The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (5 page)

Trebor reaches blindly too, considering the cards with his fingertips instead of his eyes. He picks one, slides it out.

When I turn it over and see, from the corner of my eye, which card he’s drawn, I can’t help but break my gaze.

The Hierophant looks up at us, dressed in red, seated on his throne, adorned with gold. I can’t help but think of my own reading last night, and I feel a shiver move through my spine, like sparks crackling down a fuse. I’m trying not to let the memory of Kyla’s reading influence this one, when I notice two things that didn’t stick out to me before: the scrolls of the Torah behind the Hierophant’s throne, and the hint of chain mail glistening at his throat.

“You’re a teacher,” I tell him, but do not repeat the crazy words that enter into my head right after:
A holy warrior.
“Are you religious?”

He shrugs, but his eyes are so intense I can’t believe the casual nature of the gesture. “
Spiritual
might be more accurate. What my people—my family—lacked in dogma, they more than made up for in blind faith.”

Your people?
I wonder.

“But you’re not blind,” I see, and find myself smiling as a thought forms in the back of my head. I tap the card, invigoration spreading through me as the rush of a successful reading comes to a head. “This is your purpose. You’re meant to spread truth, and open the eyes of those who follow blindly.”

The bell rings, making Kyla jump and pulling me out of my trance. I feel myself slip back, the urgency in my blood sated by the exertion.

Trebor looks between the cards and me, considering, and still smiling. “Thank you, Ana. This has been enlightening.”

I gather my cards and smile back. I don’t look him in the eye this time. I’m not ready for that snare again, just yet.

Kyla and I stand and say goodbye to the new kid, heading off to our respective classes, when suddenly her eyes light up in a sinister way.

“Hey, Trebor,” she calls back just before we’re out the door. “See you at the party tomorrow tonight?”

I look over my shoulder to see his response, some part of me hoping he says yes, but all the other parts dreading Kyla’s machinations.

Andy walks up to him, elbows him and whispers something in his ear—whatever it is, it makes Trebor smile.

“Of course,” he calls back, and looks directly at me. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

— 11 —

It must be the changing of the season
, I tell myself, because for some reason this nervous, thunderous humming inside of me just cannot seem to be sated for more than a handful of hours these past few days. It’s true that it’s been getting progressively stronger all year, but ever since I saw that man at the cemetery, it’s almost relentless.

At times like this, I’ve found that channeling is not enough. Like today, while my father is at the fire station, and Kyla is organizing things for her party, I’ve been playing my violin for three straight hours while the rain pelts the world outside my window, melting the last of the snow. I’ve played every song I know, several that I made up on the fly, and practiced scales for an entire hour. My shoulders are shaking from fatigue. My fingers are aching.

But it’s still there.

The
hum
inside of me has magnified, intensified, threefold since last night, since I saw that man with the flashing eyes on the street. I can’t get the sound of his voice out of my head, those two soft syllables reaching into my core and playing with my guts.
Sorry
, he said, voice like a cello sonata, like black coffee and fall leaves, like the crisp chill of winter air.

What does that even mean?

I shiver just thinking about it—about the sound, the man, the feeling. I find myself suddenly gasping sometimes, if I’m not careful to breathe deeply, regularly. By the time the sun goes down, I feel like I might go insane if I can’t get rid of this energy—this fire—whatever it might be.

And if I can’t channel it, I have to burn it off. Somehow.

I stare out the window, through the raindrops racing down the windowpane, into the shadows where darkness lingers, where darker things wait. My skin flushes with heat, and I imagine the cool clarity of cold water on my face.

I’m struck with the thought of taking off my sweater and running barefoot through the rain, splashing in the puddles until my feet turn to prunes—but that wouldn’t be a good idea. I would probably get sick, or cut my foot on some broken glass uncovered in the melting snow, or trip and skin my knees. But then, distressingly, the thought of pain somehow thrills me—it’s something direct, simple, certain. The burn of rent flesh, the cool rush of adrenaline in my blood—

Just the thought of it unleashes something raw and wild inside of me, and now that I’ve had the idea I can’t seem to shrug it off. Before I know it, I’ve pulled off my sweater and socks, and I’m opening the front door in nothing but my jeans and a black camisole.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, sucking in the spring air until it fills my lungs, feeding the sparks smoldering in my veins, building to the verge of combustion. And then everything behind my eyelids turns white-hot, and infinite.

My eyes snap open.

I leap off the porch, and hit the ground running.

It is pure exhilaration. The asphalt beneath my bare feet is coarse and cleansing as I run, each new splash dousing the legs of my jeans with cold, sending chills through my body. The rain covers me, inch by inch, kissing my arms, my shoulders, face and neck and chest, each kiss a spike of life, a pinch of ice.

I sprint, straining my body to go faster and faster, each lean muscle on my long frame vibrant, awake, burning. I run around the block, up to the park at the end of the cross street, through the muddy baseball diamond, relishing the feeling of earth between my toes. I’m so
alive
, so invigorated by such a simple act, by letting myself do this utterly primal, senseless, stupid thing.

Lightning flashes in the distance, and a quiet rumble of thunder is slow to follow. I grin and laugh, jump into the air spinning, crying out in the cacophony of the storm with my own, powerful voice—a voice I’ve never used. I don’t say anything, but shout to the sky, to the earth, to the emptiness of the playing field. My heart trembles with expansive freedom, with a kind of ecstasy I’m certain I’ve never known. I half expect lightning to shoot from my fingertips when I raise my arms to the sky.

I want to lie down in the cold and the mud, and let the rain and earth cover me. I want to let it bury me, let myself climb out of its murky depths, like a golem freshly born. Is that what I need? Do I need some kind of ceremony to recognize the changes I’ve felt coming?

I shake my head, long, wet hair slapping my shoulders, and force the thought from my mind. No changes. No thinking. Just running, and jumping, and reveling, and
feeling
.

I cut across the field, across the parking lot behind the retirement towers, run fast up to the main road and unabashedly down Main Street. What do I care if people see me? They won’t recognize me in the dark, sopping wet. I run and run, and decide that when I get home I’m going to climb out the attic window, onto the roof, stand on top of my house and scream as beautifully as I possibly can—

“
Anastasia
,” a voice slithers out from the dark and the rain, like a bar dropping down in the middle of my path.

I stop short and turn, spinning on the ball of my bare foot, pavement grinding under my skin. It’s hard to see through the rain, but I can make out a silhouette beneath the streetlamp. That’s all it seems to be: just shape and shadow, and the white embers of its eyes, and then the gleaming, pointed teeth, too large for its grin.

A demon. One of the Sura. Watching me.

Speaking to me.

Saying
my name
.

My heart knocks at the back of my throat, rising on a wave of adrenaline, and I remember my mother saying once,
If you ever come across a demon lurking in the dark, just tell it to leave, and it will. It has to obey you, because without you, it isn’t real
.

“Go away,” I mutter and close my eyes. My insides shiver, suddenly hyper-aware of the damp cold. “Go away, go away, go away…” When I open my eyes, it’s gone.

My heart races, horrified and excited. What does this mean? They know who I am, that I can see them—they know my
name.
Is this what I’ve felt coming? And if it is, what do I—

“
Anastasia!
”

I yelp involuntarily and spin around to see the thing that has hissed in my ear. The shadow creature is there, inches from me, impossibly tall and endlessly dark, an outline of horns curving away from its head and up to the sky. It’s eyes burn bright with laughter.

“Go away!” I shout. When it does not, I bolt in the direction of home.

My feet are suddenly leaden, like in a bad dream. Home is only a block away, but it feels like it might as well be miles. All down the street I think I see the creature’s face among the shadows, lurching towards me from the darkness, laughing, grinning as it watches me flee.

I’m not afraid
, I think.
I can out run them, I can use the protection spell. They can’t touch me.

“Shama Irin,
” I whisper, voice shaking with each step pounding against pavement. “
Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim. Shama Irin. Shama Iritz. Shama Naghim…
” The words fill me, their ancient magic fighting against my fear.

Finally, my driveway in sight, I turn to see if the demon has followed me—

“Oomph!”

I impact, full force, with something hard and broad, but with the warm, natural give of flesh—a body—and bounce backwards. A dark figure catches my arms and holds fast, hauling me upright.

Lightning splinters the sky overhead, and in the shadows of the hooded face before me, eyes flash golden, like a cat’s.

My heart hammers into my throat, and I open my mouth to scream.

— 12 —

“Ana, it’s me!” Trebor throws back his hood, letting the rain pelt him.

I freeze, holding my breath.
Is this for real?

“Are you okay?” He asks. He realizes he’s still holding my arm, and drops it.

I surprise myself by laughing a full-body laugh, some kind of hysterical catharsis moving through me from my face to my feet. “Oh my god,” I manage to say between breaths. “I thought you were…and then…but…oh. God.” But I keep laughing, doubled over, hands on my knees, horrified and relieved all at once.

The rain slides off of my skin in rivulets, tickling me, sending shivers down my spine. It makes me aware of just how cold it really is outside, and just how crazy I must be, or at least s
eem
to be. I straighten after a moment, no longer smiling, and run my hands through the tangled mess of my wet hair as if I might pull away the shadows from inside my head.

I look at Trebor, openly stare at him, at his hooded black jacket, thinking about the flash of his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I was out,” he tries to explain again, shifting uncomfortably, gesturing behind him to a figure coming towards us, also in a hooded black jacket. “Andy—”

“Andy?” I wonder.

He inclines his head towards me, genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You looked terrified.”

I hesitate, swallow my nerves. “Um, I…I’m fine, I was just—”

“Ana!” Andy waves and jogs towards us. “Ana, are you okay?” he asks, taking in the very damp sight of me. His tone is half concerned, half amused.

I’m suddenly more embarrassed than afraid, but I mask it with a sharp laugh. Andy Pavlovic is not exactly someone to be afraid of—whether or not Trebor is has yet to be seen. “Yeah, of course. I was just getting some exercise.”

“Barefoot? In the rain?” Andy wonders, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, you know us
gypsy
folk,” I give him a tight smile, summoning the slur used most often to tease me. “We like to stay close to the earth. What are you two doing out this way?” I look around for more friends to suddenly appear and ask questions.

Andy laughs and points to his car a little farther up the street, a red mustang his parents bought him for his eighteenth birthday as a gift for being an ideal son—class president, valedictorian, going to an ivy league school in the fall, and making it this far without knocking up a cheerleader, being gay, or turning out to be controversial in any way. “I was taking Trebor to meet my cousins down the street. I’m parked just over there.”

“Your cousins?” I had no idea he had family on my street.

“The Richmonds, blue house on the left. They just moved in.”

“Oh.” Duh. I feel stupid for being suspicious. “Sorry.”

“No worries. Hey, listen, don’t let us stop you—you look cold.”

“Right,” I nod, smile curtly at both of them, and start to walk past them, towards my porch.

“Oh, hey, Ana, one thing,” Andy says.

My shoulders tighten before I turn back to Andy and Trebor, pushing the wet mop of my hair out of my face.

“Are you coming to Kyla’s party tomorrow?”

What, to my best friend’s house party?
I have to stop myself from scoffing. “Hmm, yeah, I think I’ll stop by.”

Andy half smiles, and glances at Trebor for an instant. “Bringing your tarot deck?”

I clench my jaw, and also glance at Trebor, wondering if it had been such a good idea to showcase my abilities at school this morning. But Trebor’s face is neutral, observing us as if he’s not even a part of the conversation anymore. I know that kind of expression. I practice it often.

“Wasn’t planning on it, no.” It almost comes out as a sneer.

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean it like a joke,” Andy insists, apologetic. “I was actually wondering if you would give me a reading some time. My aunt was just telling us about a reading she got from a Spiritualist in Lily Dale, and Trebor said you were pretty remarkable.” He gives me a good-natured, if crooked, smile and lets the potential double meaning sink in. “So, I was kind of intrigued.”

I blink at him, trying to keep my face expressionless. “Sure. Maybe during study hall or something.”

“Awesome. Well, see you tomorrow then!” Andy says, and turns to head back to his car.

“Goodnight, Anastasia,” Trebor says, drawing my eyes back to him. His voice penetrates, wraps around me, a gentle grip teasing warmth from my belly.

It
is
him—the flashing eyes, the voice like a spell—Trebor
is
the man I saw last night. But was that—and is he—also the man from the cemetery? And should I say something?

Should he?

Momentarily lost in the sound of his voice and the spiral of questions in my head, it takes just long enough for me to respond for it to be too long. I feel awkward when I finally say something.

“Goodnight,” I almost whisper.

But he hears me, and he nods, once, before he turns to follow Andy back to the car.