by Kim Smejkal
If she didn’t commit herself now, there was no hope at all. Diavala would live inside Griffin until he died, threatening and hurting him. Manipulating everything he did to suit her own ends.
Or Diavala might succeed in finding a way out of Griffin without harming Profeta’s legacy. She could find a bounty hunter, someone who had no trouble slitting Griffin’s throat when he started wailing with the Touch.
Either way, Diavala would then possess someone else after Griffin. Maybe she’d go after Zuni or Lupita or Dante, back at the temple. Maybe she would get Kitty Kay or Lilac or Seer Ostra from the Mob. She had a long list of people she hated nearly as much as Celia. On and on, she would continue, ruining lives indiscriminately along the way. And it would be forever. One day she might find a way of rising from the ashes like a phoenix and reclaiming her faithful devotees. She’d overcome the impossible before.
Time was on Diavala’s side in this fight, and it always would be. If Celia walked away now, she was giving up. Who else would have the answers she needed—if not the only one who’d ever survived Diavala’s possession, who knew things about her no one else did?
Celia’s headache reared up again, fierce and terrible, and she had to lie down. Griffin didn’t press her—she didn’t have the energy for any more discussion anyway—and eventually his stressed-out mumbles transformed to humming before eventually falling into silence.
And yet, aggravatingly, she couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts swirling through her head, competing with the headache, which only grew as the night stretched on and on. It was always there, always present, but something about the meeting with Halcyon had fed it until she saw stars. Long after Griffin dozed in the next bed, Celia lay awake, her eyes pressed together tight, trying not to throw up from the pain.
She’d finally met Halcyon. After weeks of travel to find him and even longer pinning every hope she had on him, she’d finally met him . . . only to find him irrevocably tied to the thing she hated most in the world, aside from Diavala.
Celia whispered into the darkness of the room, the darkness behind her eyes, “Why does everything need to be so hard, Anny?” She felt like the world was spinning off its axis, trying to pull itself out from under her feet.
If Celia hadn’t thought a tattoo might have caught Halcyon’s attention, she would have lived out her days without ever using the ink in her blood again. She didn’t need to. She didn’t want to. But in order to continue down this path, she would have to work with the ink for the rest of her life. Could she do that?
Griffin was right, Anya would hate it.
From the moment that slim tattoo had wrapped around their ankles, she and Anya had been shackled. To rules, to punishments, to isolation. They’d been forced to spread the ink around in Diavala’s name and to forward Diavala’s goals. None of it had been their choice.
But, Anya whispered. Is it really the ink we hated so much, or only how Diavala used it?
Anya always had good points.
They’d used the ink to communicate, to decorate the Rabble Mob with meaningful art, and for their show, which had amazed and delighted people. None of it had hurt anyone.
Celia reached a hand toward the ceiling. “Thanks, Anny,” she whispered. Celia would have to learn to live with the ink, but no one said she had to love it. And she certainly had a good reason: he was in the next bed.
Just as she’d made her decision, Griffin’s breathing changed. From deep and even, the steady rise and fall of a peaceful sleep, to a shallow, hollow-sounding pant.
When Griffin whimpered, Celia sat up and looked at his sleeping form. It took many moments before her eyes adjusted, the faint moonlight coming in from the window not illuminating much beyond the outlines of vague shapes. He lay on his back, a tangle of blankets wound around his lower body, one arm flopped over his eyes, the other drooping off the edge of the bed. Griffin always slept like that: in some manner of disarray. He moved about like a fish out of water sometimes, tossing this way, settling, then tossing the other way, usually accompanied by weird sounds: fighting off monsters in his nightmares or enjoying luscious dreams. Then he’d settle again, peaceful, the monsters slayed for a time.
Celia had spent a lot of time alone with sleeping Griffin. It was almost easier. In the night, when they were each in another world, she felt she could finally be with him. It was the only time Diavala wasn’t between them.
Another whimper, scared and sad. Celia was sitting at the edge of her bed before making a decision. She was at the side of his bed next, looking down on his sprawled form. Lifting his tangled blanket, she tried to cover him again. The room was cool, the shirt and pants he slept in ragged and torn.
He exploded in a flash of movement, fighting off some invisible demon, crying out with a voice that didn’t sound like his own. Eyes open but unseeing, he struggled against her soothing hands and shh’s of comfort.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Griffin. It’s just a nightmare.” But was he okay, really? She’d been so preoccupied that she realized she hadn’t actually talked to him in forever.
Despite traveling alone with him for two weeks, she missed him.
Celia sat beside him as he panted and slowly emerged from the dreamworld. Tentatively, she put the flat of her hand on his back between his shoulder blades. She put her other hand on his chest, feeling between her palms every gasp of air his lungs tried to pull in, every flutter of his hard-thumping heart. His body was hot, damp from sweat despite the coolness of the room. He’d been struggling in that nightmare longer than she’d thought.
“Celia.” He didn’t look at her when he said her name, but pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped trembling arms around them, and tucked his head down. “It was the plague.”
She rubbed his back in small circles, put pressure on his chest, and rested her chin on his shoulder.
Just as Anya had always done for her.
“I’m here,” she said. “You had a nightmare.”
A slight nod from him without his looking up. In the dimness of the room, with the warmth of him seeping into her hands, Celia felt cocooned, safe. She was the one trying to give comfort, but she was receiving it as well. Not talking, not planning, not thinking, just breathing. Even her headache receded to a dull background roar.
Then a hoarse whisper. “That wasn’t my nightmare.”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
She knew what he meant, but didn’t know what it meant. Was his mind becoming enmeshed with Diavala’s now?
Griffin moaned, a shiver racing up his spine, then leaned into her closer. A space for secrets.
He shivered again, pulled the blankets up over them both, inviting her to lean back with him. She surprised herself by doing it, snuggling into his side like a puppy, with his arm wrapped around her, pulling the blanket up under her chin.
His hand absently stroked her back, fingers dancing along her shoulder and spine. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed, but he seemed to be deep in thought.
The silence fell between them again, but it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t loaded. Griffin gave her arm a squeeze, then tilted his head enough to press his lips to her forehead. It wasn’t a kiss as much as a reminder of him.
So close together, with a prime front-row view, Celia watched his lips. They’d changed since Asura—no longer so subtle in their expressions—and she was still learning their new language.
“Devil’s hell, Celia, you have to be careful,” he whispered. “Don’t promise him anything you can’t deliver, keep your head low, don’t make any decisions before talking to me first, and for—”
“I got it,” she whispered back, putting her hand on the side of his neck and snuggling closer. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
I promise to do everything I can to save you.
Act 2
Chapter 8
The gate with the ‘no trespassing’ sign wasn’t in the same place the next day. Celia stared at it, positive she’d passed this exact
spot already—at least a dozen times—and it hadn’t been there. After winding aimlessly up and down the alleys and roads on the north end of town for an hour, Celia had been about to give up and head back to the inn, hoping that Griffin had had more luck with his quest.
“I need to do something more useful than pace circles around the inn all day,” he’d said. “Who is Lyric to him? Maybe an assistant? I’ll try to get some information from them while you work on appealing to Halcyon. Maybe they can tell me where all the Kids are. I don’t know if you noticed, but they’re quite in love with me.”
Griffin really wouldn’t let that go.
“I’m sure Lyric will come around.” Celia had chuckled but silently doubted it, from the way Lyric’s eyes flashed with annoyance every time Griffin talked, breathed, or moved, but better that he keep trying to win them over than stew about it endlessly.
Now the gate beckoned in invitation. Although it was still locked, it felt like it had waited for the right moment to appear.
Celia wondered if anyone else in the town who walked by just then had even seen it.
She suspected not.
The wild storm the day before was keeping them busy. Not with cleanup—every broken shingle and torn shutter had been miraculously repaired, every tree had regrown its snapped branches, every bit of litter had disappeared—but with gossip. As Celia searched for the gate, she kept catching bits of the townspeople’s chatter: Wasn’t a bad one like that in years! I hid in the basement with nothing but my barrels of wine as company. Hardy har har.
Nothing about how the town had repaired itself overnight.
Halcyon must have stayed up all night dealing with the damage, receiving no accolades. Celia’s new indenture would have just as much anonymity as her previous one.
At least it would be prettier.
And more important, it would have meaning.
It had to.
She shivered, debating again whether this was a good idea, the bees in her mind urging her on, with a few outliers whispering warnings. She couldn’t trust Halcyon, but she had to trust Halcyon.
Pushing aside the cautious bees, Celia scaled the gate again and thumped down on the other side.
She walked through the tunnel of wisteria, then the empty courtyard with the fountain bubbling peacefully and the plants in lush abundance, and rapped her knuckles on the bright cherry door.
It opened with a soft moan, and Lyric stood framed in the doorway, continuing their habit of glaring at everything. “Foolish move, former inkling,” they said. “Foolish move.”
They turned around and strode away, making Celia hustle to keep up with them. “This is the kitchen,” Lyric said, gesturing in the general direction. “I’m not cooking for you.” Another hand wave. “That’s the pantry, over there is some storage. Don’t go poking around in any of these rooms. I have a system.”
Every word Lyric uttered came with another glare, and their pace increased with each step, making Celia sweat to keep up. “Down that hall there’s a library, a greenhouse with access to the courtyard, and an aviary. The rest of the rooms won’t interest you. Don’t bother me about them. Don’t bother Halcyon. A lot of things are going to stay none of your business.”
“I can wander around myself, you know,” Celia said, out of breath. She was irked about the tour. She didn’t care where the flour and sugar were kept, she needed to get working. The quicker she mastered “all aspects of the ink” and made Halcyon happy, the faster he would give her the inoculation for Griffin.
Lyric set their jaw. They were wearing a sleeveless shirt over loose trousers, and everything about them seemed casual, down to their undercut and weather-browned skin. But Lyric was proof that looks could be deceiving; they were, in fact, perpetually coiled like a tight spring. “There’s a good chance you’d get lost, which Halcyon would kill me for. Then years from now Halcyon would come across your skeleton in some back room somewhere, and he’d curse me in my grave for the inconvenience of having to deal with your bones.” They leveled a look at Celia that reminded her of Anya. The same eyebrow tilt, How stupid do you think I am? The same curve of lip, Do you know how stupid I think you are?
“Sorry I asked,” Celia said, running her hand along the stone of the hallway. “It just doesn’t seem like you want to be here.”
“And it seems like you want to be here too much,” Lyric snapped back.
“Wrong. I don’t want to be here at all.”
“For now, Halcyon is intrigued by both your passion and your natural talent,” Lyric said. “Until you disappoint him, apparently you’re my inconvenience too.”
“Wow, you’re not subtle, are you?” Celia said, irritated. But also with a fair amount of appreciation. She’d had to watch her words so carefully for so long, it was refreshing to be with someone who spoke their mind, however fanged.
“Hey, what’s in there?” Celia asked casually, pointing to the double doors with the sunflower-shaped doorknob at the end of the hall. She didn’t mention that she’d already tried to go in, nor how volcanic it had made Halcyon.
Lyric paused—significantly—and looked at Celia sideways. “You know about Martina?” they finally asked.
Not at all. “The person in all the paintings?” Celia guessed.
Paintings of one person decorated every corner of the huge house. In most, they were regally posed, formal and stiff, but there were a few Celia had seen with them and Halcyon posed together, and in those, they were both smiling and casual. As if, together, they were completely different people.
Lyric snorted. “Yes. The person in all the paintings. Halcyon’s partner, his lover, the only thing he cares about in the whole world aside from the ink. Dead because of your Divine.”
Celia tripped over her own feet. Interesting, and unsurprising, that Diavala had left out the fact that she’d killed Halcyon’s lover. The showdown between them three years ago had had more casualties than simply Diavala’s pride. “I’d really appreciate it if everyone stopped referring to her as my Divine. She will always only be Diavala to me.”
“Diavala, then.”
“Martina’s in there?” Celia felt foolish even asking, but she knew that people did funny things with their beloved dead. The crypts at the temple, lined with skulls, were proof she’d lived right on top of for years. Celia’s friend Zuni had been Profeta’s skullkeeper. It had been her life, her entire world—tending the dead.
Lyric shook their head. “Halcyon doesn’t know where Martina is, but he made Wisteria for her—this place is made of all of her favorite things—for when he finds her.”
So Wisteria was a great, grand, beautiful town-shaped . . . mausoleum.
A twinge of pity hit Celia. He’d created Wisteria as a mausoleum, morbid as that was, but it was empty of the one it was meant for. No wonder he didn’t want her going into that room; it was a private place, an empty reminder that he couldn’t even mourn the way he wanted to.
But it had been three years since Diavala had confronted him here in Wisteria, and if he hadn’t found Martina’s body yet, Celia doubted he ever would. His mourning would always be incomplete.
Lyric saw the look on Celia’s face. “It’s not our place to judge. It is our place never to set foot in that room if we want to continue breathing.” It should have been a statement of finality, but the way Lyric looked at her, Celia couldn’t shake the feeling that they wanted to say more.
“Fair enough,” Celia said.
With a sigh, Lyric pushed open the door to Halcyon’s studio so hard it knocked into the wall behind it with a loud bang. Halcyon looked up from the armchair he lounged in. His eyes were a near-normal shade of green, but they still had the tangles of ivy and vines inside them.
“I hope this isn’t a waste of my time” was the first thing he said. He closed his book with a snap and strode to the workbench.
Lyric all but pushed her in before slamming the door shut behind them, trapping Celia in.
“It won’t be,” Celia said, f
ollowing him. Thankfully, he’d removed the vat of stinky poison she’d helped him mix the day before. The other Chest Majestic was also out of the way, but it stared at her accusingly from a high shelf in the corner of the room.
Celia hovered, silent, following his lead and polishing some equipment to a gleam, wrapped up in doubt.
What could she possibly do to impress him and convince him she could take care of his town, especially in light of the fact that it was an homage to what he held most dear? The tattoo of the wisteria flower was about as far as her known talents stretched.
He considered her. Then gently put the vial he was holding down on the table.
“Try.”
Celia blinked. “Try what?”
“Use your ink to craft an illusion for me.”
“Now?!” She didn’t want to polish empty glass jars for an age, but she’d assumed there would be some preamble, perhaps even a little guidance.
“This isn’t a social call.” Patience, clearly, was not one of his strengths. “You’re here to prove yourself. So prove yourself.”
She put down the glass, the cloth, and walked to a relatively shadowed corner of the room, all in an effort to make herself look confident.
Without saying a word, she rolled up her sleeves and took her quill out of her pocket. Her stomach writhed with unease, violently churning, and her head pounded with angry thumps. She didn’t want to do it. She hated the ink, wanted to be rid of it forever, not use it.
But sometimes you have to go backwards in order to move forward, her wise bees said.
And remember, it’s not the ink you hate, it was how Diavala used it, Anya added. Make something pretty.
Celia now believed that most of the tangible things in the town were illusions created from the ink. How else could everything repair itself overnight and the streets and buildings turn themselves around? If Halcyon could do all that with ink, she could too. Maybe not right away, and certainly not to such an extent, but they shared the essence of it inside them, and she had some fierce will.