by Jill Archer
Only when I lay on the floor, gasping like a fish, thinking I was seconds away from dying of asphyxiation, did Nergal finally walk over to Lamia and whisper in her ear. His manner looked affectionate. He even chuckled softly as Lamia gave him a lopsided smile, showing all two rows of her pointed shark teeth. Her magic withdrew. But when Nergal turned back toward me, his face was a mask of hatred. For her or me, I couldn’t tell. I raised myself up on two arms, panting. I didn’t have the strength to stand. In the corner, Lamia turned her attention to something she was cradling in her lap. A fetid, rotten corn doll. She started rocking it back and forth, singing softly.
“Let’s discuss my options,” Nergal said calmly. He dragged a chair over to me, turned it around and straddled it so that his beefy, sun-darkened arms rested on the top of the seat back. He didn’t bother to help me up. “How can I get out of my marital contract, Noon?” He looked at me with pity, the way one might look at a mangled insect before stepping on it to put it out of its misery.
I struggled to my feet and leaned against Rochester’s desk, gripping its edge for support. For a moment, I craved Rochester’s massive presence. He would not have been brought so low by these squabbling demons. But then I realized if he were here, he’d likely let this situation play out. If I couldn’t control my client, I was of no use to the Council and I would be an embarrassment to the St. Luck’s faculty.
We’d been over this, but I had nothing to fall back on but my training. “Duress,” I said, glad to hear my voice sounded stronger than I felt, “forcing someone to do something against their will, can be one way of getting out of a contract.”
Nergal waved a hand in the air, dismissing the idea. “No one was forced to do anything, then or now.” I bit back a nasty retort and decided my best bet would be to play the professional.
“Fraud,” I said. “If Lamia claimed to be something she wasn’t and you married her relying on her lie then maybe we could argue that your marriage vows are void because of this misrepresentation.”
Nergal looked contemplative, even though it wasn’t a new idea. “The fact that she changed after your marriage doesn’t count,” I said. In the corner, Lamia sang a macabre lullaby. She was lost in her madness, completely unaware or uncaring of what was going on around her.
“Then what?” Nergal asked. He stood up and walked over to me, intentionally ratcheting up his signature. Waiting for him was like waiting for a swarm of bees to settle on me. My instinct to run was so strong, I twitched.
“Rescission,” I said, now almost frantic. A thin film of sweat broke out all over my body. “Were either of you married to another when you made your vows?”
Nergal shook his head, looking disappointed. “I grow weary of waiting for you to find an answer for me.” He reached for me. I backed away, but not fast enough. He pressed his finger into the muscle of my shoulder. When he let go, it felt as if he’d just pressed a revolver against my arm and pulled the trigger. Instantly, a shooting pain burst forth from the area, pain worse than any sting Serafina had given me by a thousandfold. I shrieked in agony. Tears welled in my eyes and dripped out, wetting my cheeks. I had no shame, no further reserve of professional detachment left. Nergal had finally stripped all of that away, leaving only icy fear and an increasing physical numbness.
Nergal had infected me, as surely as if he’d filled a syringe with deadly plague and plunged it deep into my arm. I could feel death creeping under my skin and into my veins, sinking slowly into my muscles, curling around my innards, twisting through my bowels. I was powerless to prevent it. It was far too late for magical shields, defensive countermeasures, or useless attempts at controlling or manipulating him. I had failed, utterly and horribly. And, as I’d always thought, I would die for my failure.
I was on the verge of losing consciousness when Ari stepped into the room. He snarled so ferociously, for a second, he looked almost demonlike himself. He shot Nergal with a blast of magic so powerful Nergal sailed through the air and smashed into the back of the classroom wall. Old lithographs and framed etchings crashed to the floor in a shower of glass. My legs collapsed and I slumped to the floor, propped up by the side of Rochester’s desk.
“Stop,” I tried to yell, worried Nergal’s counterattack would kill Ari. But the word came out slurred and thick, almost unrecognizable. My thoughts fractured. My brain felt swollen. “You can’t… control my client,” I tried to tell Ari, clutching the desk leg. I dug my nails into it, trying to stand. “Rule three… three thirty-one C… prohibits—”
Ari looked down at me, his face unreadable. “Stop talking,” he said quietly. “Don’t move.” He turned to Nergal, who had picked himself up, brushed himself off, and looked ready to kill Ari next.
“This meeting is in violation of Professional Code of Conduct Rule 24-A and Ethical Cannon VII, both of which expressly forbid any communication with a party represented by counsel unless their counsel is present. Did you call this meeting?” Ari said to Nergal. “My client is present and yet I wasn’t informed.” Ari’s expression was one of mild annoyance. But I could feel the underlying tension in his signature and I thought Nergal could probably feel it too.
Nergal narrowed his eyes at Ari and, for a moment, all our lives hung in the balance. Demons and Maegesters both used waning magic, but it was the way they used it that made all the difference. Demons were like war tanks. They’d been the Legion for Luck’s sake. They were brute strength, practically unstoppable. But Maegesters were the warlords who had ruled the Legion. Why? Because, though the demons might have been the five hundred pound grappling infantry troops, Maegesters were the lance tip of the cavalry, the ranged precision of the artillery, and the single-minded command of the general. Battles, and certainly a war, could only be won with Maegesters calling the shots. But that martial advantage mattered less in hand-to-hand combat. I struggled furiously to sit up. If we were going to die, I wanted to be standing when the deathblow struck.
Nergal appeared to weigh his options. He glanced over at Lamia, who was still crooning softly. She squeezed the corn doll’s neck as she stared at us fixedly, her eyes unfocused. Nergal clenched his hands into fists, clearly frustrated, enraged, and almost apoplectic. He shifted, before our eyes, into a huge, looming mantis. He scrabbled forward toward Ari, his long spiked forelegs scratching the floor and sweeping up desks as he went. His mandibles clicked rapidly back and forth and I suddenly remembered, even in my fever-induced fugue state, that mantes were not majestic, graceful creatures but rather predatory and cannibalistic.
Somehow I managed to grip the edge of the desk and push myself up at the same time. The effort nearly did me in. My whole body burned. Inside, it was as if fire ants crawled through my veins. Outside, it was as if the skin had been flayed from my body. The mantis Nergal raised one foreleg in the air, its long spiky front pointed directly at Ari’s heart.
“Nergal,” I shouted. “Stop!” But my words were little more than a barking croak. I tried to remember all of the things Rochester had taught me this year, but all I could remember was how much I’d hated Manipulation and the dungeon and Rochester and the weapons and Wednesdays… I poured all of those memories into my magic and threw it at Nergal in the form of the weapon I despised the most: Brunus’ beloved nadziak. Once forged, my fiery war hammer was a thing of fierce beauty. I threw it straight at Nergal. Problem was, half of me went with it. That last blast of fiery war-hammer hatred tore through my gut, ripping it out. I felt a hollow, liquid feeling, as if my bones had turned to dust, and then I felt no more. I sank to the floor, my vision blackening. My last thought was not very repentant.
I hoped Nergal was dead. And I hoped Ari lived.
I woke up in a room I’d never seen before. Much in the room was white: the walls, the sheets on the bed, and the gauzy curtains flapping at the open window. I squinted against the brightness, figuring it was near to midday. All that sun splashing against the clean bright white nearly blinded me. I raised my hand to block the light and felt how
sore my arm was. Suddenly I remembered Nergal pressing his finger to my arm. I remembered the excruciating pain, the spreading numbness, and the sight of Nergal’s horrifying spiky foreleg aimed straight at Ari’s heart. For one awful second I considered whether I might be in Nergal’s house. But it felt too safe and comfortable to be the home of my lethal, possibly adulterous, oathbreaking demon client. And I remembered Nergal saying something about how the land around his home had died and that his house had fallen into disrepair. This house was hardly in disrepair, although it was clear that most of the room’s furnishings were recycled hand-me-downs.
The wooden dressers were mismatched. Sometime in the not too distant past, they’d been stripped and painted white. Colorful glass knobs had been added. On the floor was a braided wool rug in a swirl of reds, pinks, and blues, and on the bed was a pinwheel patterned quilt sewn together from boldly colored, multi-textured fabric swatches. Somehow, the mash up of colors seemed cheerful, like the fractured brilliance of sunlight caught in a prism.
I threw back the covers and got out of bed, thinking two things simultaneously. First, how unbelievably sore I was. Everywhere hurt, even places that made no sense—the backs of my knees, the spaces between my toes, my scalp and tongue. Whatever pestilence Nergal had visited upon me had been thorough. Second, where had these clothes come from? I stared down at a large Gaillard sweater and men’s smalls.
I crept from my room and padded barefoot down the worn, polished wood of the hallway floor, wincing. It felt like I was walking on a bed of nails. Feeling a bit woozy, I steadied myself with a hand on the wall. I heard only my breathing and the beating of my own heart.
Where was I?
Suddenly, I smelled something familiar. I followed the smell into a large, airy kitchen dominated by a heavy oak table with benches instead of chairs. A cast-iron stove took up one whole corner of the room and the area above it was cluttered with hanging copper pots in every imaginable size. The countertops were crammed with ceramic crocks, bottles of what looked like wine or vinegar, and various spice jars. Every inch of available wall space was lined with pegs upon which saucepans, measuring cups, ladles, spoons, whisks, and all other manner of kitchen equipment could be seen. A desk had been built into the corner opposite the stove. The shelves above it were loaded with recipe books, their colorful spines cheerfully coordinating with a stripped table runner and braided wool rug similar to the one in the bedroom I’d come from.
Sitting at the desk was a woman. Her back was to me so that all I could see was her hair. It was as white as the walls. I cleared my throat, not wanting to sneak up on her, although I couldn’t imagine she was a threat. This was the homiest house I’d ever been in. She turned to look at me and I inhaled sharply.
Her eyes were light pink and her skin was so white, it was almost translucent. Her features were as delicate as a doll’s. She had high cheekbones, a cupid bow mouth, and white eyebrows that swept upward from her face giving her a regal, almost imperious look. Her gaze was preternatural in its intensity. I openly stared at her, not having seen anything like her before.
She perceptively guessed at my confusion. “I am hveit,” she said, in answer to my unspoken question. “Like you, my birth was unusual among my people. Ari told me you didn’t have much occult training. People who are hveit are Hyrkes. We don’t have any magic, but sometimes… we see things.”
I nodded, as if I understood. But I was as confused as ever. “Did you heal me? Is that why I’m here?”
She smiled and I could see she had the beginning lines of age in her face. She wore a long indigo skirt, brown leather sandals, and a vibrantly hued cotton batik shirt. Her nails were tipped with cherry red and chunky stones of red coral and turquoise dangled from her ears. She laughed and the sound was like bells tinkling.
“No, you were attacked by a demon, I was told. Your own client.” Her tone was incredulous. I couldn’t tell if she was amazed I’d survived, shocked that I should have to deal with such danger, or surprised I hadn’t handled the situation better. She walked over to me and raised her hands to my face. I flinched and her features softened immediately.
“I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her hands. “I was just going to see if your fever broke. I imagine you’re still pretty jumpy. Here,” she said, motioning me over to the table. Before I could sit down, however, the back kitchen door burst open. Of all the people I might have expected, she was the last. It was Bryony, followed immediately by Ari. My heart slipped and skid, righted itself with a wobble and then started beating again, only slightly less regularly than before.
The stubble on Ari’s chin was at least two days old and his eyes were sunken with bluish black circles beneath them. I wondered how long I’d been sleeping, and how long Ari had gone without. Despite his apparent exhaustion, he smiled at Bryony as he held the door open for her. Seeing them together like that, I couldn’t help remembering my old nickname for her, Beauty. She looked every inch the part, with her long dark red tresses, her aquamarine eyes, and her flawless cream-colored skin. Suddenly, my scalp itched and I stared down at my spindly legs poking out of someone else’s light gray smalls. I bit the inside of my cheek, vainly wishing for a shower and my own clothes.
“Noon!” Bryony cried, “You’re up.” She rushed over and did what the hveit woman had tried to do, bringing her hands up to my cheeks and then moving her palm to my forehead. Her skin was cool and smooth. My eyes flickered back to Ari, standing behind her. He was tense with emotion. When Bryony finished, he stood rigidly in front of me for a moment. Then he reached out and crushed me to him. His hands stayed clamped to my arms like vises while his lips pressed against my hair.
I heard banging and the scraping of metal as Ari finally released me. I glanced over and saw the white-haired woman take something out of the oven. The smell of buttered crust, beef, and baked onions filled the room. I inhaled deeply, suddenly famished. At the look on my face, some of Ari’s tenseness disappeared.
“Hungry?” he said. “My mom called Marduk’s to get their recipe. She thought it would make you feel better to eat something that was familiar to you.”
His mom?
I looked around the kitchen, realizing where I was. I tried to imagine Ari scooting around this floor as a baby, or playing with toy cars here as a toddler, or even sitting at the table doing homework as a teen. I couldn’t. But mostly because it all seemed so normal. And that’s not what my childhood had been like.
“So you’re…”
“Joy Carmine,” Ari’s mother said, slipping off her hot mitts and offering me a hand.
I looked over at Ari, who had a funny expression on his face. I clasped her hand and mumbled something like “Nice to meet you,” and other words of thanks, wondering what sort of social etiquette standards applied to situations such as this. I tried to be as gracious as an unshowered girl in boy’s underpants could be. Bryony sat down at the table and patted the bench beside her. I was still feeling pretty gross about myself though, so I chose to sit opposite her. She leaned across the table and spoke to me in low tones while Ari grabbed plates, glasses, and utensils from a nearby cupboard.
“I’ve never seen Ari so worried… or so angry.”
“I’m pretty ticked off at Nergal myself,” I said, thinking that was a vast understatement. I really wished I could rip his head off and then I wondered when I had become so bloodthirsty. Where was the girl with the soft spot for demons?
“The demon just acted like a demon,” Bryony said. “It was you he was angry with.”
“Me?”
“Your biggest injury was self-inflicted. Which is saying a lot because your other injury was a nasty plague that might have killed you if left untreated. But at least I knew how to help you with that. It was the damage you did to yourself that I almost couldn’t fix. Ari said you threw out some uncontrolled, super charge. It ripped you up inside. Look, I only know enough about waning magic to heal its users. But I do know you can’t try to throw more than you’ve got.” Sh
e paused, glancing over toward Ari to see if he could hear. “You almost died,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said matter-of-factly. “But my client was trying to kill Ari. I’d do it again if I had to.”
“No, you won’t,” Ari said softly, stepping up behind me. His voice was as hard as iron. He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed, almost too hard. “We’ll talk about what happened later.”
Bryony gave me a look that seemed to say, See? but she let the conversation drop. Ari sat down next to me. Joy brought her baked dish over to the table and started cutting it. Everyone received a huge slice, but mine was the biggest. I stared at my plate, happy.
Happy to be alive. And happy, for once, to be eating Innkeeper’s Pie.
After lunch, I was so tired I could barely keep my face off my plate. After thanking Joy for such a thoughtful menu I staggered back to my room. Ari wasn’t far behind. I walked in and collapsed on the bed immediately. Ari shut the door behind him and leaned against it.
“I hope you haven’t come in here to lecture me,” I said. “I’m too tired to fight.” I slid my legs under the covers and gratefully rested my head on the pillow. I guess closing my eyes finally convinced Ari I was serious about sleeping because he came over and climbed under the covers with me.
“Um,” I said, thinking how my mother would react if I tried to crawl into bed with a boy I’d brought home. I might have grown to adulthood but, in her eyes, I would always be a child. “What will Joy say?”
“I spent two days sleeping outside your door.”
“I don’t know, Ari. This isn’t exactly how I wanted to meet your mom.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he squeezed me to him. “Me neither. But you lived. I deserve this for what you put me through. She’ll live too.”