It felt good, warm, right, somehow. This will do, I thought.
I went to the next step and read along to myself out loud.
“‘Take the object into your hand and focus on it. Memorize the object in your mind’… Okay.”
I closed my eyes and did as the book said. I focused on how the penny felt in my hand, its coolness growing warm with my body heat. Then I opened one eye a crack and went on.
“‘Imagine all of your power, your energy, flowing from your head, to your chest, through your muscles, and into your object. When your object is full of your power, you will feel it vibrate.’”
I took a deep breath, in and out.
“All right,” I said to myself. “Here goes…”
Then I closed my eyes again, tight, concentrating on the penny in my hand. I imagined myself full of energy, thought of the blackbirds, of the feeling of the rain on my skin. I imagined all of that flowing from my head, down into my chest, down through the muscles and veins and arteries of my arm, into my hand. And to my surprise, the penny began to grow warm in my hand, abnormally warm. Something was happening! But it hadn’t vibrated yet. I kept at this for what felt like several minutes, the penny growing hotter all the while—beginning to burn my palm. Suddenly, the penny’s heat faded and it gave a soft vibration, almost like a cat purring.
I opened my eyes. Though the penny was still dull copper, it now had a strange sort of glow about it. I did it. I held it in my hand, seeing it shine from the darkness between my fingers. My heart sped. This was magic—my magic. It felt more real, more true, more destined, than anything had ever felt in my life. And as I held the penny in my hand, I could feel the warmth of it, the power of it, coursing through my whole body like blood. I felt awake. Alive. Connected.
A connection to the world, Mother Morevna had said. So this is what she meant.
Mother Morevna. My heart sank. What would she think if she found out I’d disobeyed her—and on the very first day, no less?
From inside my palm, the penny glowed reassuringly.
“Mother Morevna doesn’t have to know,” I said to it. The penny seemed to glow brighter in response.
Across town, from his place on his cot, Asa Skander heard the door to the jailhouse open. There was a sound of footsteps, and Mr. Jameson, the sad-looking man from before, trudged into the light.
“You can come on out,” Mr. Jameson said, taking a ring of keys from his pocket. “We got a place for you now, ’long as you agree not to cause any trouble.”
“Just when I was getting used to my lovely abode.” Asa grinned.
Mr. Jameson didn’t answer; he merely unlocked the door and let it groan open.
“Come on, boy,” he said, and Asa scrambled to his feet and followed him.
Outside the jail, the sky was clear and dark, and when he looked closely, Asa realized that the stars were different. Gone were Orion and Cassiopeia and the Pleiades, and in their places were patterns of stars that he’d never seen before. He had to give the Goddesses one thing: They were thorough.
Somewhere out in the night, something howled. Asa followed Mr. Jameson carefully, through winding lanes that separated the smaller houses toward the middle of the city, focusing on the glow of Mr. Jameson’s lantern until he stopped abruptly.
“Here we are,” Mr. Jameson said. “This is all we had on short notice.”
The house was small and dusty, with a broken window in the front, the porch littered with broken bottles, dried flowers, and dust. But the kerosene lamp on the porch had been lit and it made the broken glass sparkle in the orange light.
Asa was overjoyed. A human house of his own!
Mr. Jameson led him onto the porch, kicking bottles aside.
“Soon, you’ll receive rations and all of that. We’ll bring the paperwork by first thing in the morning.” Mr. Jameson unlocked the door and opened it to reveal a rectangle of dusty darkness that seemed to Asa like it might be hungry. Mr. Jameson went into it, and Asa followed.
In the sphere of Mr. Jameson’s lamplight, Asa saw that the people who lived in it before seemed to have been quite messy, indeed. In the kitchen, a chair had been broken and lay on its back with its legs in the air. On the green iron stove a cast-iron frying pan still sat, with the solidified frying grease turned to mud. The counters were practically caked with dust.
“There’ll be plenty of time for you to clean it up later,” Mr. Jameson said. “There should be a broom in one of the closets.”
Mr. Jameson led him down the hallway, narrow and short, and it creaked as they passed through it. A bedroom lay just past the kitchen. Mr. Jameson pulled a match from his pocket and lit a lamp on a table by the door.
Down on the floor was a broad, dark stain.
Asa moved toward it, bent. One sniff confirmed his suspicions: blood. Old blood. And there was a feeling in the room… a darkness, but not the thrumming, pregnant darkness of Life. An ominous darkness, empty, gaunt, hungry. On the walls hung several crucifixes, suffering Jesuses (Jesi? What was the plural form of Jesus, anyway?) dying for sins innumerable. Beneath them, Asa saw that the walls too were spattered with dark bloodstains, set deep.
“What happened here?” Asa asked.
Mr. Jameson’s wrinkles seemed to deepen in the lamplight.
“That story’s not for me to tell,” he said.
Mr. Jameson shut the door, and Asa followed him down the hall. He opened the door to a second bedroom and lit a lamp on top of a white-painted dresser. The small room flared into light, and Asa realized that the family who lived here before him must have had daughters. There were two twin beds, leaning against opposite walls, but still very close together. They were separated by one bedside table and a rag rug so dusty that it sent up little gritty clouds when Asa stepped on it. The wallpaper was made of newspaper clippings.
“You could use this room for whatever you like,” said Mr. Jameson. “An office, maybe. Or a sitting room. You can get rid of those beds whenever you like.”
Asa opened the drawer of the bedside table. At first, he thought it was empty, but when he felt along the sides of the drawer, he felt a piece of paper. Gently, he pulled it from the drawer. It was a photograph of two girls on the steps of the church. One stood behind the other, her hands on the other’s shoulders, looking distant and ghostly. But the one who was seated drew Asa’s attention immediately. She wore an elaborate white dress that had a skirt with layers of ruffles, and held a bouquet of flowers. Her black hair had been woven into a bun, but wisps fell on her forehead and around her face. Her eyes were black and bright as she looked up at her sister.
Asa was instantly fascinated in a way that he did not understand. He found it very difficult to look away from her. No matter how he tried, it was as though his eyes kept being dragged back to her smiling, upturned face. There was something about her. Something significant. But he didn’t understand what. He had a sudden need to know who she was, what she was like. He flipped the picture around to the back. There, written in slanting, feminine-looking script, were the words Quinceañera Olivia. Hermanas bonitas.
Then he saw something that made him forget the picture all together.
Behind the bedside table, something had been scratched into the wall. Muerte, ayúdanos, Muerte, ayúdanos… Help us, Death over and over and over. And when he ran a finger across them, he was surprised to feel a tingle of power. He drew back as though he’d been burned. Did that mean that one of these girls…?
“Well,” said Mr. Jameson in the doorway. “I’ll leave you to it, then. G’night.”
And Mr. Jameson shuffled away, leaving Asa alone in the bloodstained house, wondering about the hermanas, and about what on earth he was supposed to do next.
A flash of movement caught his eye. On the wall to his right, there was a broken mirror framed in grimy white wicker. Is that me? Asa thought. He came closer and examined his new face.
He was even younger-looking than he expected behind those cracked spectacles—only a scant bit
of dark stubble on his chin. So this is me as a human, he thought. He leaned close to the mirror and put his finger to it. The cracks began to mend, slowly, as though they were melting back together, and soon the mirror was smooth and whole again. There, that’s better. Asa smiled, turning his face this way and that. I look a lot like Harold Lloyd! He thought of all the times he’d looked down and watched movies being made. Not bad! Not bad at all. He grinned like a jack-o’-lantern, then gave a pitiful frown, then lifted one eyebrow. He’d have to practice postures and facial expressions later.
Suddenly, he smelled mercury. The room went cold and dry. His bones felt as hollow as a bird’s.
So you’re the Wildcard, eh? The one my Sister built… came a voice at the furthermost corner of his mind. She’s twisting the rules, making Her own Card instead of just choosing one, and I don’t like it.
“I th-thought you two weren’t allowed to see each other’s Cards?” Asa stuttered. He felt a strange popping sensation. In the mirror, the lower half of his human face was gone. Instead, there were long, sharp black teeth, charred skin, a long, snakelike black tongue—his daemon face.
Wait a moment, said Death. I know you. You’re the young daemon always watching the earth from the edge of the Between. The one they call a human lover. Death paused. And our Mother chose you? Interesting.… What could She want with you?
Death considered this for a moment. Then Her voice changed, became soft and soothing.
Are you enjoying your time as a human?
“I am just here to do my job,” he said.
And what is that, pray tell?
“Just to find someone, and give something back to him—or her, I suppose—a-and leave.”
Death’s voice became soft and cooing, with barely an echo of the mercury-stained growl that it had been before. Just like that? What a pity, to have to spend so little time in a form you’ve always been enamored of. Very cruel of my Mother to send you of all daemons here. Unfair, I think. And they say that I am the harsh one.
There was a tickle in his mind then, almost a caress.
Well, I suppose I’ll leave you, then, Human Lover. Spend what time you have wisely—what little of it you still have.
Then She leaked from his mind and left him alone. His face in the mirror snapped back to its human features. With shaking hands, Asa felt his nose, his mouth. He breathed a sigh of relief.
But Death’s words had left their mark in his mind, a breadcrumb trail that he could not ignore.
It did seem unfair. To give him just a taste of humanity before wrenching him out of it, bringing him back, sadder but wiser. Why had the Mother done it, and why had Life agreed to it? Was it to teach him a lesson? To let him see that the grass was no greener on the other side?
Asa turned away from the mirror and began to pace the floor.
He knew what he should do: find the owner of the cricket in amber as soon as possible, finish the mission, and leave.
But that wasn’t what he wanted to do. What he wanted to do was explore, to test out this new body, to see and feel and hear and taste and touch as humans did. He wanted to make friends, acquaintances, enemies. To laugh and shout and whisper and weep! He wanted to live a human life while he could. As Asa realized this completely, the yearning seemed to fill his every sinew, his every fiber, and he knew he was powerless to resist this new, intoxicating thing called humanity.
Asa reached into his pocket and took out the cricket in amber. In the low light, it shone like honey. Life’s presence seemed to wind around it like vines.
He took a deep, steadying breath. Back in the Between, to disobey meant punishment. To disobey meant pain. And for the very worst offense, to disobey meant being ripped apart and scattered, atom by atom, through the universe, then feeling each atom fade to oblivion.
But this isn’t the Between, Asa thought.
Rebellion was a new feeling, a very un-daemon-like one, and to Asa it felt nearly delicious. He cupped his hand over the amber cricket and put it into the drawer where he’d found the sisters’ picture. Out of sight, out of mind, as the humans said. And just for a while. After all, what harm could it do?
CHAPTER 6
3 MONTHS
AND
19 DAYS
REMAIN.
As the days went on, I was called to Mother Morevna’s room for “lessons” three times. Each time, I was merely given a vague explanation of magic, handed some books, and practically pushed out of Mother Morevna’s room afterward so that she could do whatever it was she did all day and I could serve my function of making everyone feel better. So much for being the Successor, I thought.
I had tried to follow her and find out what it was when she went out into Elysium, but either she saw me and vanished or she was too fast for me. So, dejected, I spent my days reading from the Booke or wandering Elysium by myself, wearing my new importance like a cloak while the other girls my age were in school—school I couldn’t go to anymore because it would ruin the illusion that I was really learning something with Mother Morevna.
But no matter what the truth was, the way people talked about me had changed. There were no longer looks of disapproval on their faces, or pity. They were curious now. As though they’d been wrong about me all this time. People greeted me, even people I hadn’t known before the walls went up, like the Speers, the Coxes, the Sanchez-Romolos. Even the man down at the Blue Moon, Elysium’s only “café,” said good morning to me now. One day, he even gave me two small fried pies.
“Take them for Mother Morevna,” said the Blue Moon man. “Try to get me on her good side, will ya?” and he had winked and smiled a silver-toothed smile.
Like hell was I giving these pies to Mother Morevna, I thought. I wrapped them in a handkerchief and headed down into the west side, toward a row of clapboard houses where speckled chickens pecked at the grit. I was looking for one person in particular, who would hopefully be excused from school for lunch like the rest of the seniors. And sure enough, she was sitting on her front porch. Both her dress and the artfully tied kerchief she wore were the yellow of newly ripened corn. She was seemingly finished with lunch and just taking time for herself.
“Surprise,” I said, handing one of the pies to her. “To make up for not being able to bring you water anymore.”
“Thanks!” she said. “And don’t worry about it. Normal water works fine anyway. What kind is this, cherry?”
“Apple,” I said.
“Perfect.” I expected her to just take the pie and send me on my way, but to my surprise, she scooted over and patted the porch beside her. We ate in silence for a few moments; then, after about half of her pie, Lucy wrapped it back in the napkin. “I’m gonna save the rest of it to give to Aunt Lucretia when she gets back from the ration office. She loves apple pie even more than I do.”
“I think you told me her name once,” I said. “Lucretia?”
“Yep. I’m named for her. She’s strong as an ox. She’s gonna live to be three hundred at the rate she’s going.” Lucy laughed. “If we make it through the rest of this year, of course.”
A silence fell, like it always did when anyone mentioned the coming end of the Game.
Then she turned to me and said, “So how’s it going, being the Successor and all?”
I shrugged and took another bite of pie.
“That bad, huh?”
“I thought it would be okay at first,” I said, surprised at myself for being so forthcoming. “I mean, she allowed me to decide about letting in Asa Skander. But she doesn’t want me there. She doesn’t even want a Successor, I don’t think.”
“Well, to your credit, he’s a good magician,” Lucy said. “All the kids love him.”
I thought of him, Asa Skander, how strange he felt, how something about him made my hair stand on end. Of the smoke I’d seen billow from his mouth. Then I thought of the quarter in my pocket. An anomaly.
“Maybe Mother Morevna can’t let you help her with whatever she’s doing because it would
take too long to teach you at the moment,” Lucy said.
“I’m pretty much teaching myself right now,” I said, thinking of the penny glowing in my pocket. I told Lucy about how in only a matter of days, I had learned several basic, typeless spells—though I left out the part where I ransacked my room doing so.
I told her about the spell I learned that sent a knee-high whirlwind careening around my room (scattering my Futhark pages and spell ingredients to high heaven). I told her about how I learned to create fire—just enough to light a candle for now—with a pinch of pepper and a motion like blowing a kiss, and burned the corner of my blanket black. And, the most useful one so far, I told her how I’d learned to cast a spell on my shoes that made them quiet, even on the hardwood floors of the church.
“Sounds pretty impressive to me,” said Lucy. “I can’t do any of that.”
“Yeah, but I feel like such a fraud,” I said. “I mean, there are only three months left until the Dust Soldiers come, and here I am, making tiny whirlwinds and quiet shoes. I wish I could do something to help catch those thieves, you know? Since they were only able to steal from us because I was seeing the rain again.”
“Maybe that’s what you should do,” said Lucy. “Catch the thieves. Prove that you’re worthwhile even if she doesn’t think so right now. I mean, you were chosen. Surely there’s some kind of spell you can learn that’ll help you.”
I thought about this. There were all kinds of spells in the Booke: spells for blocking light, spells for making the wind blow, spells for making fire in your hand, and spells for looking into mirrors and seeing other places like you were looking through a window. Maybe I couldn’t catch the thieves with one of these spells. But surely I could use one of them to help catch them. After all, two witches were better than one, right?
There was a familiar clanging sound a few streets away.
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