The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (22 page)

— 49 —

Trebor said that sometimes you could find things at the Crimson Oak, nestled between roots as if left as offerings, or gifts. Tonight we find a pack of matches sitting out on top of a low, flat root, like someone knew we’d be needing them. We use them to build a small fire out of fallen twigs and branches to keep warm, nestled between the crook of two roots at the base of the tree.

Kyla and I settle down to sleep, curled up on the dry earth, head to head. My whole body aches; the painkillers they gave me at the hospital have long since worn off. My broken wrist feels swollen, itchy, hot—but each time I go to scratch it, it feels like I’m prodding it with broken glass.

“Ana?” Kyla says after we’ve been lying awake for a while.

“Yeah?” I answer.

I hear her shift against the ground, feel the fire flickering across us. “I’m sorry things happened like they did.”

Kyla is apologizing? For what? “What do you mean?”

She swallows, audibly. “I’m sorry your mom got sick the year I skipped. I’m sorry you felt so left behind by both of us. I’m sorry I didn’t see you putting walls up sooner—before it was too late.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Sure, I was mad at her that year, but I always knew I had no right to be. Maybe that’s why I started shutting her out: because I felt so ashamed about the feelings I couldn’t help.

“There’s nothing you need to apologize for, Ky. My life is—
I am
—a hot mess. That’s not your fault.”

I can hear her shake her head, dreadlocks rolling against the ground. “But I wish it
was
my fault. I wish there was something I could have done, that maybe I still could do. I miss you. I’ve missed you for a long time.”

I bite my lip before it can bend down into a frown, and don’t know what to say besides, “I miss you, too,” so softly it almost doesn’t count.

“You just keep pulling away. The more I reach for you, the more you fold in on yourself.”

“I don’t want to drag you down with me,” I whisper. “My mother died, and I don’t know how to let her go. I can see demons, and I can use magic, and it’s not nearly as awesome as you’d think. Things want me dead. They want me
empty
. The drama seems never-ending. And I don’t want to reach for you some day and—” I stop.

Kyla sits up on her elbows and looks at me, but I can’t see her face. I can’t look. “And what?”

“I need to be able to handle things myself.”

“Why?”

Her tone rattles the cage around my heart. “Because, what if one day I need help and can’t find it? What if one day I reach for you, and you can’t take my hand? I need to stop flailing in the dark and stand on my own.”

Kyla is quiet for a long time. The seconds tick by. Overhead, the stars shine down on us—the same stars from our world, somehow also in this one. I wonder if they’re the same in Shemayiim and Sheol. I wonder if we all sleep under the same stars, angels, demons, and humans alike.

When Kyla speaks, it’s not what I expect.

“This isn’t who you are, Ana.”

I cringe, because she doesn’t know how wrong she is.

“It feels like this is all there is—but it’s not. Do you remember when we were in sixth grade, and I told you I was going to run away to find my father?”

I do.

“And you told me, completely rational about the whole idea, that if I ran away, you would have to run away too, like it was just a fact—like there was nothing you could do about it. You didn’t try to convince me not to go. You just calmly opened your school agenda and looked at the calendar, and you asked me when we were leaving.” I hear her laugh, but it rings out mournfully. “Do you remember when we used to break into my mother’s office to search for clues of who he might be? You did that with me so many times I lost count, and we both knew that if we hadn’t found the clues the first five times we weren’t going to find anything. But you kept breaking in with me, rifling through the same boxes, the same drawers, year after year. We didn’t stop until I went to high school.”

I swallow. “When my mother got sick.”

Kyla keeps going. “My mother and I had
countless
screaming matches about it, and you were always there when I needed to bitch to someone. You were always there when I hated her, somehow getting me to love her anyway. You were always there listening while I made up insane stories about who my father really is, and you were
really
there—
really
listening—not just letting me vent. And every time, when I was done and calm, maybe even exhausted? You’d tell me that it didn’t matter anyway—that I am who I am, and you loved me. My mother loved me. Knowing who my father is would never change that.

“You spent
thirteen years
dealing with my bullshit, and when your mother passed away I realized that my turn was
long
over. I grew up, and got over it. And you know what? I finally got what you were trying to tell me all along—it doesn’t matter who he is, because I’m fucking awesome whether or not he’s a part of me.” She takes a deep, shaking breath. “After all that, Ana, there’s nothing you could do to scare me away. You carried my baggage for me for a lifetime. I can stand by you while you deal with your mother’s death, while you deal you’re your demons,
and
angels—while you deal with
anything
.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder, and I reach up to grab it, heart aching with my love for her, with my guilt, with my desperate hope that I can make amends for the mistakes I’ve made—that I might not be able to avoid making in the future.

“Do you trust me?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I trust you. God, I trust you more than I trust myself.”

“Then please, let me in.”

I nod, squeezing her hand between mine. “I’m trying. I really am.”

— 50 —

In my dream, my mother’s hand is on mine, moving it forward into some distant dark, illuminating the shadows with a strange, inborn light.

Is it magic? Is it something else? Am I just dreaming?

My hand keeps falling forward, endlessly forward, never reaching the limit of our range of motion, never reaching the end of the dark.

And then my fingers—tiny, weak, stubby fingers—fall over a crudely hammered key, surrounded by a labyrinth of gold. The light inside of me focuses, shifts, and a second key pours out of my fingertips, forming a cross over the other key. They settle and merge into a single piece, a single symbol, crossed at the feet of The Hierophant seated upon his throne, a throne made of rich, polished, red wood, the same color as the Crimson Oak. I look up, following the wood grains with my eyes, but instead of the holy warrior I am used to seeing on that tarot card, I find The Devil, waiting, watching.

I’m alarmed to realize he looks just like my father.

How have I never noticed that before?

— 51 —

Faye returns in the afternoon, sun full up and streaming through the golden canopy overhead, dappling us with warmth. We haven’t slept nearly enough, but it’s all the time we can afford to take.

“Here,” she hands us protein bars and water, and a backpack stuffed with more. “You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

“Where’s Lykos?” I ask, unscrewing the cap from my water bottle. I take a long swig from the bottle, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am.

“Right here, sweet pea,” he drawls.

I look up, and see him slowly descending from the sky, down to the earth, the way I always pictured an angel might decide to appear. Sort of.

Kyla’s eyes bulge. “You’re a psychopomp?” she asks, standing and walking around the apparition, shamelessly scrutinizing him.

“Take it all in, ladies.” He spreads his arms and grins. “Enjoy.”

The man—deity?—before us looks more like the ghost of a cowboy than an ancient divine being. He’s pale and translucent, from the top of his hat to the tips of his cowboy boots—which, I notice, have small wings affixed to the heels instead of spurs. Like Nikolai, he’s bigger than a human, taller and broader, but unlike Nikolai, Lykos doesn’t make my whole body clench with fear. He smiles a smile as crooked as they come, dashingly handsome, in a spectral kind of way.

“Save it for someone who cares,” Faye admonishes him, rolling her eyes.

Lykos tips his hat to her. “As you wish, little lady. So.” He looks at me with kind eyes. “You must be the girl I’ve heard so much about. Anastasia.”

“Ana,” I say, blushing.

He nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and puts his hands on his narrow hips. “Now, you gotta understand something, sweet pea. Trebor’s a good friend of mine—he ‘n’ I’ve been through a lot together. And I like to think I know the boy fairly well.” He shakes his head. “And I gotta tell you, he would not be pleased if you went down to Sheol, even to save him. And he’ll be extra cross if he finds out I’m the one who took you.”

“Lykos, please,” I reason. “I know he wouldn’t want this, he’s kind of dramatic like that. But you have to understand, if you don’t take me, I’ll find another way—and that would probably end up being more dangerous. So if you really want to do right by him, you should do right by me. Please?”

Lykos stares at me for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing. “Relax, sweet pea. I was gettin’ to that. ‘Course I’ll take you—I can’t stand what a martyr that kid can be. Besides, I owe him one myself.” He nods, glances at Faye. “Them Malakiim stuck their noses in my kin’s business more ‘n I was gonna allow. They got most of us under their command—but not me. An’ boy does that piss ‘em off. All thanks to Trebor. Yes, ma’am.” He nods. “We worked together a few times ‘fore his brother was taken. Told me he knew about these pockets here, the loka that the Irin made a long time ago. I never knew ‘bout ‘em—I think even Irin today don’t know much about ‘em.”

I look at Faye for confirmation.

She nods. “I only knew about them because Trebor took me to one once, a long time ago.”

“Then where did he hear about loka?” I wonder.

“Trebor’s always been interested in the past, the history of magic, the division of the worlds. He never believed Irin were only meant to serve the Malakiim. Anyway, he showed me in one day, and once a psychopomp sees a world, he’s welcome there forever. And this is one place where them angels in heaven can’t find me.” He rolls his eyes upwards.

“Do the Malakiim really have that much power over you?” Kyla asks.

Lykos cocks an eyebrow. “They have enough power to wrestle heaven from the hands of the old gods. There ain’t many of my kin left these days, thanks to them.”

Faye shifts uncomfortably. “How about you all make plans for a revolution after you get Trebor back?”

Lykos chuckles. “Anything you say, boss. Ready, ladies?”

I look at Kyla, and she looks at me.

We’re about to go to Sheol—hell, by any other name. A place we learned about from my mother’s bedtime stories, passed down from her mother, from her mother before her. A place filled with demons and darkness, and who knows what else.

I swallow, and look at Lykos, eyes wide and shoulders square. “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

“You get your toys yet?”

Kyla and I look at each other, brows furrowed. We shake our heads.

“What toys?” Kyla asks.

“Those,” Lykos gestures behind us, to the crook of the roots where we made camp last night, at the very base of the Crimson Oak.

There is a single, large, golden oak leaf laid there, with two sparkling items resting on top: a gold-hilted dagger, and a necklace. My necklace. The pendant I wore to Kyla’s party, that Andy asked me about.

“This is mine,” I say, lifting the familiar necklace up to their eyes. “How did it get here?”

Faye cocks her head, eyeing the simply engraved pendant. “It’s an amulet,” she tells me. “For protection. Where did you get it?”

“My mother gave it to me. If it is an amulet, it doesn’t work.” I frown, remembering the events of that night.

Faye shakes her head. “It should work now. The Oak has charged it with her own magic. It’s very powerful, now.”

I hold the pendant in the palm of my hand and realize she’s right. I can feel it thrumming, a soft, warm radiance, reaching into me. I shake my head. “Kyla, you wear it.”

She looks at me, already holding the dagger in her hand. “I’m fine, I’ll take the knife.” She grins.

I shake my head. “No. Take them both. I have my own protection.” So long as I can focus the magic without Trebor’s help.

Kyla resists, but she sees my point. “Okay. Stick close to me, though.”

“Of course.” I smile, but I’m wondering about the nights Trebor and I have been able to make my magic work. “Faye—the Irin have their own language, right?”

She studies me, and nods.

“So…what would ahuvati sheli mean?”

Her eyebrows raise, genuinely shocked. “Is that it?”

I think about it. The first time, he did say something else. “Ahuvati sheli… salah, salah.”

Something in her sinks and riles at the same time, making her shoulders twist. She looks at me, long and hard, before she answers. “It doesn’t have an exact translation into the English language. Salah means something like the condition of peace. It would translate roughly to…” She hesitates, working her jaw, staring me straight in the eye. “Be at peace, my beloved. Be at peace.”

I try to maintain an expression of mild curiosity, but I can feel my face flush and pale, rushed at once with the warmth of affection, and then the terror of loss. I don’t have the time or energy to confront the feelings burning in my stomach, in my heart.

Kyla touches my arm and I flinch, pursing my lips. “Okay. Thanks. Ready to go?”

Kyla gives me a knowing look, and nods.

“All right then.” Lykos snaps his fingers, and if I thought Faye’s revelation was enough to leave me breathless, all the air in my body leaves at once, as the world burns away in a blaze of white.