The Fox and the Falcon (No Other Gods #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Time and date in the Phoenician pantheon unknown, age 26

The stakes were higher now, but so was my faith.

I’d once called out to a god who’d never acknowledged my existence. Now I knew that when I cried into the dark, someone was listening. Wherever he was in the Canaanite palace, we were under one roof together.

I studied Fauna’s irises, the browns and ambers reminding me so much of crushed autumn leaves. Her head shook again, white and copper hair mixing like the blur of a baby deer running from its terror as tears spilled over her lids. The tears continued as I crossed the distance and hugged her.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too.”

Her broken tears confirmed my suspicions. Her terror came from realizing she’d underestimated Azrames’s circumstances. She’d spent her time watching cartoons and eating gummy bears, unwilling to picture him in a Phoenician tomb.

Her forehead collapsed against my bare shoulder, and I felt the heat and water of her tears before the first shudder of her sob. Her hand slipped around me, sliding against my back and pinning me against her as she cried.

“You love him,” was all I said.

She tightened her hold against me. Hell had been in a war against Heaven from the moment they’d met, but I wondered as to Azrames’s involvement in the fight. He’d been busy working with Betty across her lives for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Fauna knew he could handle himself against humans, parasites, witches, and nuisances. When a seal had been terraformed, he’d kept her safe by disappearing without her. For all I knew, it was the first time he’d taken on a god.

Knowing what I did now of Fauna’s ideology, I wondered how much had rubbed off on him, and how much she blamed herself for putting him in danger. It was one thing to fight for what you believed in. It was another to watch someone else fall because of those beliefs.

“He doesn’t drag me into his shit,” Fauna said, sagging to the ground. She pulled me with her to the floor until our embrace melted into the uncomfortable fibers of the jute rug. “He handles the world, and can tolerate me on top of it. The first time I bring him into my life is with you, and…”

I pulled away just long enough to look her in the eye. “This is my fault?”

She laughed, dropping her arms. One hand clasped onto mine while the other wiped away her tears. “No, this is the casualty of insurrection. It knows no realms, only revolution.”

“Fauna…”

She dropped the hand against her cheek and grabbed me with both. “I stand by what I said. Maybe we were brought together because I saw your link between Hell and the Nordes. Maybe you were our missing piece. But I’m not some unfeeling terrorist, Marlow. I care about you. I care about Azrames. I wouldn’t…”

She didn’t finish her sentence.

She wouldn’t what? Wouldn’t sacrifice me? Wouldn’t let Azrames die for her mutiny against the gods?

“We’re here now,” I said. The rest seemed unimportant. We were in a windowless sarcophagus that smelled of flowers and citrus. There was nowhere for us to turn. Her tears lost their volume as she leaned back into the hug, silent, salty streams running down her face and onto the exposed skin of my shoulder.

Fauna and I had switched roles. My urgency and panic had subsided now that we’d arrived at our destination, meanwhile hers had just begun. Maybe I was na?ve. Maybe my ability to compartmentalize Caliban into a fictionalized version had allowed me to think of him as unkillable. Or maybe I was right. Maybe I believed in Caliban now the way Fauna had spent hundreds of years believing in Azrames. Maybe I had swallowed the lines about gods and their oaths and extended it to trust that we were here for a banquet, and we were being held as a precaution, even if our hosts meant us no harm. At least, I was trying to.

A sound tore our attention from our sorrow a moment before any movement. The same rough noise of stone rubbing against itself resounded from the wall as the door reemerged from what had been a smooth surface only moments prior. Fauna barely had time to get to her feet as two women entered and the door closed behind itself. They were upon us in a moment, stripping us from Poppy’s clothes, scrubbing us with sponges, water, cloths, and oils.

Fauna yelled at them in numerous languages. I couldn’t fathom how many different ways I heard her demand answers to her questions. If she truly spoke Klingon, then I assumed dead languages were long-conquered as well. These women either chose not to answer or were somehow unable. It seemed unfathomable that Fauna had been unable to get through to them, which solidified my belief that even if they understood, they’d say nothing. At one point, a girl with pin-straight black hair that had been cropped at the shoulders looked up to meet her eye, but it had been between her shouts, rather than in response to any one of them. Fauna tried language after language, frustration escalating to hysterics at their unresponsiveness, but they did not look up again.

We were bathed, perfumed, dressed, and ignored.

The clean gown was shockingly like the one they’d stripped from my body. Perhaps Poppy had selected our apparel based on her knowledge of Phoenician customs. I was once more in a white cotton shift that was more fitting as a nightgown than as proper attire. Fauna had been clad in a shade of gray that suited no one in the room. She frowned at it deeply as the attendants appeared to observe how it contrasted poorly against her skin, her hair, and her freckles. Fauna was a late summer or soft autumn at best, not the washed-out shades of winter they’d selected.

There was no explanation, apology, or alternative.

When the women abandoned us, we sank onto the bed despondently. It was too stuffy in the room for us to climb beneath the sheet. I searched absently for a light source, but discerned none. It was simply me, the tub, the bed, the pictures engraved in the wall, and Fauna. Maybe it would have been better if we’d been left in pitch-black.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed before I spoke. “At least we’re here together.” I didn’t want to bring up Fenrir. There was nothing we could do.

“I wish I was stuck in a tomb with someone more interesting.”

I was tempted to laugh, but pain seeped from between my lips. “If there was ever a time to shelve your sarcasm and be nice to me, it would be now.”

Fauna rolled onto her side. She draped an arm over my waist and pulled at me until I looked at her. Once again, I wished it were dark. I’d known so many versions of her, but seeing her worried and in pain made me bleed in new, acute ways.

“Tell me about Azrames,” I said quietly.

She closed her eyes.

“You love him.”

Her eyes remained closed for a long time. “Love looks a lot of ways.”

I kept my voice gentle. “I know that.”

Brows furrowed, she asked, “Do you?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and my face reflected as much.

“We’re trapped in a grave, Marlow. It’s either the time to ignore all our problems and play blackjack, or to face the skeletons in our closet.”

I rallied my optimism. “They didn’t clothe us and bathe us to leave us alone in our room. They’re coming back for us. I’m sure we’ll be at the banquet any moment. Besides, I don’t expect to find playing cards tucked away like it’s a hotel room.”

“No cards? Skeletons it is,” she said on a breath. “You were right to set boundaries with your family. Your mother is awful to you. They shouldn’t be in your life. And yet, I think it’s uncomfortable for you to reconcile that two things can be true. That was Aloisa’s point, right? Maybe your parents are terrible, and you don’t need to be around them, but simultaneously, they do love you.”

I struggled against my pillow and the cloud of her hair to shake my head.

“You figured out I’m a card-carrying anarchist. Did you immediately turn on me?”

“It’s not the same.”

Her constellation of freckles scrunched as she said, “It’s not. And it is. I was brought to you for less pure reasons and loved you instantly. What about Caliban? Do you think he loves you less because he didn’t disclose everything to you at all times?”

“This isn’t about—”

“Isn’t it? He knew you wouldn’t be receptive, and he wanted to be in your life. Was it selfish, or was it kind? Or can it be both?”

“Fauna! I’m trying to talk to you about Az. I know you’re excellent at avoidance, but I’m not going to fall for it. Do you want to prove that you love me? That my fucked-up parents love me? That Caliban loves me? Good for you. But do you realize how evasive you are when it comes to discussing your feelings?”

“I’m—”

“Wild and free,” I completed for her. “I’m not asking you to be anything else.” I forced myself into a sitting position and up and pulled my knees to my chest. “Scrambling against the wall wasn’t about your wildness or freedom. You’re scared for him.”

She tucked herself into a position that mirrored mine. Her face turned toward what remained of the rose petals floating in the dark water of the bath we’d soiled with the sand and dirt from the storm. My eyes followed hers, fixing on a single pink petal that bobbed uncertainly, as if it weren’t sure if it would cling to the surface or succumb to the grit that pulled it under. At long last, she closed her eyes and let her head hang heavy. The waves of her clean hair spilled like silk and gems overturned from a precious safe as they tumbled over her shoulder and dangled toward the bed.

“Even the gods die,” she said quietly without looking at me. “Humans pass, yes, but you return in your cycles. If a demon is slain, well…you know the word smite , don’t you?”

I looked at the fabric I twisted absentmindedly between my fingers.

“And if gods die—if they’re truly killed—there’s no rebirth.” I continued looking at the back of her head, the slump of her shoulders, the tight cuddle of her arms around her legs as she stared into the distance, saying, “If Azrames dies, I can’t be the reason.”

“Some gods come back,” I said quietly.

She looked at me below heavy, hooded lids. There was only sorrow within her eyes. “Azrames isn’t a god.”

I stretched out a hand to touch her. It hovered uncertainly above her back for a long while as I contemplated my incentive. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to alleviate my own discomfort by touching her, or if I wanted to take away her pain. I wasn’t sure I’d answered my question by the time my fingers found their resting place on her back. I fell into a familiar pattern that I seldom found an opportunity to use. My mother had drawn idle shapes with her fingers on my back while I’d stayed quiet in long church services. She’d scratched my back if I’d stayed quiet for hours or more during Bible study with the adults. Sometimes she’d touch my back while she read from convoluted historical texts, adding incentive to my love for theology and literature.

Memories of the actions were painful. I wasn’t comfortable with believing my mother truly loved me.

After all, there were things love was, and things it wasn’t.

Still, I traced comforting patterns along Fauna’s back, her shoulders, her hair, until she relaxed into the pillow once more. I joined her on the bed, continuing my hypnotic tracings until they lulled us both into a sleep beyond the tight constraints of time. I wasn’t sure who fell asleep first, how much time passed in the windowless room. Whether by the passage of the dull red sun beyond, or through some magic of our inhabitance, the lights dimmed with our drowsiness.

***

I may have slept for three hours or ten when a sound roused me.

I stirred from a dream of winter, and wind, and fractured lakes. I looked through the fuzz of lashes and sleep to see what had woken me. Fauna slept soundly beside me, statuesque save for the soft rise and fall of her breath. The room remained mostly dark with the magic that I could only assume tracked the sun, save for a small, dim light in the corner. I blinked against the noise and turned toward the door.

My breath evacuated my lungs at a sight whiter than snow, brighter than the moon, purer than diamonds.

It was impossible. I wasn’t ready. My heart skidded, love and panic coursing through me in equal proportions as I moved against the silken sheets.

The icy sight moved from the doorway’s arch to my bedside before I could register its presence beyond my cloud of useless, low-vibrational panic. I lost control of my arms and legs as I scrambled from my tangled place in the sheets to the side of the bed. I couldn’t get off the mattress fast enough. My bare feet hadn’t had the chance to hit the ground before hands were on me. A hand cradled my face while the other wrapped around the lowermost part of my back. He scooped me against him as he knelt by the bed.

“Love,” came his whisper, meadow-soft, moss-scented, drenched in loss and longing and sorrow and passion. “Gods, I’ve missed you. I’ll never let you go again.”

I tried to choke out his name, but he shushed me.

“But Fauna—”

His voice was as low as the rustling of ferns in the depths of the forest. “I promise you: I’ll get her to Azrames. I won’t let her wake up alone. But you have to come with me now.”

I hedged for the barest fraction of a second, broken between loyalties. He’d preempted my fear. He understood my reluctance. He knew why I wouldn’t want to leave Fauna, and exactly how to soothe my guilt. He’d promised that Fauna would not wake up abandoned, and I trusted him.

I’d expected to rise to my feet, but Caliban scooped me against him. I wasn’t wholly certain I wasn’t dreaming. The scents of moss, cypress, and petrichor were almost too good to be true. I was too sleepy for the champagne-and-gin drunkenness of his presence as I closed my eyes, resting my head against his chest.

Maybe I was dreaming.

I’d been dreaming as a child when I’d wandered away from the church gathering into the woods and been swept up into strong arms and returned to my family. I’d been dreaming as a teenager when I’d cried myself to sleep. I’d been dreaming when cool hands had shoved their fingers down my throat when, at fifteen, I’d swallowed everything in the cabinet, then had held my hair as I’d watched tiny white pills join the greens and yellows and blues of whatever I’d eaten for dinner. I’d been dreaming as I’d rested against a broad chest when I’d sobbed on the shower floor in college, desperate to be normal, to stop hallucinating, to see him no longer.

I decided that if this was a dream, it was a good one.

Maybe I’d been too deeply asleep to fully rouse when he’d arrived. Maybe I’d been too exhausted, or taxed, or traumatized to accept his presence. Maybe none of it mattered, for as he tucked me into the forest perfume of his soft sheets and kissed my temple, I was tugged under by the comforting lull of sleep, off to dream about ferns and damp bark and misty trails and love that lasted.