by Kim Smejkal
On the other side of the door, his mind would revolt against the memories Diavala had to leave behind—the Touch would break him. That had been the inevitable truth neither of them could hide from.
Tricking him into that tormented fate, and allowing Celia to help, would be Diavala’s final revenge.
“How are you so positive that this will work?” Celia said. I can’t do it, Griffin. I can’t trust her.
Celia felt cornered. This was their dynamic, always: Diavala squashing Celia underfoot, whether she was a small inkling or a runaway rebel or powerful ink master.
“When I came to Wisteria three years ago and possessed Halcyon,” Diavala said, “I was searching for the answer to how to break my curse. I learned that the only way was to get to the afterlife again, which at the time I believed was impossible. But considering where we are now . . .”
“Do you feel it?” Celia asked quickly. “Do you feel not-cursed?”
Diavala considered the question thoughtfully, tilting her head. “I feel . . . right.”
That wasn’t the resounding absolutely! or absolutely not! that Celia wanted to hear. She wanted a definite answer. One she could understand.
Perhaps she should have known she’d never get that from Diavala.
“I also suspect that Halcyon might not have completely lied to you about how to survive the Touch. Technically, the plague doctor’s body has died again. There is no heartbeat, there is no breath. Perhaps the toxicity of the Touch is erased when someone dies.”
To Celia’s arched eyebrow, Diavala bristled.
“My point is, if one option doesn’t work, the other might. It’s not like this has ever happened before, Inkling. I can’t personally guarantee it will work. You will just have to trust me. And you should at least consider it, precisely because he told you to.”
Celia closed her eyes and pulled Xinto in tight. “Do you promise this won’t hurt him?”
Diavala, with Griffin’s lovely loud voice, laughed. “No. I can’t promise that either.”
That sounded like the unhoneyed truth at least, a little too sharp to be anything but real.
Anya, should I trust her?
And of course, Anya didn’t answer. She was off on her adventure.
Maybe Celia would have to make Celia-like decisions from now on.
If she trusted Diavala, she would either give Griffin life or the Touch. All or nothing. If she decided not to trust Diavala, Griffin would spend his eternity alive-ish, as he’d been prepared to do.
When distilled down to those facts, it was a simple decision. “I don’t trust you,” Celia said, then sighed. “But I do trust Griffin.”
She murmured into Xinto’s fuzz as she tried to touch every drop of ink still coursing through her. It felt like there would be enough to do what she wanted. If Diavala was up to anything crooked, this might make her change her mind.
Celia would give the last of the ink back to her. One last gift, not for someone she loved and wanted to honor, but to end this tragic play.
The curtain had to fall; otherwise she was no better than Halcyon. She either had to let go of her hate or let it burn her down. That stupid Ficus poem was right.
In her mind’s eye, Celia imagined a young person with tattered clothes and a too-skinny frame. Not too young, maybe ten years old or so. Her tenor is bright red with a thousand hues spiked through it, her cheeks rounded into little apples when she smiles. Her hands are often empty, but she finger-paints in the dust under her feet or with water on dry rock. Celia gave that little soul stunning violet eyes.
One more Divine tattoo, in three dimensions.
When Celia opened her eyes, a young person was standing in front of her, unmoving.
Celia felt empty. Hollow. Every last drop of the ink was gone. “That’s it,” she said. She looked at Diavala, still in Griffin’s body for the time being. “And that’s for you.” She swayed so violently, lightheaded and weak, that Xinto pushed against her chest, flapping his wings ferociously, as if trying to keep her upright.
“I can’t sense it inside you anymore,” Diavala said, confirming it. Her words were strangely clipped. Still inside Griffin, she examined her new body. She stared at her face. Her fingers reached up and hovered above her cheek as she tried to recognize herself.
“This is . . . nice,” Diavala said, clearing her throat. She wouldn’t look at Celia. “Now get ready. I don’t know what will happen.” It took a beat—one long, stretched-out moment where they stared at each other—and then Diavala closed her eyes.
Despite the warning, Celia wasn’t ready. Griffin collapsed to his hands and knees, as if his spine had been yanked out, and as Celia scrambled to his side, he let out a ground-rumbling moan.
Standing above them, Diavala’s new body shifted, then spoke. “Now, Celia,” young Diavala said calmly. Her voice was higher than Celia had imagined it; up until then, she’d only heard Diavala speak through Vincent, High Mistico Benedict, Anya, and Griffin. Her voice in the afterlife, whole—her true voice—sounded innocent and childlike.
Diavala pierced her with an otherworldly purple-eyed glare. “Push him out, Inkling!” Diavala wouldn’t help. This had to be Celia’s decision.
I don’t trust Diavala, but I trust you, Celia thought. I trust you, Griffin Kay.
Despite how weak Celia was now, she pulled a staggering Griffin toward the door, yanked it open, and pushed him out. “Remember the doorknob,” she said. Her voice was whisper thin and wheezy, and it took every bit of willpower she had to remain standing. If she’d had a heartbeat, it would be slowing down. If her lungs had worked, they would be preparing for their last inhale.
Celia thought of going through the door after him. Of dying properly and returning to the afterlife the normal way.
Instead, she stood there at the threshold, blocking the doorway in case something else aimed to come in or out. To the end, she would make sure this curtain fell.
“What’s your name?” Celia asked.
“I”—Diavala frowned—“I don’t remember.” That was sad. Celia closed her eyes.
“It can be whatever you want—” Celia started to say.
Forcefully, Xinto was yanked off Celia’s shoulder. She turned with his squeals only to see his little legs pumping in the air as the violet-eyed soul held on by the scruff of his neck. She’d changed quite a bit in those last few seconds: taller, thicker, and stronger than Celia had imagined her, with black hair instead of brown, short instead of long. The violet eyes were the same, though. The false tenor, she’d kept that too.
“Xinto belongs here, but I’ll take good care of him.”
And then Diavala shoved Celia out and slammed the door.
The last thing Celia heard was a tiny buzz, as if Xinto were saying goodbye too.
Chapter 33
On the other side of the door, it was raining.
The sky was a violent shade of gray, and the water pouring down had turned everything a mud brown. There was no one else around, not even Zuni or Lyric. Perhaps it had been days, weeks, that they’d spent there. Into each horizon, the line of sight was unimpeded save for an occasional copse of trees or a hill. Nothing except an untouched country landscape in the lake country, with one lone oak tree and a freestanding door with a sunflower doorknob.
And Griffin. Sitting on the ground, breathing hard.
Celia was breathing too. She realized it with such force that she gasped, hyperventilating, as something as normal as breathing became the thing that took her most by surprise.
She sat. In the cold mud.
She stretched out and lay down.
Water hit her face with hard pings.
She really needed that nap. On the other side of the door, she’d been tired, but here she didn’t even feel human. No thoughts swarmed around in her head, her bees too exhausted to move. There was nothing left to do but close her eyes forever. Dreamless.
She would fall asleep to a lullaby of blessed silence. The screams of the Touch would n
o longer pierce this world. “I was right to trust you,” she whispered. “And you were right to trust her.”
Beside her, Griffin had wrapped one hand around his forearm. Then he moved his hands to his temples. Pressed the heels of his palms to his eye sockets, as if he were feeling for humming bones, that ever-present voice, confirmation that he wasn’t hallucinating.
With a giant sigh, he collapsed backwards, the mud squelching under his head like a pillow as he turned to face her.
A moment passed as they stared at each other. He said, “Diavala . . . ?” It was both a question and a confirmation.
She was on the other side of the door. For the first time in a millennium, whole. The Curse of the Divine was over.
All this time, the solution to keeping Griffin safe from the Touch had been to heal Diavala. To Celia, that felt both unfair and just. It itched like a bug bite that along with everyone’s happy ending came hers. She’d even kept Xinto, which wasn’t fair at all.
But it was right.
Griffin tilted his head back and laughed, rain splashing on his face so hard he sputtered. It wasn’t his bullshit laugh, it was joyful freedom, gratitude.
He looked at Celia and cocked his head, his lips still smiling.
One bee roused itself to whisper, Those are very kissable lips . . .
But just as her lungs and her heart remembered how to do their jobs again, the rest of her body caught up as well. With those kissable lips coming ever closer, Celia’s body gave out from giving away all her ink.
Her last thought was, It’s finally over, Anny.
Interlude
It took three days in a white-hot fire to destroy the door and melt the doorknob. A monstrous feat to undertake in the middle of nowhere with barely any supplies, but they’d all made a promise to Celia, and they had to keep it.
The oak tree had claimed the plague doctor mask, smashing the lenses and snapping the beak. “Celia would say good riddance,” Zuni had said as they’d stared down at the broken pieces.
No, she wouldn’t be so heartless, Griffin had thought at the time, because it had felt like a funeral.
Three months later, Griffin finally admitted that Zuni had been right.
His new mask fit him so much better.
“I bent over and peered into the dark cave,” he said in a slow, low whisper, “only to see seven glowing red eyes staring right back at me!” With deft movement he lit some Kinallen powder, and it exploded in his hands, shimmering in red and silver like a miniature firework.
The Kids squealed and leaned back in delighted shock, right on cue, each tiny mouth open in a breathless O. One bright soul in the crowd shouted, “Oh no, Obi! What foolish nonsense have you gotten yourself into now?”
It was a good question. Griffin hadn’t thought that far ahead. His Obi the Giant mask had been a gift from Michali—a joke more than anything—and Griffin had only donned it and launched into the story to kill time until the Kids were called to bed.
Griffin laughed and straightened, removing the phenomenally ugly mask with a flourish. He took a bow amid a chorus of complaints. “If you stop whining, I might tell you the rest another time,” he said.
Truthfully, he had no idea how the story ended, and it was so much better that way.
He made his way through the camp toward the bright blue wagon, nodding silent greetings to the few people he passed. It was so strange to see only unfamiliar faces; he kept expecting to see Kitty Kay, Seer Ostra, Marco, Lilac . . .
But they were all still in Asura, and though he knew he’d end up with them again, that wasn’t the place for him now.
The only familiar faces in the entire Rover camp were Lyric, Zuni, and Michali, who’d recovered the quickest after Wisteria’s fall and decided they would follow Griffin anywhere because no one else appreciated leather nearly enough.
Oh, and Zuni’s skulls: Bruno and Saccharine.
They’d hitched a ride with that Rover troupe, nothing more, and they were almost at their destination.
All Griffin needed was for night to fall and the stars to come out, and they would be there.
He entered the wagon quietly, sneaking past where Zuni and Lyric were napping. They’d taken to the habit of sleeping as much as possible, their nest of blankets, pillows, and tangled limbs a fresh delight they couldn’t get enough of. He would wake them soon, but he had something to do first.
With a hand on his heart to calm its thunder, he knelt at the edge of Celia’s bed.
We’re here.
They’re almost ready for you.
Celia’s dark eyes fluttered open slowly.
He stopped breathing.
With a small smile, she fumbled a hand out from under the covers and reached for his face. He wanted that hand to cup his cheek, trace his brow, pull him closer, whatever else she wanted to do with it . . . The blanket fell away, and those full, glistening lips were another thing he wanted. Everything was want—his own mirrored back to him on Celia’s features.
“You’re so pretty,” she said, her thumb gently tracing a trail along the constellation beside his eye. Then, meeting his gaze, she whispered, “I’m nervous.”
So was he. Never one to get stage fright, this was the moment that they’d died—and come back—for. Words were entirely stuck in his throat and wouldn’t come out. There was no place for the wrong ones, and the right ones might not even exist.
He took her hand and brought it slowly to his mouth, kissing her palm. He kissed her slowly, the moment turning infinite. It was his imagination, it had to be, but Celia tasted of cherries. Perhaps she’d made friends with the cook and they were sneaking her desserts when no one was looking. She had that way about her.
Her palm was firm and soft at the same time, sweet, dulcet. If kisses were colors, they’d be covered in rich carmine.
His fingers lengthened against the back of her hand, caressing it, and hers stretched to absorb his touch. He pulled away just enough to blow on the skin where his lips just were. If that kiss was color, he wanted it absorbed into her skin. So, like a fresco painting, he mixed himself with the carmine color and blew gently to help it dry. When he was done, the kiss would be part of her, forever fresh and glowing. Despite time, it wouldn’t fade.
He kissed slowly again, cupping her hand, then blew. Wet to dry, the sun evaporating dew. Dry to wet, the night dropping it back.
Another play was forming in his mind: The Night of the Infinite Kiss, or something equally poetic. He’d be perfect for the role, as long as Celia played the other lead.
And he would have kept going all night, pouring himself into her palm, except that he finally registered Celia’s breathing. It was thunderous: the blanket covering her chest heaved, her lips were parted, her eyes open wider than they’d been in weeks. Giving away all the ink inside her had nearly killed her, and she still wasn’t strong—maybe it was too soon for The Night of the Infinite Kiss. But when he paused, she whimpered.
He tucked her hand gently across her chest so his carmine fresco rested where her heart beat. Maybe his kiss could reach even deeper, to the soul inside.
“Are you ready to see those Kinallen stars?” he asked.
Already, her eyes glimmered. With tears, with reflected starlight. “I hope you’re prepared for a long night,” Celia whispered. “I’m going to count them all.”
Acknowledgments
I owe a debt of thanks to so many people for helping me get to the point where I could type The End on this one. I won’t lie, after the third or fourth complete rewrite, I thought there was a good chance I’d never get here. They say second books are hard, and they are right.
First and best, to my husband, Johnny. For putting up with my moans and stress cries with measured grace, for always being there to talk out plot problems with me, and for offering never-ending support and encouragement. I wouldn’t have been able to finish this one without you, period.
To Ember, who definitely flipped to the back to make sure her name came before he
r brother’s (here you go, darling)—you are my number-one fan, and I’m yours. XO
To Linden, who is so big-hearted and kind he won’t even mind that his sister’s name is first—you are my inspiration. The world is better because you’re in it, and you make me proud every day.
Thanks to my parents for always being there with food, babysitting, and conversation (in that order). And thanks to my brothers, Adam and Dave, and my sisters, Meredith and Emily, for supporting me every step of the way. We’re a strange crew, but the best crew.
Huge thank-yous to Daniel Lazar and Torie Doherty-Munro at Writers House. I’d be lost without you two.
My team at HMH has been fabulous in every way, and the biggest shout out has to go to Nicole Sclama, my wonderful editor. I can always count on you for sage advice and healthy doses of cheerleading. I’ve loved working with you. You’re the patron saint of the Rabble Mob.
Special thanks to my sensitivity readers, especially Dill Werner. This book is so much better because of your insight.
Every writer needs a support network, and I’ve been especially blessed with wonderful friends. Thank you to Rebecca Schaeffer, for reading one of the early drafts and confirming it did, in fact, suck and need to be rewritten. To Jessika Fleck, for always, ALWAYS being there for me. To Sam Taylor, Rosiee Thor, Jade Hemming, and Kayla McGrath, for being awesome in all ways.
And thanks, lastly, to the readers of Ink in the Blood for your enthusiasm and support. From the bottom of my heart, I hope you like this one, too.
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About the Author
Photo used with permission of the author
KIM SMEJKAL is the author of the Ink in the Blood duology. She lives with her family on Vancouver Island in Canada, which means she’s often lost in the woods or wandering a beach. She writes dark fantasy for young adults and not-so-young adults, always with a touch of magic.