by Eli Constant
“Wonderful, then. I, too, would prefer not to fight with you anymore. So it’s settled.” He stands and heads towards my door. I take a deep breath, thankful that he’s seen reason. “I’ll be back in a moment with your grandmother’s journals and your notes. We’ll pick up where we left off, reviewing sacred rituals of the courts. Then we’ll try spirit location. You were too tired the last time.”
I brace myself against the counter, my knuckles going pale from gripping so hard. I hear my apartment door creak open. He doesn’t close it. Because he’s just going downstairs to the basement storage area to grab what we need to practice. God help me.
WE’RE TWO AND A HALF hours into studying, and an hour of that has been on the funeral practices of the fae—they commit their bodies to Earth in a burning ceremony called Kir-shava-ley—it creates the ancient fae fire, a rage of blue sparks that imbues the entire court with the power of death and rebirth. The sparks do not burn what they touch, but they leave the memory of a mark on the skin. The palest of blue freckles, only seen under the light of the harvesting moon. Because the fae do not die often, Kir-shava-ley is considered the most sacred of ceremonies.
I can barely keep my eyes open, despite three cups of coffee. Kyle still isn’t home. I don’t think he is coming home.
I think back to his words in the woods, as I helped him struggle towards the Victorian. To take him home, that wherever I was, was home. Yet he isn’t here. He hasn’t texted. Whenever I’ve let myself think about the future of our relationship, I’d always seen Kyle leaving out of fear of me, but now he’s pulling away out of fear of himself.
Neither option is one I want to entertain. Neither option is something I’ll accept.
Liam is droning on. I’m sat on the couch; he’s pacing between the kitchen and living room. I tilt my head back, letting the back cushions cradle my head. It’s mere seconds before I’m caught up in that light sort of dozing where you can hear everything going on around you, but you simply don’t have the will to lift your head and look around.
“Honestly,” Liam’s exasperated voice is fuzzy. Then, suddenly, my entire body is fuzzy too. Tingling, from tip of my scalp to tip of my toes. I open my eyes and realize quickly that my body is no longer cradled by the sofa. I’m floating several inches above the surface. It made me think of middle school and an impromptu game of ‘light as a feather’ in social studies when our regular teacher was absent and our sub was high as a kite.
“Holy crap!” I yell out. I try to remain calm, but every fiber of my being wants to flail about wildly because I can’t, point of fact, fly. So being lifted up into the air, held strong by absolutely nothing, isn’t an entirely settling feeling. “Are you doing this, Liam? Put me the hell down!”
I’m still trying to remain still, my arms and legs are splayed out wide, waving a little up and down, like I’m lying on a balance beam rather than walking across one, trying desperately not to pitch to one side or another.
“Are you awake then? Shall I put on another pot of coffee?” Liam is his glowing fae self, all long silver hair and translucent, lovely skin. Power slips from his pores, reaching towards me, surrounding my body. He is the unseen thing that keeps me lifted.
“Put. Me. Down,” I growl. Maybe Kyle isn’t the only one that can beast out.
Slowly, the magic pulls back, the glow of Liam’s skin begins to fade, and I fall with a thump, missing the couch and landing with one leg on the coffee table and the rest of me on the hard floor. Anger wells up in me. “Liam,” I say carefully, sitting up and pulling my leg off the table, rubbing behind the knee where I’m certain a bruise is going to sprout later. “Isn’t there some rule about... you know... not injuring your queen?”
“I’m fairly sure there’s some clause that allows for it when the queen is being particularly hard-to-handle.” He turns away from me to the kitchen table, where grandmother’s journals and my scribbled notes are strewn about in no particular order. I used to hide everything in a random place out of sight, no real security. Liam convinced me to install a safe, which felt overkill. I look over the pile once more. “You’re going to have to work on your penmanship too, you know.” He holds up one of my notebooks, open to a page filled with chicken scratch. “You can’t sign official decrees like this.”
“Liam, if the white court cookie mongers want me, they’re going to have to take me—warts and all.”
He sighs. “I’m not sure cookie mongers is preferable to Keebler elves.”
“You know what would be great. Let’s just skip over some of the ‘how to bury a fairy’ shit and do something fun. Spirit location. Sounds like Mardi Gras compared to listening to you lecture.” Standing up, the back of my leg really hurting now, I get my empty coffee mug and take it to the sink.
“All right,” he says slowly. I make more coffee whilst he’s gathering up all the notes and books into neat piles—except for one tome. The large faded tan book. The creepy human skin one. A font of necromancy knowledge... in a vessel that couldn’t be any more perfect. He can’t see the words in the book when he opens it. It’s a spell, gifted to my grandmother a long time ago to protect the knowledge inside. A favor, for her helping in a spiritual matter. I walk over and open the book for him. Instantly, he hones in on the words, and begins to flip pages.
“We’ll begin with a living spirit. It’s easier.”
“Easier than a dead spirit?” I ask slowly. “That makes no sense. I mean, living spirits are in living bodies.”
“And a living body has living blood coursing through it. For you, a necromancer with blood magic, you are doubly connected to the living rather than singularly connected to the dead.” Liam is starting to pace again.
“Liam, stop moving around. You make me nervous when you do that.” I go back to sit on the sofa, yet another cup of coffee in hand. “So, basically, because I can connect to blood and I can connect to the little deaths in a person’s still-alive body—the soil in the lungs of smokers, the decay in an alcoholic’s liver—then locating a living spirit is easier than a dead one.”
“Exactly,” he confirms.
“You know that sounds like a load of crap, right?” I can’t help but smile when I say it. Most of what Liam says sounds like a load of crap, but I take it as the God’s honest, because he admittedly knows way more than I do.
He doesn’t rise to the bait. I say things like that too often during our little sessions.
“You need to be comfortable. Your bed, perhaps?” Without waiting for an answer, he strides towards my room, skin book in hand.
I don’t stand up immediately to follow, thinking about what might happen if Kyle shows up and Liam and I are in my bedroom together, but it’s late—going on eleven—and if he’s not here now, I doubt he’s coming. Getting up, leaving my mug behind, I check my phone in the kitchen. Still no text message. He could at least text.
When I get to the bedroom entrance, I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. Liam is flipping pages, perched on the end of the bed. After a moment, he looks up.
“Well, lie down so we can get started.” He eyes my street clothes. “You might be more comfortable if you change as well. Something loose-fitting and not constricting.”
“What, you think the spirit is going to care if I’m in jeans and a shirt?” I scoff, but I walk to the dresser and pull out the ugliest nightgown I own. It’s long-sleeved, falls to my knees, and is covered in squirrels wearing top hats. I change in the bathroom, and quirk a smile when Liam looks me up and down and sighs. I can only imagine how queenly I look.
I fluff pillows, pull back the comforter, and lay down, feeling supremely awkward with Liam—still sporting his long white hair rather than his human-esque glamour—sitting on the bed.
“Here we are,” he finally says. “I had the traditional spell, but I think your powers require a small modification.”
I don’t say anything. I’m suddenly nervous and not at all sure what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Now close your
eyes. Think of someone you know, someone you know well might ease the process. Hold them in your mind.” Liam’s voice has lost its teaching edge. Now it’s soft, shadowed. It’s the way you hear therapists talk to their patients on television when they’re trying to hypnotize them or ease them into a past-life regression. “Focus, Victoria. I can feel your mind wavering.”
So I focus. And, at first, I think of Kyle. Then my brain floats towards Mei, who I’ve not hung out with nearly enough lately. Though, she’s also not been calling and texting me as much. I’d gotten irritated with her a few times, so maybe it was my fault. One time, I’d really snapped at her. Also though... I wonder if she looks at me and sees what she went through. I’d saved her, but I could have prevented her being kidnapped at all had I figured it out sooner about Dr. Sherwin.
I try to refocus, wanting to think about Kyle and make this as easy as possible. My brain doesn’t want to cooperate, scrolling through what feels like everyone I’ve ever met.
But, finally, I land on someone I don’t know. At least, not in person.
The arsonist. The murderer. The mystery.
And once I’ve thought of him—and of the fires, and the dead family, and the women with their hearts missing—I cannot stop thinking of him. Or her, for that matter. It could be a her? Couldn’t it?
I gather the possibility of their soul, the evil that must reside within them, into my mind like bubblegum stuck to a shoe on a warm day. I yank the idea of their spirit towards me, one stringy hot bit at a time.
“Good, Victoria. Whoever you’re imagining, stay focused. I can feel your power. Think of something meaningful to that person, something integral to their personalities.”
All I can think is fire.
Burning. Flame.
Singed skin.
Hot window glass.
Nails in windows.
And so much death.
Chapter Fourteen
“MOVE TOWARDS THEM, Victoria.” Liam urges me. “I can feel that you’ve connected. Now move. It should feel like a tether, from the middle of your conscious mind. Pull along it, walk the path. It should be clear now, clear enough to see as if it were real enough to touch.”
I can feel my face scrunching up in a cringe. The path is clear, and scorching. Sparks tickle my face, flame licks at my feet as I progress. I want to rush back; I want to think of Kyle or Mei again. But I cannot.
Because the Firestarter is within my reach. If I can glean some information, any information, to help Terrance, I have to keep moving.
I know, rationally, that my body has not left my bed. But irrationally? I feel like I am a thousand miles away from Liam now. So far from Bonneau, my lineage, and my life, that I might never return again.
There’s a shadow in the distance now.
It grows closer as I continue to pull myself along the mystical rope.
A second, shimmering form is off to the side. When I turn to look directly at it, it disappears. It is not the spirit I am here to find. Not the soul I am tracking. So I set my eyes back on the darkness. It is a swirling cloud, vaguely human-shaped. Tall and broad. Male, I feel like. Or the tallest woman I’ve ever seen. Well, maybe not the tallest—this past Christmas, I’d been insanely jealous of a woman who could reach the magnolia style wreath on the highest shelf. She hadn’t even had to go on tiptoes. I mean, I’m not a short woman. I’m maybe even taller than average. But that sort of height as a female. That’s called power. Except, maybe, when you’re shoved into an airplane seat with your knees banging against the built-in table.
Focus, idiot. I reprimand myself. I do that too often—sink into random, stupid thoughts whilst faced with a serious situation. Because mentally rambling is a hell of a lot easier than dealing with impending, shadowy reality.
I stop a few feet away from my goal. Liam is still speaking, instructions that I can no longer hear. I am consumed by the spirit and my connection with it. I can feel the aliveness of it, that it is still bound to its human vessel. I wonder if I can use my other powers whilst engaging in spirit location. I lift my hand and wonder if I’m actually moving, or if everything is only happening within my mind.
I call not only to the spirit, but also to the blood of the body. I call to what Liam once called the ‘Christ link’. It is not only the death in an aging body, the little decays that mark us through time, but a link to the very beliefs that flow through us. I don’t know if I buy into that, that a body can be marked by a Christian sentiment. But the ‘Christ link’ is like the supernatural version of the God particle. It is a spark, of varying intensity, inside each person.
In this shadow, in the arsonist, the Christ link is so weak that I can barely find it, let along grasp ahold of it with my power. The spirit is dark, at a genetic level. And there is magic. The arsonist is rank with it. As I reach for it, it reaches for me. Pieces of the shadow, like a spray of volcanic ash, rushes towards me. It wraps around my outstretched arm and tightens. I push back. I’m the Blood Queen. It is just a spirit.
A powerful spirit.
A magical spirit.
A person in real life that sets fires, kills families, and kills women for their hearts.
“Victoria, My Queen.” Liam’s voice pushes through the fog around me. The undulating ash tightens around me. “Your powers are weak in this state. Observe, Victoria. Do not attempt to interact. Who have you reached, Victoria? Who have you tracked?” His voice begins to fade again, tatter at the edges, until his voice is just a buzzing at the back of my brain.
“Who are you?” A new voice enters the equation. It is a harsh whisper, the thrum of a growl beneath the words. “You have power. I feel it. Feel it even though you are...” the voice hesitates, considers maybe, “not projecting exactly. You’re not a witch. What are you?”
The ash pulses against my arms, squeezing so hard that a real arm would begin to turn purple at the fingers. But it is not my real arm. I’m not really here. I pushed forward, towards the pillar of smoke. The volcanic ash tendrils move with me, never letting slack form in its grip.
“Show me your face,” I say forcefully. “Why are you doing this? Why would you want to open a Hellmouth in Bonneau? It’s dangerous, for humans, for supernaturals. You have magic, you should know better.”
“Dangerous for supernaturals,” the voice repeats my words, amusement obvious. Male. The tendrils of the spirit release me. It pulls back like an octopus arm, waving up and down through water. “It is a fount of power for our kind. It is a savings bank of untapped funds. And it will be mine. The landscape of the world will change.”
A face begins to form from the smoke. The impression of a nose, the dual hollows of eyes, the slightest impression of lips. It’s not enough. I need to see. “Too cowardly to show yourself all the way, huh? Big, bad, and strong enough to kill a bunch of innocents, but you’re hiding behind smoke and mirrors.”
“They weren’t all so innocent,” he says with a scoff. “Weaklings, the lot of them. Halfling witches. Pitiful things. Whispers of power, barely a thimble-full between them all. Yet, they served their purpose.”
“Their purpose? You mean, letting their hearts be fucking ripped out? Dying to get you access to a bunch of really dangerous fucking magic?” I spit the words out, but I feel weak, I feel myself fading. How long have I been on this journey? Caught, in this in-between existence? I hear something, just the glimmer of something. I should know what it is, but I’m feeling fuzzy. I’m feeling... unborn.
“Are you feeling tired?” The smoke face flickers, for a moment I see a hint of pale beneath the black. “Weak. Like you’re losing your grip on reality. You are new to this, aren’t you?” Smoke face moves closer, the flickering continues. More paleness. An eye. A raging green, like toxic chemicals—the kind that produces super villains.
“Victoria! Victoria, come back!” Liam’s voice is screaming. There is exhaustion in his words. “Come back!”
My eyes feel heavy. They’re not even my eyes though. They’re the... ghost of m
y eyes. Because none of this is real. It’s an illusion. I’m not really here.
“You’re thinking that this isn’t real, so you can’t be dying. I know that look. So very new to this magic.” Smoke face is only a foot from me now, and the drowsiness becomes overwhelming. I can’t look at him any longer, but I have to. Because the ash is giving way to even more paleness. I see two eyes now, both violently green. I see his nose, with the hook on the end and the bump near the top. I see his mouth, the way his lips have a gray-ish hue rather than pink. I see him.
I see the arsonist. And he doesn’t seem to care.
Because I’m dying. Which is obvious to me now.
I turn away. I stumble back down the rope towards Liam, towards my bedroom and my body. I fall, my hands pushing into a ground that has become soft like cotton balls. It makes it hard to rise again, but I struggle to my feet. I walk uneven, my feet sinking into the ground further and further until I’m sunken past my knees.
“Victoria!” Liam’s scream sounds again. Power pushes with it. It kisses me, strengthens me. I push forward. The rope in my head, pulsing back towards the arsonist, yanks so hard that I fall backwards, into the soft ground.
“Stay and die! Stay and die!” The arsonist taunts me. I wonder if he has followed me. Can he follow me? I have to get out of here. I have to get home. I move to my knees and I begin to crawl. I’m so close. I can see a shimmering ahead and the outline of my room, floating in the air. I can see myself lying on the bed. Liam is kneeling next to me; his hands rest against my forehead, his eyes are closed. He’s reaching for me.
“Victoria, hurry! Your life force is fading! You cannot spirit walk this long!” His power reaches me again. I move. I move.
I push my head through the shimmering pool and I fall through like Alice through the glass.
“YOUR PULSE IS STILL weak, My Queen. You must rest.” Liam pushes me back down onto the pillows. It’s the second time I’ve tried to get off the bed. My head is still swimming, but not as bad.