by Kim Smejkal
The plague doctor looked over his shoulder again, inadvertently helping Celia’s ruse that Death wasn’t alone on that stage.
When the curtain dropped again, he turned on her. “What are you doing?”
Slipping the devil into the famous finale, so she was the last thing they thought of, that’s what.
But Celia was already up and striding toward Kitty Kay again. With the second, true curtain call, Celia still didn’t go onstage to take her bows, despite how hard Kitty Kay tried to wrestle her there.
The roar of the crowd was earsplitting.
“Give me at least twenty minutes under the bell jar each night. I want to close out every show. I will not be dancing afterward, and I want to be on the playbill. Front and center.”
Anya looked apoplectic, along with Kitty Kay, the plague doctor, and, if Celia was being honest, most of the Mob. Breaking your own script was fine, but not taking over someone else’s. And the Mob didn’t have a “front and center” on their posters and playbills. They were a Mob.
Kitty Kay’s frown deepened. Vincent’s smile widened.
“You have to admit, I’m onto something,” she said, pointing to the curtain, where, just behind the thick velvet, the crowd chanted for the devil in the bell jar.
Chapter 15
All but dragging Celia and Anya to their wagon by their ears, Kitty Kay proceeded to give them the lecture of a lifetime. With a jabbing finger, grand arm flaps, a flushed face, and no punctuation to her sentences, she schooled them on respect, Rover etiquette, and basic manners. Anya might have been on the receiving end of the tirade by default, but for most of it she threw her own glare-daggers at Celia and nodded at everything that poured from Kitty Kay’s mouth.
Celia shrank by degrees. “I’m sorry,” she said for the tenth time. Anya tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for what Celia should have said next: It won’t happen again, I got carried away.
Kitty Kay clapped her hands once. “You’ll apologize to the plague doctor for commandeering his finale.” She clapped again, making sharp points to her list of demands. “You’ll do whatever he needs from you to fix it.” Clap. “You’ll apologize to everyone.” Clap. “You’ll forget about this ‘front and center’ nonsense.” Clap. “You’ll never change the show under our noses again.” Clap. “When you’re done apologizing to everyone, you’ll apologize to everyone again.” Clap. Clap. Clap.
Kitty Kay took a few deep breaths, her gaze flicking between Celia and Anya like a pendulum. “Good. Now that that’s settled, we have fifteen days plus four minus five of travel before we reach Malidora. That’s how long you have to smooth out these changes and incorporate them into the show properly.”
Anya’s mouth popped open. “Pardon me?”
“Properly. As in, consulting with others who are affected. Finding someone who will sacrifice some of their stage time to your increase. Filling everyone in on a loose script so they don’t look like fools.” Kitty Kay straightened her hair and smoothed out her dress, her shoulders rolled back to rigid, her stage smile appearing. “You’re right, you’re onto something. The crowd is multiplying like black flies on bloat. After the last two nights of excitement, I wouldn’t be surprised if all of Sabazio packs up and follows our caravan to Malidora.”
Kitty Kay might have regained her calm, but Anya hadn’t. Kitty Kay patted her on the shoulder, misunderstanding her flushed face for excitement. “Show business isn’t about shrugging away fame, is it? So long as you understand you’re in a troupe, not solo performers.”
“Understood.” Celia nudged Anya to respond.
“Understood,” Anya said through her teeth.
“Perfect! This is exciting then, isn’t it?” And Kitty Kay swept out of the wagon with a flourish.
Celia exhaled hard and turned to Anya. “I have a good reason—”
“I hate that act, Cece. We’re supposed to blend and fade, not pop and bang. I can’t think of any good reason . . .”
Anya kept talking as Celia pulled her upstairs. They huddled in a corner of the second floor, the domed glass separating them from the lights and sounds of the party in the field below. Marco and Tanith had upped their fire game, juggling at least a dozen bolts between them. Tanith shone with fevered determination, the remnants of her illness unwilling to leave her. Lilac, Cas, and Sky hovered above the crowd on their stilts, nearly at eye level with Celia and Anya. The plague doctor danced onstage, commanding it, looking extra bold and loud and slightly out of control. Celia wasn’t looking forward to apologizing to him.
The Palidon performed for a small pack of onlookers, his white morphing into various shades of yellow from the torchlight. His pantomime involved shoulder-wracking sobs, digging himself an invisible hole with an invisible shovel, and then lying in it. Just before the crowd swallowed him, he gestured for someone to join him in his grave.
“So? Talk. Go. I can’t wait to hear what you have to say.”
Celia’s eyes prickled with hot tears as Anya stared at her, arms crossed. Anya expected her to talk ego, adventure, and fun, or maybe to apologize for a drunken error in judgment.
How could she explain this unexplainable thing?
She started with “Vincent is not-Vincent.”
Made her way to “It was never about outrunning robes.”
Got to “Remember when we thought the Divine didn’t exist?”
Until eventually she ended at “Turns out, she’s the biggest trickster of all.”
Anya’s anger melted into laughter.
Then, before disappearing completely, it changed into something that sounded like pain. Celia wanted Anya to reject the story, tell her—firmly and absolutely—that she’d finally lost her mind to madness.
Instead, her analytical mind latched on to words like immortal, bodiless, cunning. “But what does she want from us?”
Celia explained that Diavala wanted them to be a strange kind of missionary, hardening belief about the afterlife, making people fear the devils of hell anew so more turned to Profeta for comfort and guidance.
Before Celia even finished, Anya was shaking her head. “No. There’s something else. This is just one show inside just one troupe. A small reach, even if we became exceedingly popular. It could never be grand enough to push Profeta across borders.”
Celia almost didn’t say it, her guilt too strong. “She saw my initials, Anny,” she whispered. Diavala had come for revenge; now she was seizing an opportunity. The worst-case scenario was that she’d be entertained for a while before she punished Celia. Best-case scenario? It worked, they traveled through neighboring nations, and Profeta spread.
It would either be a short game or a very, very long one.
Anya exhaled. Nodded. The final piece of the puzzle—motivation—in place. “I see.” Anya’s gaze wandered to all the recognizable costumes and masks below. Slowly, angry Anya was emerging. It didn’t happen often, as levelheaded as she was most of the time, because she saved it up for the important stuff. The tips of her ears had already turned red. Her voice had thickened. It was as if Anya’s emotional repertoire didn’t include fear; where fear should be, rage always burned instead, and it burned white-hot. “One word from Diavala, and all these people will be snuffed out,” she said.
“No. No, Anny. No. Look. I thought about it. She can only do what her host would do. She’s bound to playing the roles of the people she uses.” In this case, Vincent.
Anya stared. Ground her teeth. “She’s obviously found effective ways to make it work, Cece. Zuni has the most secure job in all of Illinia.”
Celia clicked her tongue impatiently. “Anya, think about it: no one knows she exists in this form. Diavala has had to manipulate for every ounce of her power because she’s invisible.
“Profeta is ancient, right?” Celia went on. “Built around solid walls her followers believe without question. Her religion sustains itself. According to Profeta, harboring temple runaways isn’t execution-worthy. Diavala can’t hop into a mist
ico and order kills that make no sense; she needs those foundational walls to stay strong. She won’t break her own rules, so as long as we play within them, the Mob will be safe. No, don’t—”
Anya had started shaking her head halfway through Celia’s reasoning.
“I’m right.”
“Even if she doesn’t use Profeta to do her killing,” Anya said, “she could use Vincent’s hands.” The red of her ears had crept down to the rest of her face. She looked flushed and feverish, ready to explode.
The image of Vincent the quiet Palidon stained red with someone else’s blood chilled Celia all over again. “No. I thought about that, too. I don’t think she can kill, Anny. Another reason she needs mistico. First of all, having murderers in Illinia is bad for image, and she’s all about order. Ruler Vacilando’s hard line on crime and vice was from a Divine order you inked, remember? Diavala wouldn’t want to stamp it out and then turn around and contribute to it.”
The look on Anya’s face said that she was about to argue, and yes, that was the flimsier of the two arguments, so Celia cut her off with the big one before she could get a word in.
“But the proof lies with someone we know: Lupita is a giant loose end. She lived Profeta for years, knows everything there is to know about the temple, yet she still breathes despite being the one person who could poke holes in it all. If Diavala could kill, she would have tied up that loose end without a second thought. Lupita’s alive only because she found the narrowest of loopholes in Profeta’s rules and slid right through.”
The moment stretched on as Anya thought through Celia’s logic.
Anya talked it out further, sliding everything into the proper compartments: “Lupita was calm and sane when she poked her eyes out. If Diavala had Touched her after she’d already been cast out in disgrace, Lupita would have been marked as a saint. Excommunicating someone saintly would only make Profeta look stupid. You’re right, she has to stay within her own framework.”
For someone who wanted unparalleled control, Lupita must be a lingering sore spot for Diavala. Good thing their tutor had faded to the background of life, a bottle of gin in hand.
“So okay, look,” Celia said, trying to refocus. “The mistico are her execution squad, but they’re gone for now. As long as the troupe doesn’t blatantly break any rules of Profeta to bring them swarming back, the troupe will stay safe from those daggers. As long as we do everything Diavala says, she won’t have any reason to leave Vincent, and he’ll be safe from the Touch for a while. She wants a show, let’s give her a show.”
“So you’re saying we should just go ahead and push more people toward the temple, hoping she stays entertained.”
Celia nodded, but Anya didn’t seem to notice. She’d stood and begun pacing. “She pulled a Tanza,” Anya muttered.
Tanza. The arrogant ass. Always plotting and planning, always taken down by the weight of his hubris.
“Why reveal herself to you?” Anya said. “Every villain goes out when they start to monologue. And it didn’t even occur to her that we’re using ink to do our show? She called it ‘mirrors and twitches’? Oh, she has the weakness of ego. You’re right, Cece, we have an opportunity here.”
Oh shit no. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant!”
In the field below, Vincent raised a hand from his invisible grave and rose, the crowd around him parting enough so Celia could see who he’d called over. He pulled Remy under his arm, and they bowed together.
Thinking they could find a home with the Rabble Mob had been such a naive dream. It was impossible to escape Profeta.
Celia swallowed the heat that had risen in her throat. “We have no power right now. None. This is different from sneaking around the temple and fooling mistico.”
Still pacing, faster now, Anya said, “Kitty Kay needs to know. This thing is inside her family.”
“No! The one thing keeping Vincent safe right now is the status quo. We can’t do anything to jeopardize his mind, Anny!”
“We need to get in contact with Lupita.”
“And how do you suppose we do that? Even if she could see our messages, what could she do from Asura?”
“Dante would help.”
“Anya, Dia, stop! Help with what?”
“He might be able to talk to some of the other inklings—”
“And what? Have you completely forgotten the past ten years? Because I haven’t. We were always alone, Anny. We did little things, tiny things, and even those tiny things scared everyone away from us. Do you really think that if they’ve been too terrified to sneak out for a drink one night, they’ll be eager to take on an immortal trickster deity? What is wrong with you?” Anya was ready to leap into the giant’s maw and drag everyone in with her. What was happening here? Anya was supposed to be the practical, thoughtful one, not her!
Anya had stopped pacing. Her fists, balled up at her sides, looked ready to smash glass. “Even before we knew she was real, we hated her. For years we’ve seen how she meddles in lives, how the ink strips away choice. How it hurts, influences, manipulates! Doing what she wants goes against everything we are.” She made a point of glancing at Celia’s hands: Celia was twisting Salome’s bracelet in circles, wearing a red, raw path around her wrist. “I am not okay with that.” Tears of frustration rimmed her deep blue eyes.
“I’m not okay with it either, but if we get anyone else involved right now, her boots will stomp down hard. We can’t risk it.” Celia swallowed and added, “Not yet. Not until we figure out how to save Vincent.”
Celia looked over at the Palidon again, Remy laughing as she performed a handstand on his shoulders. The troupe loved Vincent. Quiet and unassuming, included in everything.
Always there, always watching.
If you wanted to hide in plain sight and keep tabs on two inklings, he was the perfect host.
Vincent made a point of looking toward the wagon where Celia and Anya were, then turned to look at Remy. You consider this one a little sister, don’t you, Inkling?
And Celia thought, No, Diavala isn’t anything like Tanza at all. Because at the end of everything, Tanza is hopelessly dumb.
Chapter 16
Two weeks of travel would get them to Malidora. Two weeks of thinking, planning, and stress. Diavala had a sense of humor, revealing herself just before the long road trip.
The nights and days soon blurred together in endless turns of six-hour blocks of travel. Celia and Anya rode on the front carriage with the plague doctor, helping him sell the fantasy in their devil and angel costumes, Celia now sporting extra heavy chains around her neck, wrists, and ankles. If Kitty Kay could have found a way to manage it, Celia had no doubt she would have been leading the procession from under her bell jar.
Foolishly shrieking and wailing whenever they passed another wagon, Celia bumped between their shoulders like a Kid’s ball in a game of hot potato, the rattling of chains scraping her eardrums raw. The angel and the plague doctor only inclined their heads calmly. We’re on our way, Malidora. Come, see this spectacle.
Stabbing unease tangoed up and down Celia’s spine; she knew her every action and reaction was being tallied and assessed. If she didn’t yell loud enough or rattle hard enough, or if one person didn’t look up with piqued interest, the hovering threat could become a repercussion. To Vincent. To anyone in the troupe. To friends at the temple. In a hundred different ways. Celia cursed the scope of her imagination and made the biggest spectacle possible from the seat of a slow-moving wagon.
At one stop she’d checked on the carriages following them from Sabazio, counting and then recounting their numbers, wanting more. When one of the older fans spotted her lurking behind a wagon wheel, tallying the people with her clawed hands, rattling chains, and monstrous mask, his heart had nearly given out. But a couple of days later, when Celia checked again, there were two new wagons following the group. Kitty Kay had been right: their notoriety was spreading like a disease, and Celia helped it along with every breath. She had
to.
Her noise was balanced by the plague doctor’s uncharacteristic quiet, and when Celia shifted her concentration enough to notice, she felt it getting bigger the longer they traveled. Her apology for commandeering his finale had been genuine, except in the next breath she’d informed him that she’d do it all over again in Malidora.
“Interesting,” he’d said quietly. Smiling, of course. But, funny thing, she was starting to understand his unchanging smiles. This version—where it felt as if he were looking deep inside her and seeing her too clearly—was the one she had the hardest time with. It made her stutter and ramble.
“Anya and I have dreamed of performing like this since we were little. I just need everything to be perfect.”
He’d nodded, as though that made sense. Then, three hours later, he’d felt the need to tell her, “Don’t worry. I won’t stand in the way of your ambition.”
What did that even mean three hours later?
From fierce intensity to carefree flirtation, his presence poked at her raw edges. They circled each other like swordmasters about to duel, superficial conversations somehow always feeling like anything but.
The weather set the general mood. Typical of Illinia, when it decided to rain, it let loose in earnest for days at a time, going from light rain to heavy and back again in a miserable cycle. Though the seats at the head wagon were covered, that didn’t help when the rain and wind decided to pummel them sideways.
Between the assault of rain, the heat radiating from Anya—still smoldering about Diavala and taking every free opportunity to unload on Celia about it—the fire licking at her from the plague doctor, and the manic fear that took hold whenever she thought of Vincent and Diavala, Celia was in one of the nine circles of hell. As a fun bonus, her new view at the head of the caravan made it easier to see the shrines to the Divine in front yards or by fence lines. Four-faced, six-eyed mini-statues, stone carvings with lightning bolts honoring Ascension and Return, and everywhere the phrase Inktrava sel Immorti: Always listen to the ink.