and picked it up. He was going to charge. I saw it in his eyes.

  “Stop!” Rochester bellowed. Brunus lowered his weapon. He looked neither defeated nor relieved. Instead, he looked expectant, as he had when he’d first entered the room. He glared malevolently at me and swung the nadziak around in an arc. He brought the hammer end down in the bloody palm of his other fist and then pointed it straight at me and grinned. He knew Rochester’s teaching methods. He must know what was coming next. That sliver of bright shiny fear inside me multiplied. My limbs felt cold and my fingers stiff.

  “Ms. Onyx, you said you would control demons by overpowering them and that your weapon of choice was your magic, yes?”

  I nodded warily.

  “You certainly overpowered Mr. Olivine, didn’t you?”

  This time Brunus didn’t grin. His look of hatred nearly gnawed a hole through my stomach. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said Rochester was provoking Brunus. But why? Why torture us? Why have us even spar in the first place? We all knew how this fight would end if it continued.

  But it soon became clear that I had no idea how it would end.

  “Most demons you encounter in the field cannot be overpowered. The strength of their magic will either be greater than yours or, if you throw a large uncontrolled blast at them, they will simply absorb it and add it to their own.”

  Curiosity won out over the wisdom of silence. “So how do you control them?”

  “By throwing something that’s controlled. Something that is shaped like a weapon. Something that is shaped like the weapon that is most likely to hurt them.”

  It sounded repulsive to me. I had to remind myself he was talking about controlling demons who had broken laws and hurt others. Demons like the ones who were attacking and abducting Mederies. What if Night were the one being attacked? Wouldn’t I want to know how to defend him?

  “I’ve taught this course for many, many years,” Rochester said. “I’ve found the most effective way for students to learn how to shape their magic like weapons… is to have them fight with actual weapons. So for this round, magic use is not permitted.

  “Begin.”

  Brunus wasted no time advancing on me. A part of my brain couldn’t believe this was happening. We lived in a civilized society. How could a classmate be advancing on me with a pickax? Would my professor really allow him to use it? But a quick glance around the room told me all I needed to know: Halja was only civilized because its peacekeepers were not.

  Brunus was halfway to me by the time I decided to use the bullwhip. Ari had said I shouldn’t let Brunus get near me. Rochester had said I couldn’t use my magic.

  I snapped the bullwhip. But there was no snap. It uncoiled in a lazy, limp extension and then fell to the floor again. Brunus was taking his time. The metal tipped point of the nadziak gleamed in the torchlight.

  I snapped the bullwhip again. This time, at least, there was a snap. The sound was about as threatening as the snap of a clean sheet being readied for the laundry line.

  I wielded it with more force, trying to learn the feel of its length and recoil. Each time, my efforts to convincingly and threateningly use the bullwhip were as ineffective as the last. My right arm ached and I hadn’t even managed to hit Brunus yet. His laugh echoed off the stone walls and made it sound as if there were an army of Brunuses advancing on me.

  And then he was in front of me. His mud-colored eyes met mine and I knew he wanted to kill me. For what? Just because I was stronger than him? Rochester had made it clear during this round that I was weaker too. Couldn’t we just call it a draw and go have a beer?

  Brunus smashed the hammer end of the nadziak into my nose.

  The entire room seemed to light up and my face felt instantly hot. I fell backward and looked up at Brunus with blood dripping down my face. My eyes watered from pain but I refused to give Brunus the satisfaction of seeing me whimper. I also refused to crawl backward.

  Pride or suicide?

  Brunus brought the nadziak down toward me slowly. I didn’t want a repeat of the nose smashing so I jumped to my feet, landing an arm’s length away from him. He lunged and raked the pick part of the nadziak across my torso, shredding the front of my sweater and tunic and nicking the right side of my chest. Bright red blood bloomed on my now exposed white cotton camisole like some obscene red flower pin.

  My signature expanded. I couldn’t help it. Rochester called my name as a warning reminder. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to hold back… Magical control—as we all knew—was not a strength of mine.

  “Get away, Brunus,” I said.

  “Or what? You’re going to make me? With what? Your magic? You may be strong, but you don’t know how to throw anything that works.” Spittle was flying from his lips as he said it and a blackness far more poisonous than mold was growing in his rotten stink patch of a signature. He slashed the left strap of my camisole with the point of his pickax and squinted at my bared demon mark.

  “Disgusting.” He spit the word out like it was venom he’d just sucked from a cut.

  I looked down at my ruined clothes. What did he want from me?

  “I don’t like it either!” I shouted, finally losing it. “I hate this mark, I hate this class, and I hate…” Luckily, I stopped myself before I said anything truly unretractable.

  “Then this will be a relief,” Brunus said.

  He stepped forward and swung the nadziak in an arc behind him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ari push his way toward me and Mercator hold him back. Ari’s signature expanded as Serafina’s had the moment before she attacked Ivy. I knew Ari was going to throw something deadly at Brunus despite Rochester’s warning. I didn’t want him fighting my battles for me. I hated using my magic, but I wasn’t about to let Ari break the rules for me when I could do it for myself.

  I threw a blast at Brunus hoping to knock him off his feet as I had earlier, but whether it was nerves or just inconsistency, the blast missed Brunus and exploded at the far end of the room in a shower of sparks. Brunus looked incredulously at me. He glanced at Rochester, who was looking at me with narrowed eyes.

  The nadziak swung toward me. This time, I blasted the damned thing, hoping I’d used enough power to completely obliterate it. But no fireball appeared, not even a spark. Instead, the blast knocked the nadziak out of Brunus’ hands and sent it flipping, end over end, toward the rest of my classmates. They ducked and the nadziak clattered to the floor behind them.

  Rochester did not look pleased. Would he really have let Brunus kill me?

  “Enough,” Rochester said to Brunus, waving a flat palm through the air. He turned to me, scrutinizing me for a few seconds before speaking.

  “You hate waning magic, Ms. Onyx, and that is the reason you have trouble manipulating it.”

  My nose ran and I swiped at it with my hand. Bright red gobs of blood dripped off my knuc
kles.

  “What I hate,” I said advancing on Rochester, “is blood on my hands.” Without thinking, I flicked my fingers toward him. Drops of my blood splattered on his face and clothes.

  For the first time, I felt Rochester’s signature heat in anger. I was afraid if I stayed, he would crawl inside me and just keep expanding, until I was nothing more than a quivering mound of red jelly on the stone-cold floor of this hideous place. So I walked out without being dismissed.

  At least I didn’t run.

  Ari found me later in the bathroom at Megiddo cleaning my face.

  “Do you want me to take you to Bryony?”

  “No,” I said, not even meeting his eyes in the mirror. A Mederi was the last thing I wanted to see.

  Chapter 14

  I woke up Thursday with mixed emotions. For twenty-one years I had dreaded this day. Every year, I’d marked Bryde’s Day’s passing with as much interest as my own birthday, though neither had been much celebrated in our house. My declaration last week meant I would survive the day, but it couldn’t erase a lifetime of unpleasant memories. Bryde’s Day celebrated young women, small animals, and children. In other words, life and those who make it. Bryde was the patron of weddings, of course, but she was also the patron of any fertility union and was generally associated with all things regenerative and abundant. She was the ploughed ground pregnant with seed, she was the swelling bud ready to burst, and she was the first flow of milk, from ewe to lamb, from cow to calf, from mother to child. She breathed life into the dead mouth of winter and resurrected it.

  It was said Bryde had been wet nurse to Lucifer himself. That she had suckled him as an infant, cured his fevers, and tended his scrapes and sores. It was said she tended him even now, wherever he was, willing him to heal and return.

  Bryde had been Halja’s most powerful Mederi. So Bryde’s Day was, obviously, a major holiday.

  Classes had been cancelled today and we were on a modified schedule. This morning was our first midterm, Sin and Sanction. Later today, there would be a big festival at Lekai and then tonight, all students would have their first client interviews. Even the Hyrke A&A students would be meeting at various places around campus to discuss cases and strategies and lay the initial groundwork for hopeful settlements. None of it would be easy. Nothing at St. Lucifer’s ever was.

  Ivy, Fitz, and I had stayed up as late as we dared, comparing outlines, drafting practice answers, and drilling each other on the difference between actus reus and mens rea, causation and complicity, mayhem and malfeasance. We memorized all the Latin names for Halja’s numerous sins as well as the demons who protected their practice. Fitz and Ivy were thrilled to have my Manipulation books to supplement our Sin and Sanction materials, but I was afraid we might have overstudied that. It was unlikely the midterm fact pattern would have Host or demon deviants.

  We entered Copeland’s class bleary-eyed and anxious, strung up on too much coffee and not enough sleep. My eyes had deep, dark circles under them and I carried a pack of tissues for my still swollen nose. The three of us took our seats near the middle of the classroom, about halfway up the rise. On the way, I passed Ari, who looked irritatingly calm and well rested.

  “Good luck,” he said, giving me an encouraging smile. Thick dark waves of his hair fell to the collar of his shirt, which was a bright white buttoned affair, open at his throat.

  “Luck be with you too,” I mumbled, rushing past him. He was too distracting.

  The exam was a toilsome, laborious, perspiration-inducing mess. Three hours of reading fact patterns, code sections, outlining, drafting, and sweating. I broke five pencils, chewed off three fingernails, and wrote enough to fill two and a half sheaves of paper. Afterward, fellow students’ reactions varied. Some wanted to debrief endlessly by discussing and comparing answers. Some didn’t want to talk about the exam at all. A few were clearly relieved, while others cried.

  I chatted briefly with Ivy and Fitz, as we dumped books into our lockers and grabbed our cloaks. Fitz was in hand-wringing mode. He nearly freaked when I told him how many sheaves I’d gone through.

  “I have large handwriting,” I tried to assure him. Fitz looked strained. His face was red and his coppery hair was standing up in places where he’d obviously been pulling at it.

  “It’s time to celebrate,” Ivy said, putting her arm through Fitz’s. “I’m sure you passed. And now it’s over. Let’s head over to Lekai for the festival. Lunch won’t cost anything but the calories. It’s Bryde’s Day so everything will be loaded with cheese or smothered in cream sauce.” Ivy smacked her lips in mock anticipation, looking increasingly vexed at my lack of enthusiasm. “Vanilla ice cream with real butterscotch? Come on!”

  “No thanks,” I said, slamming my locker door. I jumped when I saw Ari leaning against the lockers behind it. I’d been so focused on shutting him out for the exam I didn’t feel him sneaking up on me. I noticed his signature was on stealth mode. He’d ratcheted down to low hum. I glared at him.

  “How’d you do on the test?” he said.

  “Fine.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You two?” he said to Ivy and Fitz. Ivy gave him the so-so sign, which was Ivy’s way of being modest. I was sure she’d end up in the top 10 percent of our class. Fitz, on the other hand, grimaced. Ari laughed.

  “It can’t have been that bad,” Ari said to him. “Besides, they usually fail no more than three students per section.”

  The red in Fitz’s face disappeared, replaced with a deathly white pallor. His skin shined with sweat. The effect was awful. For a moment, I thought Fitz would be sick. But then Ivy propelled him toward the door.

  “We’ll save you a seat if you change your mind,” she called over her shoulder. The hall door swung shut behind them. A few other students milled about.

  “You’re not going over to Lekai?” Ari asked.

  I shrugged on my cloak.

  “I don’t celebrate Bryde’s Day,” I said.

  “Why not?” Ari looked genuinely puzzled.

  What could I say? That I hated corn dolls? I didn’t. I just hated the fact that I couldn’t hold one. What’s more, I dreaded the thought of being asked to burn Yule greens in front of an audience. It was something I’d never even done in the privacy of my own home.

  “Because I don’t like setting things on fire.”

  “It’s much easier to control your magic if you’re not sparring with someone who’s trying to hurt you. And I’ll be there. I won’t let your magic burn anything it’s not supposed to.”

  “Ari, I don’t want to burn the Yule greens, or anything else.”

  He leaned in toward me so that his face was only inches from mine. His closeness in such a public space, when we weren’t supposed to be seen together, made me nervous.

  “Have you ever seen a Bryde’s Day ceremony, Noon?” His voice was quiet, almost tender. I stubbornly refused to answer.

  “Burning the Yule greens isn’t meant to be destructive,” Ari said, his words making it clear he understood me all too well. “It’s meant to represent the flame of life. When the Yule greens are burned on Bryde’s Day it symbolizes the destruction of winter. But by destroying winter, we destroy death. Sometimes destructive powers give rise to new life. Just look at Nergal’s forest fires.”

  I frowned, not following.

  “The burnoff created by a forest fire allows new growth afterward that wouldn’t have been possible before. The fire burns away old brush and other dead matter, preparing the ground for new life.” Ari reached out and clasped my shoulders, gently shaking them to emphasize his words. “Come celebrate Bryde’s Day with me. Come feel what it’s like to burn something so that it can be reborn.”

  We hadn’t embraced since I’d let him touch my demon mark in the alley on Monday. That had been four days ago. I was ready to agree to almost anything he said. But Rochester’s warning about not collaborating with Ari outside of class and the fact that I was already on shaky ground with Rochester firmed my resolv
e.

  “Speaking of Nergal,” I said, stepping back. “I’m going home to prepare for our meeting tonight. You said it yourself, I’m behind. I need the time to catch up.”

  I ignored Ari’s disappointed look and broke free of his hold. I could feel him staring at my back. His signature flickered, some flare-up of emotion that was too fast to define. Then I was around the corner and racing to Megiddo, half-afraid I might change my mind and decide to voluntarily burn something (or involuntarily burn someone) in front of all of St. Luck’s and the Joshua School too.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. I was determined to be as prepared as possible for my first interview with Nergal. I pushed away all thoughts of Yule greens, corn dolls, and dairy products. Instead, I reread the section of the Demon Register devoted to Nergal and Lamia, I studied chapters thirteen through fifteen of Dymas Painbourne’s Demons, Deities, and Devotional Practices, and I reviewed the Barrister’s Guide to Separation Agreements. I dug out my Manipulation books and read all of Seknecus’ margin notes on first encounters, meeting protocol, and establishing the upper hand with recalcitrant clients.

  Almost as an afterthought, I decided to test my magic control. I wadded up a piece of paper and placed it on the linoleum floor. I sent a whiplike surge of magic in its direction and it instantly went up in flames. Unfortunately so did everything in my trash can, which was over a foot away. My hands shook as I leeched oxygen from around the fires. They hissed and went out, leaving black ashes and the burning smell of shame. I grabbed my cloak and a notebook and headed for the door, my thoughts as dark as the ashes in the can.

  Outside of Megiddo the sun set in chalky reds and yellows, glazed with streaks of white from low lying clouds. The night was cool, but not cold. My hood hung down my back along with my hair, which I’d left loose and long. I’d traded my usual high-necked sweater and canvas trousers for a heavy black sheath dress. I belted it with a waistband of thick black leather and paired it with black leggings and boots. The dress had a raccoon fur collar that completely covered my demon mark. The demons would know I had waning magic, and everyone else did now too, but it was hard to break a lifetime habit of covering it up.