Elysium Girls

by Elysium Girls (retail) (epub)

  He sat still, holding his gun out of sight, watching the guards snooze, their breaths stirring little puffs of dust. Then the door opened, and the thief emerged. She adjusted her bandanna and shrugged her satchel over her shoulder. It had weight now; there was something in it. She looked down at the guards, put the key back into its respective pocket, and slunk onward into a shadow across from Jameson. She looked over her shoulder, toward the hospital, its many-eyed form dark in the night, then slunk onward, back through the path she had taken.

  She moved faster, running now, as quietly as possible. Shadow to shadow to shadow, and Jameson followed, keeping his careful distance. She ran to the base of the lowest wall, threw the rope up and over. She pulled until the hook stuck in place under the lip of the wall.

  Jameson put his rifle to his shoulder.

  She began to scale the wall, the sack slung over her back. She climbed, her eyes on the sleeping guards, who had begun to twitch and shift in their sleep. The spell was almost used up. She was nearly to the top.

  Jameson closed one eye, looked down the barrel, focused. Pulled the trigger.

  The bag on her shoulder ripped open, spilling its contents. The girl held on fast to the rope, paused for just a moment to see if she’d been shot. Then she scrambled to the top of the wall, grabbed the rope, and threw herself over, back out into the desert.

  Down the barrel of his gun, Jameson watched her go; then he left the shadows to see what had fallen from her bag.

  A few seemingly random things lay broken and spoiled in the dust. Cakes of cattle salt, a busted jar of honey, garlic, homemade vinegar, tea leaves. Any of these things wouldn’t have been strange, but all of them together made Jameson narrow his eyes. Medicine. She was going to make medicine. So that meant that Mother Morevna’s curse had worked the first time: It had made someone sick. But why hadn’t this one fallen ill? Was this a different robber?

  He heard the slapping of boots against the dust. “We… we’ve been robbed!” panted one of the Sacrifice guards. “Again! I… I don’t know how, boss, I promise!”

  “No, we haven’t,” said Jameson. He pointed to the debris on the ground.

  “Wh-where is the thief?” asked the guard, confused eyes darting and white in the darkness.

  “Don’t worry,” Jameson said, his eyes on the wall where she’d disappeared. “She’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER 10

  3 MONTHS

  AND

  14 DAYS

  REMAIN.

  When I woke, light was filtering in through the curtain, and my head ached from too little sleep. But the Booke was open to the place where I had left it, and the penny gave a thrum of encouragement. Quickly, I dressed and put the Booke in my pocket. When I stepped outside to head to the bathroom, the room across from mine was as quiet as ever. I gave the door one last glance, then started down the stairs, my boots magically silent. Then the sound of voices from the sanctuary stopped me.

  “They got magic,” Mr. Jameson was saying. “That’s how they get in. They put the guards to sleep and just slip in—right past that magic circle of yours. I’m telling you, they got some real magic, and not like before, when—”

  “As intrigued as I am about this fact, I am more interested in why you allowed one of them to escape when you had a clear chance to catch her.”

  I crept down the stairs until I could see them. Mother Morevna was walking back and forth in front of an enormous stack of water rations and marking things on a list.

  “I didn’t let her steal anything,” Jameson was saying. “And besides, they’ll be back.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “One or some of ’em are sick,” Mr. Jameson said. “The things she was stealing, they’re all ingredients for medicine I’ve made myself out there.”

  “Seems the trapdoor spell took hold, then,” Mother Morevna said. “Pity it didn’t get all of them.”

  Trapdoor spell.

  I vaguely remembered reading something about trapdoor spells further back in the Booke. They could be set up from anywhere, but they relied on a Master Stone that you charged your power into. Multiple spells could be charged into one Master Stone too, or so I’d read. These were Mother Morevna’s specialty. I wondered how many more trapdoor spells were laid around the city, how many I walked over every day.

  “But it got at least one of ’em good, and they must be desperate to save them if they’re risking coming back now.” He cleared his throat. “This might be our chance.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Mother Morevna asked.

  “I’m suggesting that we make it easy for them to come back if we want to catch them. We gotta give them the opportunity.”

  Mother Morevna paused, considered this. I began to back away.

  “Sallie,” Mother Morevna said. “Come out here. I’d like to talk to you. Jameson, you may go.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Jameson said. “But just think about it, ma’am.” He tipped his hat as he passed me in the hallway.

  Mother Morevna stood there in the light, her eyes and cheeks looking more hollow than ever. When she spoke, it seemed that even her voice creaked with weariness.

  “After the events of the dust storm, I must admit, I am not all that I should be,” she said. “I suppose it is fortunate that you have been taking matters into your own hands up until now.”

  My heart gave a single jackrabbit jump. Was she admitting that she had been wrong not to really train me? But I could tell by the steeliness of her eyes that this was a very serious matter. She went on.

  “I have heard all about this Asa Skander business,” she said. “How he finished the spell for you after I fell unconscious. I must admit, I did know he had a bit of magic power when we interrogated him—sometimes this happens with men, though it is rare—but I did not estimate it to be to such a degree, and this troubles me. Have you spoken to him since?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “People are hounding him now. They won’t leave him alone. He’s locked himself in the Robertson house and won’t come out.”

  “A bit fed up with celebrity, is he?” Mother Morevna said. “A shame, I’m sure. But this young man is proving to be more trouble than he’s worth. We cannot afford for production to drop lower than it has already.”

  We, she was saying. We and not I. “I think I found a way to solve everything,” I said. Nervously, I told her about the duel, about our plan to have him throw the duel in my favor. And, surprisingly, Mother Morevna listened intently. When I reached the end of my explanation, I could see that cunning spark she usually wore in the place of the weariness that had been there before.

  “And you’re certain that he’ll go through with it?” she said finally.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I think he’s prepared to do anything right now. If we made it a big event, maybe we could make the whole town believe.”

  She was trusting me. Despite the fact that Asa had been the one to cast the spell, she was finally trusting me. I wanted to do more, to prove that I could be everything she ever needed, to prove that she did need a Successor. That she did need me. Then a sudden, dangerous thought came to me.

  “We could use the same event to catch the thieves,” I heard myself say. She turned to me and I faltered. “I—I couldn’t help overhearing that we needed to give them a reason to come. And since they last came during a big, public event, I thought… why not kill two birds with one stone?”

  Mother Morevna raised her cold gray eyes to mine, her expression unreadable.

  “That is brilliant,” she said.

  My heart thudded in disbelief. “It is?” I said, still reeling. “Th-thank you.”

  “Yes.” She rose, a fire in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. “Go to the Robertson house and inform Asa Skander that the two of you have approval for your duel,” she said. “And don’t tell him about the trap element. That is to remain between us, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. And feeling as though I w
as walking on air, I headed to the Robertson house.

  The sun was setting over the walls as Lucy Arbor sat on the steps of the hospital. The rest of her family was inside, standing around Aunt Lucretia’s hospital bed, but Lucy couldn’t make herself go in. She couldn’t see her aunt like this. She had seen Dust Sickness take its grip on many people since the walls went up, and it was always jarring and terrible. But never was it so terrifying as when it bent the features of someone you loved, when they coughed and their handkerchief came away covered with bloody mud. She knew now how Sal must have felt. How she still felt, because now that she had gotten a taste of this pain, there was no forgetting it.

  She pulled out the water rations Sal had given her. Five trips to the Dowsing Well in all, and still Dust Sickness had crept up and grabbed her aunt by the throat.

  Lucy wiped a tear away with a subtly manicured hand.

  She could still pull through, Lucy told herself. Though as far as she knew, no one ever had. They’d just managed to stay alive longer than anyone thought, depending on how much Dowsing Well water they’d been given.

  The door opened behind her, and she scooted to one side as Mr. Jameson, sad-faced as ever, walked down the stairs and out of the hospital. He had a stack of papers in his hand: water rations for the Dust Sick. A lot of good it was doing anybody. Miguel at school had said that Dowsing Well water didn’t do anything different from normal water, that that was just something people hoped for so they could feel better. And now, despite the rations in her hand, the ones straight from Sal herself, Lucy was beginning to believe him. She turned the stack of rations over in her hand, looking at the smudges on their corners. So regular and uniform, almost like they’d been put there. And this other paper that had come with them, she thought, scanning a finger down the column of symbols. What was it?

  But before she could think too much about it, there was a crackling of magic, and Mother Morevna’s voice boomed over all of Elysium.

  “I would like to make an announcement. On Wednesday evening, on the twenty-fifth, ten days from tonight, a very special event will be hosted outside the church. A Witches’ Duel between newcomer Asa Skander and our own Successor, Sallie Wilkerson.”

  Lucy looked up.

  “The duel will be friendly in nature, an exhibition of magical talent and skill to bolster and amaze in these final few months before our Judgment. Attendance will be mandatory. Thank you.”

  There was another crackle and the announcement ended. Sal? In a duel? Lucy couldn’t imagine that. Not even a friendly duel. Sal was too shy and awkward for that kind of thing, she always had been. Come to think of it, Lucy had never seen Sal stand up to anybody, much less in front of the whole town. That had always been her job, though she wasn’t sure if Sal knew. Lucy had protected Sal more times than she could count. And now what a sight it would be to see Sal, the girl who was bullied by Trixie Holland, the Girl Who Cried Rain, throwing magic in a duel! Even though her heart was still weighed down with worry, Lucy almost smiled. Then her mother called her back inside.

  Aunt Lucretia needed more water.

  CHAPTER 11

  3 MONTHS

  REMAIN.

  The next ten days flew by in a rush of dust and blood and flames. Every day, I practiced with Asa in the sanctuary of the church, and every night, I practiced by myself on the roof. He had an odd style with magic, a theatrical flourish that was nothing like the calm elegance of Mother Morevna’s magic, nor the wild desperate flailing of mine. The spells we choreographed were fiery, showy, loud, and impressive to watch. And as the days wore on, we grew good at them. Still, nervousness rose in my stomach like bile, and on the night before the duel, it was all I could do to keep myself from vomiting into the washbasin. Once more, I looked over the carefully choreographed order of spells Asa and I had worked out over correspondence. Just to be sure.

  A—light beam (miss S by 5″).

  S—counter w/dust wall.

  A—raise ground.

  S—avoid (jump left), send whirlwind.

  A—let whirlwind pick up, throw. Land and send fire projectile.

  S—block fire projectile, send back to A.

  Finale:

  A—pretend to be burned.

  S—“heal” A.

  A—congratulate S.

  According to the order of spells, Asa would attempt some weak magic, which would miss me. I would throw him a dust spell, he’d counter, then I’d throw him around a bit with my wind spell. Then he’d pretend to be angry and throw a fire spell at me when I “wasn’t looking,” and I’d turn just in time to send it back to him. This was the piece we considered most carefully. He had to throw magic at me when I wasn’t looking so he could stop seeming like a nice guy and seem more like… well, a heel. I’d whirl around, send the spell back to him, and he would pretend to be hurt by it. Then I, the benevolent Successor of Elysium, would say a few magic-sounding words, and he’d “heal” himself, giving me all the credit, and we’d both leave happy.

  Two birds with one stone.

  I stood and paced the room. Then I stopped in front of the standing mirror. My new spell components belt and all its pouches hung from my waist like a gun belt. A gun belt that held the dusts and feathers and shells I would need for spell casting, rather than six-shooters.

  “Looks like we’re settling things the cowboy way,” I said to my reflection. But Mother Morevna said that all witches wore these for duels. Asa would have one as well.

  I reached into my pouch and pulled out a bit of white dust.

  “Ventus proiectum,” I whispered, and blew the dust from my fingertips as though I were blowing a kiss. A small, very powerful blast of air scattered the papers from my desk all around the room. I smiled. I’d pick them up later.

  From books of Mother Morevna’s, I’d learned to use my flame spell as a projectile, like a flamethrower, to create a whirlwind powerful enough to send someone flying into the air, and, most importantly, to create a shield of dust that stopped or slowed nearly anything. I felt completely drained and usually threw up after practice every morning, but even I had to admit that what I’d learned was pretty impressive. Why then did it feel like rabbits were running around and around in my belly?

  I heard a loud noise from the hallway, a thudding, then shouting. Miss Ibarra across the hall was at it again. It sounded like she was jumping in there, jumping and shouting.

  “¡Ella vendrá!” She shouted happily. “¡Ella vendrá esta noche! ¡Ella vendrá esta noche!”

  I opened my door.

  About this time, I heard footsteps and turned. This time it was Mother Morevna standing there in her long black nightgown, looking like the very Grim Reaper in the dark hallway.

  “Get back in your room, Sallie,” she said. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  “Why is she in there?” I heard myself ask, emboldened maybe by Mother Morevna’s newfound approval of me.

  “I am helping treat her visions,” Mother Morevna said. “Now get to your room. We will discuss this tomorrow after the duel. Do as I say!”

  She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. The shouting grew louder when she opened it. Inside it was dark, but I saw the vague shape of a young woman silhouetted against the window.

  “Now, now, now, dear,” Mother Morevna was saying. “That’s quite enough.”

  Moments later, Miss Ibarra stopped shouting. She just went silent. I stood with my eye at my door, but I couldn’t see anything in the dark hallway. I pulled the door shut, listening to Mother Morevna’s footsteps down the hall and down the stairs again. When I heard her in her room above me, I opened my door again.

  “Hey,” I whisper-shouted at the closed door across the hall. “Are you all right in there?”

  No answer.

  “My name… er… me llamo? Or estoy?… Soy Sal Wilkerson,” I tried again, trying to remember all the Spanish I could from grade school. “¿Cómo estás?”

  Again, silence. I stood in the hall for
a few moments more, but the woman in the room across from mine did not stir. After a few moments, I went back into my room and shut the door behind me, trying as hard as I could to focus on tomorrow or magic or sleep. But when sleep finally came, it was fitful, and tinged with the faraway smell of rain.

  Lloyd Jameson sat in his chair on his front porch, trying not to think of the duel tomorrow. He spat—plink—into his peach can and went over it again, searing the guards’ and decoy guards’ posts into his mind. This was not, after all, a simple event, and he felt heavy with the weight of Mother Morevna’s expectations. Tomorrow would be the day, he was sure of it. The day he had to put an end to those thieves, once and for all, no matter how he felt about it.

  It had surprised him that Sal had thought of the plan. It was so unlike the timid, guilty-looking girl he’d been helping all these years. But if he thought about it, really thought about it, he had seen how much the girl had been mirroring Mother Morevna. He’d seen her begin to walk taller, affect some of the prim elegance Mother Morevna had when she moved, had seen her begin to grow cunning.

  Jameson sighed and let himself think of his own family, his own daughter back in Texas. She’d be tall like him, maybe. Blond, like Sal. Would she remember his face? he wondered. He hadn’t forgotten hers. But it seemed like her features and Sal’s features had begun to bleed into each other a little, blend a little in his mind, until he couldn’t be sure he was remembering his daughter correctly or not. He shook himself. This damned place with all its dust. He shouldn’t even be here. He should be back in Texas. And if they ever got out of this godforsaken desert, Texas was the first place he’d go. Hell, even when Oklahoma had been what it was supposed to be, it was not what Texas was. Not to him. But he supposed that when one was born in Texas, raised in Texas, that Texas-ness never left. It was his reality.