From the Earth to the Shadows

by Amanda Hocking

  “What was wrong with my mother, Oona?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.” Oona put her hand on my back, rubbing it gently. “Let’s go home, Mal.”

  FIFTY

  Asher was still at our place, sleeping off his headache, when we got back from the funeral. I changed out of my formal attire and into a baggy T-shirt, then climbed in bed next to him. He wrapped his arms around me, making me feel safe and complete in a way that only he seemed to be able to, and I fell asleep that way.

  Later in the evening, once we were all awake again, he decided to head back home. He needed to see his grandma and do all of the normal human things, like shower and shave. The funeral had taken a lot out of me, so I did as close to nothing as I possibly could for the rest of the day, and Oona kept the TV steered away from the news.

  After all that rest, I woke up the next morning determined to get things done. One positive thing about talking to Atlas’s mom was that it had reminded me of an important job I had yet to complete.

  When I came out of my bedroom bright and early and already fully clothed in a pair of leggings and a loose T-shirt with the name of my favorite Thai restaurant, written on it, under a fitted but fraying dark purple knit hooded sweater with my Velvet Vampire lipstick and thick eyeliner—Oona gaped at me over her bowl of oatmeal.

  “What’s going on? Did something happen?” she asked, once she’d gulped down her mouthful of food.

  “No.” I smirked a little at the panic induced by me simply getting ready in the morning. “I’m heading over to Ravenswood.”

  Her eyes widened, almost cartoonishly so, and she leaned forward to set her bowl down on the table. “You’re going to class?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” I admitted. “There doesn’t really seem to be a point in going to school right now, at least not for me.”

  “Yeah, I get that. I considered going this morning, but since I’m not even sure the world will still be around come graduation day…” She trailed off with a solemn expression on her face. “What are you going to the academy for?”

  “To see Sloane.” I reached into the pocket of my sweater and pulled out the heart-shaped stone of pink tourmaline that Lyra had given me in the underworld. “I promised her mother that I would give her this itayakkal.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Oona asked, and she was already halfway to her feet when I held up my hand to stop her.

  “Nah, I think I can handle Sloane on my own. Thanks, though.”

  I promised Oona that I wouldn’t be long, then headed down and hopped on my luft. Despite the warnings of strange weather that the TV kept going on about, the city didn’t seem all that different than normal. The air was chilled and the sky was overcast, with the city lights making the dark clouds glow above us. And the streets were as busy as ever, as I dodged around stalled-out cars and meandering pedestrians to get to the academy about twenty minutes away from my apartment.

  Ravenswood Academy was located right in the center of the slums. All around it were tall apartment complexes crammed to the max with tenants, and then there was this short—in comparison—mansion that looked like it sprang to life from a Jane Austen novel.

  The exterior maintained the original Tudor-style architecture, but inside it had been updated, doing its best to always be state-of-the-art. I parked my luft in the underground garage beneath the school. To get into the building, I had to pass through three separate security checks, ending with a retina scan that finally opened the door.

  The corridor from the garage was mostly empty, and like the rest of the academy it was always strangely quiet. As I walked down the hallway I kept my eyes on the floor, as if I were studying the mosaic of black-and-white marble tiles.

  But the truth is that I was avoiding looking at the artwork, most of which hung on the stark white walls. Many of the various paintings and sculptures had been done by alumni or current students, showing off what they’d learned or showcasing who they planned to serve.

  Some of it was beautiful and most of it was innocuous, so it wasn’t the art that I was avoiding so much as the absence of one particular piece. It had been the final painting at the end of the long hall, right before I turned off to head to Intro to Divinity and Immortality, and it had been painted by my mother.

  It had hung in the hallway for as long as I’d gone to school here, and I assume it had been there for much longer, since Marlow had painted it in her senior year twenty-some years ago. But now it would be gone, with only a bright white square left on the plasterboard as a reminder that something had been there.

  That Marlow had been here.

  I kept my head down, and I made it to the classroom just before it let out. Through the small window in the door I watched as Professor Wu finished up his lecture. The name “Osiris” was written on the whiteboard behind him in big letters, along with a dozen or so hieroglyphics, so I guessed they had moved on to the underworld unit.

  As the students hurriedly jotted down notes, I thought about how strange it was that a few weeks ago, I was just like them. I’d assumed that I would be here, scrambling to prep for the midterms, but instead I was hiding out in the hallway.

  When Professor Wu excused the class, I moved away from the door and hid around the corner. I wouldn’t really categorize any of my classmates as friends, especially not after the gossip and leering that happened after Marlow had been killed, and I didn’t really want to talk to any of them.

  Sloane Kothari was the last one out of the classroom, but that was typical for her. Probably staying behind to ask for extra credit, even though her GPA was already at a 4.2. When she finally made her way out—her perfectly coiled curls bouncing in her ponytail—her head was down, so I had to step right in front of her before she noticed me.

  She glanced up in irritation, but then her dark brown eyes widened with shock. For several seconds she just stood there, gaping up at me with her books and tablet pressed to her chest.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked finally, then narrowed her eyes. “Who let you in?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” I muttered dryly. “I am still a student here.”

  “We all thought you dropped out after…” She softened, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. “We didn’t think you were coming back.”

  “I’m not back, not really,” I admitted, and before she asked more questions, I hurried on with, “I’m actually here to see you. Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  “What do we have to talk about?” she asked, sounding more perplexed than irritated, so at least that was a good sign.

  I glanced around the hallway, where a few students passed by on their way to their next class, then turned back to Sloane. “It’s probably better if we do this somewhere more private.”

  Sloane nodded. “I think I know a place.”

  She led me through the winding corridors of the academy, but about halfway through our journey I realized exactly where we were going: to the Sacrorum Wing, where sacred texts and ancient books were stored. They were all locked up in bomb-shelter-like rooms, each filled to the brim with books, and guarded by knowledge-obsessed Sinaa.

  Because of the Sinaa—who looked like jaguars, except many of their spots were eyes, so they could see everything—it wasn’t exactly a fun place to hang out, which meant that it was often deserted. But it also wasn’t a great place to talk, and I was about to argue that when Sloane turned off before the entrance to the Sacrorum Wing.

  She walked down the narrow corridor—here the walls were lined with dark wood, giving it a dark, cavernous feel. The hall ended in a small sitting area, where benches had been built into the wall, with elegantly carved wooden buttresses holding them up.

  Above the benches was a large stained-glass window that nearly spanned floor-to-ceiling. Most of the panes of glass were blue and white, depicting a frosty winter scene in which a woman lay on a large stone altar. One of her arms hung off the edge, so her fingers were mere inches above a sword that l
ay in a shocking red pool of blood.

  A plaque on the wall titled it Dreams of a Queen. While that was a vague and unhelpful title, I assumed that it was meant to honor Frigg. Although I don’t really know why she deserved such esteem, since all she’d done for the past five thousand years was sleep.

  “Is this really a great place to talk?” I asked, glancing back toward the Sacrorum Wing, whose entrance was only a few yards away.

  “I used to eat my lunch here,” Sloane explained as she sat down on the bench, carefully adjusting the hem of her skirt so it covered her knees. “No one ever comes by.”

  “Good to know.” I sat down beside her and reached into my sweater pocket, palming the itayakkal.

  “Did the sólarsteinn work?” She leaned toward me expectantly.

  “It did. It was immensely helpful, and I think I might need it for a little longer.”

  She tilted her head. “Well, if you’re not here to give it back, then what did you need to see me for?”

  “I know this is going to sound crazy, but…” I began carefully. “I saw your mom.”

  Sloane recoiled at that, pulling her whole body back away from me until she was leaning into the wall. The sharp, delicate features of her face twisted up as conflicting emotions passed over her—disgust, incredulity, confusion, hope—before landing on anger and contempt.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked with venom lacing her words. “You can’t see her. She died thirteen years ago.”

  “I managed to get into Kurnugia, and your mother helped me,” I said as quickly but as calmly as I could. I knew I had to get it all out before Sloane stormed off in anger. “Without her, we couldn’t have made it through there or found what I needed to find. And she helped me because of you.”

  She stared at a spot on the floor, her jaw tensing under her brown skin. “Malin, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but it’s sick.” Then she stood up. “I don’t want any part of it anymore.”

  “It’s not a game,” I insisted and held out the stone toward her. “Look, she asked me to give you this.”

  “What is it?” she asked, her eyes dark with suspicion.

  “It’s an itayakkal. Just take it.”

  The heart-shaped crystallized pink tourmaline sat in the center of my palm, sparkling even in the dim light, and Sloane stared down at it, biting her lip. She reached out for it cautiously, as if she were afraid that it might bite her.

  But the second she picked it up, she gasped. Her books fell to the floor, and her other hand went to her mouth as she barely stopped a sob from escaping. She clutched the stone to her chest, and tears filled her eyes.

  “I can feel her,” she said, sounding awed. “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me. I was repaying your mother.”

  She wiped at her eyes and sat back down beside me. It took several moments, but she managed to compose herself enough to ask me, “What is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With everything.” She motioned vaguely around us and looked at me. “The weather is out of control, and everything is going mad. You can feel it in the air. Something is happening.”

  “I know that the underworld is trying to rise up and come to the surface,” I said finally. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to, but I do know that it won’t be good for humanity or any living thing on earth if they do.”

  Sloane waited a beat before asking, “How can I help?”

  “You want to help me?” I asked, and it was my turn to be skeptical.

  “I don’t want the world to end, and if you made it to the underworld and back, I can only assume that you know what you’re doing.” Then she amended with a smile, “At least a little bit.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  We stood on the landing outside of the apartment on the fourth floor of a narrow brownstone. Me staring at the door, half expecting to hear the clatter of the peephole cover as Marlow looked out at me, and Oona catching her breath after climbing all the stairs.

  Visiting Sloane at Ravenswood and discussing her mother had gotten me thinking about my own mother. How I still didn’t understand what Marlow had done or why she’d done it, or how much she really knew about Tamerlane Fayette and Ereshkigal.

  In the weeks since Marlow had died, her apartment—the same apartment I’d shared with her growing up, before Oona and I got our own place a year ago—had remained untouched. At least as far as I knew, and based on the bright orange notice from the landlord on the door and the several packages stacked in front, no one else had been in here, either.

  Oona pulled the eviction notice off the door and unfolded it. “Marlow’s rent is two months past due.”

  “Great. She hadn’t been paying rent even before she died,” I said in dismay. “What was she doing with her money?”

  “Well, if these packages are to be believed”—Oona bent down to read the address labels—“it looks like she was spending it at an army surplus store and someplace called Lentils Unlimited.”

  “More lentils? How many lentils can one person possibly eat?”

  Oona nudged the box with her foot. “I would say quite a lot, apparently.”

  “Let’s get on with it, then.” I pulled out my old house key. It slid in the lock, and I waited for the familiar chirp that came after it read the chip in the key, then I turned it and opened the door.

  The thing that struck me first wasn’t that the place looked exactly the same as it had the last time I had been here—unchanged and frozen on the day Marlow died. It was that it smelled like her here—cloves and vodka and coffee. Add a little red lipstick and a bayonet, and that was my mother exactly.

  It was still fairly clean, though, at least by Marlow’s standards, since she’d cleaned before inviting Asher over for a visit. Despite the clearing away of the usual boxes and garbage stacked everywhere, there were still quite a few empty alcohol bottles piled up around the sink in the small kitchenette.

  I flicked on the light, and at least she must’ve paid the electric bill, because it worked. The apartment was exceedingly dim, thanks to the boxes stacked up, blocking the only window in the living room. Next to the TV, several tubs of brown rice and lentils were stacked neatly.

  Her exercise equipment—free weights and a stair-stepper—sat in the middle of the living room floor, exactly where she’d left them. She’d just finished working out when I’d come over, and then a few hours later she’d been killed.

  “What should I do with these packages?” Oona asked from behind me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said as I looked around. “I can’t afford to pay the rent on this place, and we don’t have room for all this. Most of this is gonna end up thrown away or donated to charity.” I glanced over at a menacing machete resting on the coffee table. “Not that I think many charity shops have a big need for weapons.”

  “What’s the plan for today?” Oona asked as she shut the apartment door behind her.

  “Marlow obviously knew something was up.” I motioned to the open pantry door, which held her stockpile of weapons. “I want to try to figure out what she knew. I was hoping we could do this over the course of a couple days, but with that eviction notice, there isn’t much time. We’re gonna have to start tearing through everything.”

  And so we began. I left Oona to the kitchen, where she quickly ascertained that the only things in the cupboards were a few cups, plates, coffee, and stale crackers. The pantry was where her attention would really be needed, because that’s where Marlow stored a lot of her weapons.

  Meanwhile, I went ahead to investigate deeper into the apartment. I checked my room first, or at least I attempted to, but the door only opened a few inches before slamming into boxes. A few of them had writing on the side, scribbled in Marlow’s inelegant handwriting, with labels like Body Armor or Ultrasonic Weapons.

  The boxes were stacked precariously on top of one another, with larger boxes sometimes resting on ones that were much smaller, and all of them ti
lting to the side like they were about to come tumbling down. In between the leaning towers, I caught glimpses of the old posters I’d left up, the only real evidence that I had ever been here.

  The sheer enormity of the hoard she’d filled my bedroom with hit me all at once. I literally could not understand how she’d done this. Not just how it was even possible to fill a room with this much junk without getting trapped in it yourself, but why?

  Before I let myself give in to the overwhelming panic at what appeared to be a cleaning job of Sisyphean proportions, I stepped back and closed the door. There was a lot to unpack in there, so I decided to start somewhere that would hopefully be a bit easier—Marlow’s bedroom.

  Her bedroom door was slightly ajar, and in the little bit of light that spilled in through the narrow window above her bed, I could see particles of dust floating in the air, like forgotten fairies. I put my hand on the door and began to open it when I was suddenly hit by a memory.

  I couldn’t have been more than five or six at the time, and I’d woken up from a bad dream and had run across the hall toward Marlow’s room. That night her door had been partly open, and I stopped myself before I charged in.

  “Malin, I see you skulking around out there.” Her voice was like a jolt of lightning breaking through the night.

  “I had a bad dream,” I replied meekly.

  She sighed loudly, dramatically, and then, sounding rueful already, she extended a terse invitation: “Come on in.”

  Before she had a chance to change her mind, I’d dashed into her room and crawled under the covers beside her, but I didn’t dare press my luck and try to snuggle with her.

  “You can sleep here tonight, but this isn’t going to become a nightly thing,” she warned, and as far as I could remember, she’d never let me sleep in her bed again.