Dark Light of Day

by Jill Archer

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything.”

  “I know,” I said, leaning my head on her shoulder.

  My father showed up a few days later. As usual, there was no “Hello” or “How have you been?” I forgave that this time, however, because such inanities would have been entirely inappropriate. Still, there were no words of sympathy regarding Ari’s injuries, which wounded me deeply, no congratulations on landing the Primoris position, which I would have shunned anyway, and no mention of my smashed mirror, which still lay in pieces out in my mother’s garden. She seemed as content to leave it there as I did. Unlike before, however, my father and I did talk shop for a few moments. He asked what I would have done if my last dark, emotion-laden, überpowerful, yet completely reckless and out-of-control magic blast had not sealed Nergal forever (or at least for a very long time) within the confines of Lucifer’s Tomb. I ran through a few arguments I might have made on his behalf before the Council. Karanos appeared unimpressed with these, but when I explained some of the things I’d wanted to do to Nergal if he’d have continued to threaten me, my father had smiled.

  “Perhaps you are your mother’s daughter after all,” he’d said, his expression as enigmatic as that legendary pre-Apocalyptic sphinx. He then mentioned that I’d be assigned a new client next semester, one that would provide some interesting new challenges.

  The next week, mourning turned to healing. My best friend was gone, but my boyfriend was alive and well. Bryony had arrived later that night and had nearly needed a Mederi herself after she’d healed Ari, Night, and me from our various injuries. Night had elected to finish recovering with the Demeter Tribe. Linnaea had come to collect him herself, fussing over him as if she were Androcles taming another lion. After what had happened at the tomb, I’d told Peter I never wanted to speak to him again. He told me I’d change my mind once he found the real Reversal Spell. True to my word though, I turned my back on him.

  Curiosity had me making a few discreet inquiries, however, and I found out that, instead of the Reversal Spell, Peter had accidentally cast the Spell of Second Chances, a spell nearly as old, powerful, and illustrious as the Reversal Spell, and one which was giving Peter a lot of press over at the Joshua School. Apparently the Spell of Second Chances worked like medieval medicine. It bestowed its benefits on only the most sick. But the cure was often worse than the disease.

  Lamia had been kidnapping Mederies, erroneously thinking that if they were tortured enough they might be able to create the impossible. Her madness had also given her a cold efficiency. Once they were dead, she’d used pieces of their hair and clothing to make her revolting corn dolls, which she ingested in the hopes that they could somehow make her barren womb fertile.

  Nergal was worse though. He couldn’t use madness as an excuse. He was perfectly sane when he’d first filed for the divorce he’d so desperately sought. He’d been motivated by all the things I’d accused him of. He’d fallen out of love with Lamia because she was ugly, old, and insane, but he’d also had a deeper, more pressing, motive—avoiding his own death. I’d nearly forgotten that demon lovers who married were bound by magic. They lived—and died—together, unless both agreed to end the marriage. Once Lamia’s madness escalated to the point where she started killing Mederies, Nergal knew she’d eventually be killed for her sins. He hadn’t wanted to die with her. Well, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d gotten a life sentence in the bowels of Lucifer’s Tomb. And Lamia had her longed for child.

  I shuddered. Be careful what you wish for.

  For my part I was done wishing for anything other than what I had. My childhood dream no longer appealed; my childhood friend was no longer a friend. Dropping the gilded mirror from my bedroom window had been cathartic, but I knew there was one more thing I had to do.

  Early one summer morning, Ari and I took a cab to Sheol. Ari was still using a cane to walk so I wanted to allow sufficient time for what I had in mind. I tipped the cabdriver extra and he grinned at me, promising to come get us the next morning. I shouldered the immense backpack I’d brought, which held all our supplies. On the way over, Ari had argued nonstop about who was going to carry it. I finally got him to shut up by telling him that if he didn’t, I’d reschedule our excursion for a time when Fitz or Mercator could make it because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him carry it. He’d sulked for a mile or so but let it drop.

  Once Ari had recovered enough to talk about what had happened, his whole take on it had been uncharacteristically naive and sweetly romantic. Perhaps that’s what a brush with death did to a person. He’d stated, on multiple occasions, that the whole situation could have been avoided had Nergal simply been a better husband. While I felt this sweeping summary was entirely too idealistic, and managed to gloss over a few hard to hear truths, it did endear him to me even further.

  When we got to the woods, I saw that our blackened path was still there. Grass had crept back over its outer edges and a few green stalks had shot up the middle. Still, the last thing I yearned for was the presence of an Angel to cast a spell of protection over these new growths. The forest as a whole would survive our presence and I’d had enough of spells. Besides, if what I had in mind worked, this path would become worn with the trampling of ordinary Hyrke feet before long.

  We took our time. I made sure we stopped to rest often, including the spot just before the forest’s edge where Peter had first kissed me. I kissed Ari long and hard there. I think he knew the trip was about excising demons—all kinds. His return kiss was ardent and enthusiastic.

  Late in the afternoon, we reached the clearing. I paused before stepping onto the battlefield. It looked different during the day. The jagged headstones were still there. And the surrounding vegetation still appeared blighted. The house was, impossibly, still standing. But the light from the sinking sun coated everything with the warm glow of hope.

  We spent the last daylight hours collecting all the deadwood. We piled it in a big heap at the front door of the house. Then I opened up my pack and pulled out the rest of our supplies: a large blanket, two huge covered mugs of ale, a couple slices of Innkeeper’s Pie, and a box of matches. The days of staring at my mother’s garden had given me the idea.

  My plan was simple: purge this land with fire and bring it back to life, by committing the simple joyous acts of living on it. We would eat; we would drink; and we would be merry. I grinned to myself. I was particularly looking forward to that last part.

  “Fire it up, Onyx,” Ari called from the blanket. I struck the first match, nervously swallowing. What if it didn’t work? But I had to believe.

  I threw the match. Lucem in tenebras ferimus.

  Into the darkness, we bring light.