The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (10 page)

— 23 —

I make sure to walk into the coffee shop five minutes late, because few things are as awkward as waiting for someone else to show up when you're already not certain you want to be there. Andy strikes me as the kind of guy who has punctuality bred into his bones, and the casual demeanor to make it work. He's probably chatting up a barista while he waits, or making friends with whoever is sitting around him.

When I do walk in, it takes me a moment to find him among the tables and chairs, but I find him in a corner, by the gas fireplace, just about to end a conversation on his cell phone. I head down to the table as nonchalantly as possible.

“Ana,” Andy says as I approach, setting his phone down on the table, standing to greet me. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, sorry I'm late.” I pull out a chair and unsling my bag from my shoulder, hanging it on the back of my chair before I sit.

He smiles, sits, considering me. “You look good. I mean, not like you nearly drowned the other night.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I'm sorry,” Andy closes his eyes for a second, shakes his head. “That was really insensitive of me.”

“You're fine.” I force a laugh.

“Still. That must have been a horrifying experience.” He raises his eyebrows. “Thank goodness Trebor was there. He said you almost died.”

“Almost but didn't, right? What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. Etcetera.” I smile, trying to be casual.

Andy smiles back, slides a cup of coffee my way. “Black, right?”

I nod, wondering why he knows that. Do I just seem like the type of girl who drinks her coffee black? I try not to follow that thought, because I think if there’s an ascribed
type
of girl who drinks black coffee, I wouldn’t want to be her. I don’t want to be a
type
of anything at all.

“So, tell me about your family.” He looks at me with such interest and sincerity that I could almost believe I'm the only person in the world right now. It's one of his special powers, something he uses to garner votes and favors—but being aware of it helps protect me from the charm.

“Um, well. Okay. So my mother was raised in a caravan that moved around the country, like all of her ancestors,” I begin, hands curled around my paper cup of coffee, and I tell him most of her story: young and restless, running off to school—“she wanted to be a ballerina more than anything else”—then into marriage—“and then she met my father, and wanted to be with him more than anything else.” I skirt around the subject of religion and faith, though he keeps prodding me back to it.

“I thought a lot of Romani were very religious,” Andy says.

“Well, like I said, we aren't Romani. Weren't. I mean, my mother wasn’t.” I sip my coffee, trying to clear my head of the confusion of grammar, verb tense, and subject. “There are a lot of different kinds of modern nomadic tradespeople. I think I mentioned the other night, my mother's clan is called
Ouros
. The Keepers.”

Andy leans forward, bright-eyed, curious. “What did they keep?”

I snort and shrug. “I don't think there was a single, certain thing they kept. Just...traditions. Keepers of
the old ways
, of the old bloodlines. They passed down their stories and magic tricks and fortune-telling. And they liked to keep things to
themselves
, which is why they didn’t like my mother marrying outside of the clan.”
Which is why they had no interest in taking me into the fold, even when she died
.

Andy nods, considering my words. “But, I think a lot of these nomadic clans pride themselves on passing down traditions. Are you sure there wasn't something else they might have been keeping?”

I study him, gears turning in my head. At first it seemed I might be providing him with some new details on the subject of modern “gypsies,” but it’s possible Andy can actually provide some answers for
me
. Because they aren’t Romani or any of the other generally acknowledged kind of nomadic tribes in modern western civilization, I haven't been able to study my “kind,” only what little information my mother gave me and left behind. Maybe Andy can give me a different perspective.

“Why, have you found something in your studies?” I ask.

He leans back. “There are some myths I've found, about sacred objects and things like that. And I've come across stories that tell the history of the western world way differently than what we're taught in school.”

“What kind of objects?” I find myself leaning in this time.

“Do you know about the three-world cosmology? Our world, Earth—or Iritz—the world of demons,
Sheol
, and the world of angels,
Shemayiim
.”

I nod, more than a little surprised that he knows this story. It’s part of the bedtime stories my mother told me when I was a child.

“There’s a myth that some clans have kept alive, that those worlds are real, not just metaphors. They say that a long time ago, the constant battle between demons and angels became a threat to humanity. Both sides were feeding off of human faith to increase their own powers, but it was dangerous—human fear is more dangerous than our faith. We turned on each other, made laws, made inquisitions. Eventually, so the story goes, there were alchemists—or witches, depending on the source—who managed to erect walls between our world and the other two, to keep the angels and demons away.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walk in and take a seat a few tables down from us. Without looking directly, I can’t see much—but I do recognize the slant of his broad shoulders, the flecks of blue-green in his messy black hair. I raise my eyebrows at Andy, but he doesn’t seem to notice that his new friend has entered the coffee shop.

“And how did that work out?” I ask instead.

Andy leans back. “From what I’ve read? It worked well. The occasional demon slips through the cracks around Halloween and May Day, when the veils between worlds supposedly thin, but for the most part we’re okay.”

“And what kind of object do you think my clan might be keeping that relates to the story?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve read several different accounts of the spell that was cast. Some say there’s a key, and some say there’s a lock, and one or the other will open the gates again. But all the stories agree that the spell was cast by agents of all three worlds.”

“Like, a human, an angel, and a S—a demon? All cast the spell together?”

“Yeah.”

I think about that. It seems preposterous—but then again, until I was 13, so did the idea that Sura were actually real. And until this weekend, so did the idea that they gave a damn about me. “I don’t think my clan had anything to do with that,” I tell him. “I mean, that seems pretty important. I think my mother would have mentioned it since she taught me so much else.”

“Well, it’s all just folk tales anyway, right?” Andy smiles, just as his phone starts buzzing on the table.

“Heh, yeah, that’s true.” I hide my face in my coffee cup.

He picks up his phone. “Oh, damn. I’ve got to get this—student council stuff. Back in a minute!” He hops up and walks off to the back of the cafe at a casual gait.

I turn and look directly at Trebor. His back is to me—despite the cool weather, he’s wearing a grey tee-shirt that stretches across his back, emphasizing the slight musculature along his shoulders. It makes me remember that I have his coat at home, in my bedroom.

He’s leaning over his phone, typing.

My phone makes a small
bink
as a new text drops into my inbox.

TREBOR:
When you’re done with your date, we should probably talk.

I blush, half embarrassed, half furious, and type a quick response.

ME:
you know I can see you. Remember?

I look up to watch the man in the grey tee-shirt receive my text. He’s casual about checking his phone, but he turns his head, just slightly, and I see the corner of a smirk. He’s typing again.

Bink.

TREBOR:
But no one else can.

When I look up at him again, he’s perched on top of his table, staring me down, wiggling his fingers in a tiny wave. I try not to stare back, even though when I turn my attention to the wall, or the window, or
anything but his ridiculous grin
, I can feel those sparkling green eyes holding me in their sights.

“Sorry about that,” Andy says, returning to the table. “Listen, I’ve got to head out—Ashley, the class secretary, says the treasurer has totally mismanaged our funds and we have to figure out how to raise enough cash for prom…it’s a mess.” He shrugs, grabbing his messenger bag from the back of his chair. “I’m really sorry. But listen, let’s do this again, yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah, sure. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he rolls his eyes as he smiles. “Damn kids always need me to bail them out. I’ll see you around, Ana.”

And then, as he exits, Trebor is already sitting down at my table.

“Nice guy,” he says, watching Andy go. “Not my type exactly, but to each their own.”

I open my mouth to respond, but think better of it, mistrusting that crooked smile. I get out my phone and type.

ME:
so can other people see you now, or is it just going to look like I’m talking to myself?

I cock an eyebrow and wait for his response.

He smiles at me, surprised. “You’re good. You’re really good. Of course they can’t see me. I can’t just
suddenly appear
in here.” He laughs.

I shake my head.

ME:
What are you?

He looks at the message. “I’m a friend.”

I roll my eyes.

ME:
can we leave now, Friend, or am I going to have to type everything I say to you?

He laughs again. “Okay.”

— 24 —

“Other people can see you now, right?” I murmur as we walk down the street.

Trebor chuckles. “Yes.”

It’s cool outside, the faint scent of wet soil and crocuses in the air. Just looking at his bare arms and that thin grey tee-shirt makes me colder. I zip up my jacket and shove my hands in my pockets, trying to be as casual as possible, but I have no clue what to say now that the moment is here.

“You’re curiously silent,” he notices. “I had assumed you would be assaulting me with questions by now.”

“Oh, I have plenty of questions. But you’re the one who said we needed to talk.”

“Ah, true. And we do. You’re in danger.”

I press my lips together. “You’ve made that clear. So, am I in danger from the Sura, or from you?”

Trebor raises his eyebrows and scoffs, as if offended. “Me? I saved your life. Or have you already forgotten?”

“Of course not. The black and blue marks on my chest don’t really let me forget.”

Trebor laughs. “Consider them a sign of my enduring commitment to keeping you alive.”

“Well, I do, and thank you, again. But…why do you care so much?”

“Because I’m a nice guy.”

I look at him, top to bottom. He looks like a totally normal young man, except for the blue-green that flashes in his hair when it catches the light. But there is something else about him, something in the cant of his shoulders and the jut of his chin, the elegant black lines of his tattoos twining around his arms, not to mention the fire behind his eyes—eyes that flash like a cat’s in the dark of night—that screams
predator
.

“You don’t trust me,” he tells me, without even looking at my face to read it. “I understand that. I haven’t given you much to go on other than the whole life-saving thing—and believe it or not I’m
not
being sarcastic about that. So, ask your questions. I’ll do my best to answer.”

“What are you?”

“Like I said, I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re not human.”

“No.”

“And you’re not Sura?”

“No.”

“Are you one of the Angels then?”

He snorts. “No.”

“So you're not a demon,” I muse, racking my brain for other characters in the mythology my mother taught me—the Arcana, she called it. “And you're not an Angel. And you're not human.” I purse my lips. But that only left one option. “You're an Irin?”

He nods once, blinking slowly. “One of the
fabled
Watchers, in the flesh.”

“But I thought the Irin were a myth.”

Trebor chuckles. “Not the rest of it, though?”

“No, I mean...I don't know. The way my mother talked about your kind, it was like you didn't exist. At least not anymore. Like you were a fond memory, of halcyon days when there was someone on our side, someone genuinely looking out for us.”

Trebor looks thoughtful, as if looking back on those olden days when Irin and humans were partners. “Hmm.”

“And then, well, the rest of the story said you were all trapped at the Earth's core for some transgression against magical laws or something.”

“Ha! Well, no we're not locked up at the Earth’s core. But I'd be willing to bet some of the higher ups wouldn't mind that.”

“But you haven't been seen in centuries. I mean, according to the legends.”

“That's on purpose. Humans are...volatile creatures. It wasn't so long ago in our collective memory that you hunted us, and burned us as witches. We understood that it wasn't your fault. You were caught in a power struggle between the Sura and the Malakiim—the angels. But it's not safe to let our presence be known now.” He makes a face. “The Irin are still here. The Malakiim took us to live with them in Shemayiim when the gates were created, but they still send us down to hold the Sura in check. And, sometimes, to look after people like you.” Trebor gives me a crooked smile.

“Wait, so Andy's story about the worlds being walled off, and a key...that's all real?”

“It's legend—it's hard to say what part is real and what's not. But yes, there are gates of a sort. We call them veils. The Irin only travel with the help of a psychopomp—old demi-gods of travelers and migrating souls.”

“And the key, is that real too?”

Trebor shrugs. “That's part of what I'm here to find out.”

“In addition to keeping me out of trouble? You've got a full plate.”

“Such is the life of a soldier in the angelic army.” He grimaces.

“Not the best life?” I guess.

Trebor looks at me without smirking or smiling, and I see a glimpse of a child inside of him, rebelling against anything that presumes to control him. But then he smiles softly. “I wouldn't have chosen the military life if I'd
had
the choice, but I don't mind my work when it comes down to it. It's exhilarating to knock a demon back to Sheol. Sometimes even saving a human can be satisfying.” He half smiles again. “I have to admit though, this time around things are different.”

“How so?”

“Well,” he kicks a bit of fallen tree branch out of the way. “I've never talked to a human like this before, for one thing. And for another, I'm not actually on Watcher duty. Officially, I'm…on sabbatical. Unofficially, I'm on a special mission.”

“Ooh, sneaky. Wait, but, why are you telling me if it’s so secret?”

“Because I trust you. And I need you to trust me.” He watches me as he says it, ready to observe my response.

I don't reply, because there are so many questions, so many things wrong with this whole situation. I don't think I
should
trust him—and yet, for some reason, I feel I already do.

“I know this is all very sudden,” Trebor goes on, and his voice has changed—lowered—lost its cocky edge. “I know you don't like the idea of me following you around, or being not-human, or having such a strong interest in you because of your ability to see things you shouldn't be able to see. And I know I have the advantage—I've lived with these worlds as fact, not fiction. I know their workings by heart. You only know them from stories. But I
am
here for the good of all. I’m here to protect you, even if my official mission is to find out if the key really does exist.”

I try to make my shoulders relax. “And what will you do with the key if it does exist?”

“If I can find it, I'll bring it to the Angels. It has to stay out of the Sura's hands.”

“And why does it matter if I trust you, or if you can trust me? I have no power in this situation. I can't hurt you. And no one would believe me if I tried to expose you.”

Trebor shakes his head. “It's not like that. I need you to trust me, because I need to help you. Partly because if I don't, and you die, I'd feel guilty. Partly because if I don't, and you Fall, we'll all be in trouble—human magic is tricky, and scary. But, mostly, I have to help you because…” He smiles. “I really like listening to you play your violin.”

I blanch. “You've been listening to me play? Ugh, what else have you been listening to?”

“Hey, we're called Watchers for a reason.”

I frown. “What else have you been
watching
then?”

Trebor laughs. “Wow, not what you're thinking. I'm a professional, not a pervert. Anyway, I've already seen you in your underwear once, so don't feel shy.” He winks at me and grins, wolfishly.

My cheeks burn red. “You’re not ever going to let that night go, are you?”

“Why would I want to?” He laughs. But then something more somber crosses his face, and quiets him. I wonder if he’s thinking about how that night
could
have turned out, if he hadn’t gotten to me in time.

I try not to let my mind go back there. The way he jokes about it, I wonder if the things I felt that night weren't just the fevered imaginings of a half-suffocated brain. His voice, his touch, his presence—they had seemed so significant then, so powerful as their mere presence ripped apart the fabric of my world. Maybe it's just what he is—a semi-angelic being with magic built into his bones. Maybe that kind of reaction to him is natural.

After a while, I ask, “How do you plan on balancing keeping me out of trouble with finding this key you're looking for?”

“It shouldn't be too difficult to do, actually. If the key exists at all, my intelligence tells us that the Sura who have been searching for it have all congregated in this general vicinity.” When he stops, his mouth isn't quite finished, lips frozen pre-formation of certain words left unsaid. He’s holding something back.

“Should I be alarmed by that?” I ask. “I mean...is that really a coincidence?”

He looks sheepishly at me. “I hate to be on the snake charmer’s side, but Andy has a good point. What if your clan kept more than just the old ways? What if they kept the secret of the Key, as well?”

“I'm not one of them,” I remind him. “My mother passed down certain stories and practices, but they didn't want me. They didn't come to me when she died. They came to her, and fulfilled their duty to her as a clanswoman, and never spoke a word to her daughter.” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice, but I can taste it on my tongue.

After a long moment, Trebor says, soberly: “You're probably better off for that.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they wouldn't have appreciated what you are.” He looks sidelong at me. “You're different. They can't explain you. Surely you've learned by now that your kind fears what it doesn't understand.”

“My kind.” I scoff as we cross the street, winding our way deeper into the village, towards the wooded state park that follows along the creek. “I don't have a kind. When I think about being
human
, I think about how my heritage has made me different from everyone else I know. When I think about my
heritage
, I think about how my heritage rejected me. Sometimes it feels like I have more in common with the Sura than anyone else in this world.”

Trebor stops me in the middle of the road, hands on my shoulders. He looks me square in the eyes. “Don't
ever
think that.” He's so serious, it's alarming. “The Sura are
not
your friends. They won't welcome you with open arms. They will tempt you with power and freedom, and then they will crush your spirit with the chains of darkness.”

I put my hands on his and slowly remove them from my shoulders. “Don't worry. I was just trying to point out the irony of the situation.”

Trebor stares, then nods, shoves his hands in his pockets, and we keep walking.

We've walked pretty far already, crossing the road that bridges over the creek. Naturally, we turn down a path that takes us into the woods, as if we've both already agreed upon a destination.

But we haven’t agreed upon it, and I have to keep reminding myself that I shouldn’t trust this inexplicable ease I feel with him. It’s just hard not to trust what you absolutely
feel
.

“I know what it's like,” Trebor says after a while. “To feel so different that you're certain you're just...
alone in all the world
. Or worlds, in my case. At some point, you will learn to let others in, if that's what you need. But before then, you get to enjoy a lot of your own company. Which is nice, because you’ll always be your own greatest teacher.” He barely smiles, and it fades fast. “And anyway, even surrounded by hundreds of loved ones and loyal friends, when you're lying on your death bed the last voice you hear will always be your own, even if only inside your head. In life, we try to connect and to trust. It seems like maybe that's the purpose of all of this—to learn to love, and to forgive, and to be vulnerable. But all of us mortals are, ultimately, alone. People like you and me, who actually stand apart from the crowd to see the big picture—we just figure it out a bit sooner than at the end.”

I blink at the forest floor, watching grey leaves and spring debris vanish underfoot with each step. “Wow. How incredibly bleak.”

“Well, it might also be incredibly wrong,” he laughs. “Maybe I just haven't found my tribe yet. Maybe there is at least one person out there whose brain I can mash with my own, so that when the time comes, and I’m lying on my death bed, it's their voice I hear inside my head instead of my own.” He looks both wistful and doubtful, mouth crooked in an expression that almost was, eyes focused on something not of this world. “My people tell folk tales amongst each other about the
havati bashrat
. There is a plethora of lore about the phenomenon. They supposedly have a bond like that.”

“What does it mean, ha—
havati bashrat
?”

“It’s hard to translate. ‘Havati’ is a title, it means something like whole-spirited, or whole-hearted. ‘Bashrat’ refers to the people involved. It means ‘piece of the soul.’” He shrugs. “It’s just and
old wives tale
, though, as your people might say.”

Regardless, I try to imagine that kind of connection—loving someone so much, knowing them so well, that their thoughts are your thoughts, and vice versa. At one point, that might have described my relationship with Kyla. But the love between childhood girls is far different from the love between two women finding their own places in the world. Anyone else, though, I cannot imagine letting into my head. The idea frightens me.