Chapter 22 Malevimus
MALEVIMUS
Our truest selves live only in the company of a devoted witness.
Malevimus, God of Wit and Secrets
Walking into Olivier’s class minutes before the debate begins, Claudia sees Cassius standing across the classroom talking to other students.
Olivier sets up the debate stage while Claudia lingers close to Olivier’s desk.
There are two cherry-toned wooden podiums, and behind each, a row of four plush chairs.
There is a stained glass window with a red swan interrupting the center of the wall behind them.
Some students are in their seats while others meander around the room.
Claudia can hear a group chattering behind her, making bets on who will win—of course, all odds favor Cassius.
When Cassius looks up, he sees her and immediately walks toward her. Her stomach churns. She’s so nervous she feels she might be sick.
“How did you sleep?” His voice is rich and thoroughly warmed up, but his eyes are exhausted. Dark shadows hang beneath them, and his skin is pale.
“Very well, thank you.”
He lets out a sigh of relief, followed by a yawn. “Good.”
“What about you?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I stayed on my balcony.”
“Why would you—” She stops herself. Her eyes soften. “Cassius, you didn’t have to do that. You shouldn’t have.”
His jaw tenses. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“But look at you now. You can hardly keep your eyes open.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep whether I was on my balcony or in my bed.”
She looks deep into his striking blue eyes, almost made purple by the red light streaming through the stained glass window. “The essence of dreams worked well,” she says. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore.”
“I am worried anyway.”
“Why? We’re rivals, remember? We promised that wouldn’t change. We’re supposed to hate each other.”
“Oh, please, Claudia.” His gaze trails over her body, hanging on her lips before coming back up to her eyes. “Be honest with yourself.”
Brows pinched, lips parted, she says, “I am being honest.”
He leans down to her ear like he’s telling her a secret. “Did you hate me when you were on your knees for me? Did you hate me as you begged for more?”
She sucks in a cold breath. Heat blooms in her cheeks.
He laughs through his nose. “That’s what I thought. You don’t hate me. You hate how much you want me.” His eyes dip to her mouth. “Because no one else can hurt you like I can, and my praise means more to you than anyone else’s.”
Mouth open in disbelief, she scoffs and says, “You hate how much you want me, too. My submission is what you crave because it’s a challenge to earn, and it will be even harder to keep. No one else will ever make you feel as powerful as I do.”
“You’re right,” he says, and his bluntness startles her. “That is why I worry. Because for this to work, your pleasure and your pain are my responsibility, and if I can’t keep you safe, I don’t deserve to keep you at all.”
She stiffens. Time itself stumbles. Beneath her, the floor slants, as if his words have tilted the universe. He doesn’t move a muscle, nor does he blink. His eyes, filled with that same dominant darkness that she saw the other night, remain locked on hers.
“Stop trying to throw me off before the debate,” she says. She meant to sound stern, but her voice came out breathy and desperate.
He hides a laugh in his throat. “I see you, Jolicoeur. We’re exactly alike,” he whispers low and deep. “You can’t just fuck, can you? You need the game. You need me to—” He stops himself when Professor Olivier approaches from across the room.
“All right, you two. Let’s head to the chapel.”
Claudia barely hears her over the blood rushing in her ears. Her legs don’t move. She watches, frozen, as Cassius and Olivier take off without her. When she slips back into her body, back from whatever heady, lustful place she floated off to, she rushes to catch up before they walk out of the room.
Hanging back in the doorway, she looks at the debate stage over her shoulder. “Aren’t we debating back there?”
“Yes, but not without speaking to Malevimus under my guidance,” Olivier calls from the corridor, motioning her forward. Claudia picks up the skirt of her robes and rushes to catch up to them. Together, they walk toward the chapel.
Olivier continues with, “You each will get to ask him five questions in hopes of gleaning new truths that will better your argument.”
Catching her breath, Claudia looks up at Cassius. What about his curse? He can’t ask Malevimus anything. Or, at least, he can’t hear the answer. “But Cassius can’t—”
“Claudia.” His voice is a warning.
Oh.
Olivier doesn’t know. Claudia had assumed that he was only keeping it a secret from other classmates—not their professors. Clearly, that’s not the case. But then why in any god’s name would he share such intimate details—of his family, his curse, and his whole life—with Claudia?
Their professor charges a whole foot ahead of them.
Quietly, Claudia says, “Why are you doing this if you can’t talk to the gods at all? What’s the point?”
“The point is that my professors don’t know about my curse, and I need to keep it that way.”
They pass a series of portraits depicting the dozens of professors at Cygnus.
High Sage Triche’s portrait hangs at the very end.
It looks significantly older than the others—the gold frame has lost much of its luster and the painting itself has yellowed significantly.
He wears his signature sweet smile, almost silly with how it slides to the side and makes his sparkly eyes crinkle.
“Does the High Sage know?” Claudia asks.
Cassius stiffens and nods. They keep walking, careful not to fall too far behind Olivier.
“Well, it’s not fair if I can talk to Malevimus and you can’t.”
He scoffs, smoothing his robe over his chest. “I’ve won every debate without his guidance. I’m not worried.”
“It’s a matter of principle. If you can’t talk to him, I won’t, either.”
What happens next could’ve been an accident, or a hallucination, but Claudia feels Cassius’s hand brush against hers as they walk, and his fingers—only for a second or two—tangle with hers.
When they reach the doors to the chapel, Olivier pushes them open. The red candle for Malevimus is lit upon the pulpit. Claudia can smell the magic waiting inside. It’s warmer and spicier than celestial magic—like sandalwood and the sweet sweat of someone you love.
Olivier clears her throat. “Who’s first?”
“Go ahead, Jolicoeur,” Cassius says, gesturing into the room.
“But—”
“I insist.” He smiles softly. He means it. “Go.”
She looks at Olivier, unsure.
The professor smiles. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be right here on the other side of the door.
Remember, you get five questions. Be careful with the wording.
It’s all about how you phrase them. Ask wrong, and you’ll come away with absolutely nothing.
Ask correctly, and you may uncover a secret of the universe.
” She leans in, squeezing Claudia’s shoulder.
“I think you’ll be selected for debate many times, Miss Jolicoeur.
You’re a strong rhetorician. No matter what happens inside the chapel, I’m sure you will get another chance. Simply do what feels right.”
With a deep breath, Claudia releases some of her nerves and relaxes her shoulders. She nods, stepping inside. The door slams behind her, forcing a rush of wind at her back. She walks forward toward the only light in the room.
Her steps echo against the stone walls. As silent as it is, she knows she’s not alone.
By whatever instinct tells an animal that a predator is near, she can sense Malevimus in the room.
His presence is significantly stronger than when she first came here and lit the red candle.
That whole ritual was merely opening the door of her mind for Malevimus.
Now he’s stepped inside. She’s never felt this much power from anyone or anything before—not even Dorian.
This is the difference between a devil and a god.
When she reaches the pulpit, she steels her spine and clears her throat. “Hello, Malevimus,” she says, for she’s not sure if they’re meant to exchange pleasantries before she asks her questions.
Cloying sweetness builds on her tongue when the walls of the chapel quake and tremble. On the pulpit, the red candle glows brighter, devouring the darkness around it.
A rich, tinny voice warms up in a distant throat. The air changes with his breath. The feel of his thick, deep voice shocks her.
“Hello, Claudia.”
Through deep breaths, she tries to stay calm. She knows she’s supposed to ask questions about the debate, but she can’t help herself. There’s so much more she wants—no, needs—to know. Malevimus bestows the gift of truth, which means he could tell her what really happened before she arrived.
If her curiosity costs her the debate, so be it. She’ll find another way to earn Cassius’s praise.
Rather than wasting one of her questions to ask for permission, she says, “I’m going to ask you about something other than the debate topic.”
Malevimus doesn’t respond.
She stumbles over the first word when she asks, “Wh-who killed Odette Dufort?”
The candle flares so brightly it makes her step back. Sparks fly around the room and die out in the darkness.
“No one,” Malevimus says. The candle flickers four times. Four questions left.
Claudia knits her brows. No one? So, there’s no killer at all? That doesn’t sit right with her. It doesn’t ring true in the ear. She needs to try again. Like Olivier said, it’s all in the wording.
“How did Odette Dufort die?” she asks instead. It could’ve been an aneurysm like Alistair said.
There’s barely a pause before the god says, “She did not wake up.” Three flickers.
Confusion grows over her face. Frustrated, she shrugs, throwing up both her arms. “Why did you choose me to replace her?”
“I had no choice.” Two flickers.
Embarrassment burns in her cheeks. Of course Malevimus didn’t want her. It’s like Dorian said—she’s only here because of his bargain, and he could easily send her away.
Her voice trembles when she asks, “So, you would have chosen someone else?”
A strange sound vibrates through the room, almost like a laugh. “No.”
That answer is a bit of a balm. Nevertheless, she’s now wasted four of her five questions, and just like Olivier warned, she’s gleaned nothing useful.
It’s pointless to continue down that line of questioning, so she decides to use her last one for its intended purpose: the debate.
“What is the greatest reason for punishing the gods?”
“Punishment is a cure. Without it, gods become devils.”
The words echo in her mind as she tests them in different parts of her argument—it works in her opening statement, but it chills in her closing. She loves it. It’s a perfect capstone to her position.
She clasps her hands together and looks up at the arched ceiling. “Thank you, Malevimus.”
Out of questions, she turns and walks toward the door, eager to escape the heavy presence of the god. When she reaches for the handle, the startling warmth of that holy voice returns.
“Claudia, wait. I must share a message.”
She whips back around. What is she supposed to say to that? She doesn’t have any more questions. She’s not entitled to further information.
But who is she to reject the wisdom of a god?
Stepping back toward the center of the room, she says, “What is it?”
The candlelight turns unnaturally red, casting an impossibly bright light across the entire room. Claudia sees a giant shadow cast upon the ceiling as if there is a figure standing over the candle through which the light cannot pass. It’s not a man—it’s a monster.
“Tell Cassius his dreams are real. The curse of silence will end with him.”
She freezes—so does the entire room. Even the flame of the candle pauses, hardening into a stiff blade.
This is not supposed to happen. Odette tried to speak to Malevimus for Cassius, and even she was met with silence.
It should be impossible.
“H—how are you able to give me a message for him? He’s supposed to be cursed to never commune with the gods, even through someone else.”
“You are out of questions.”
“But you just said—” She stops herself and sighs.
It’s probably not a good idea to sass a god.
But Claudia is terrible at taking no for an answer, and she’s even worse at leaving curiosities unsatisfied.
She may be out of questions, but she knows someone who isn’t.
“Can I use Cassius’s questions in his stead? ”
Malevimus doesn’t answer for a long time, but Claudia doesn’t move. She won’t relent. She won’t leave without a fight.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of standing with her arms crossed and tapping her foot, the god answers her.
“Yes.” The candle flickers four times. Four questions left.
She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Why am I an exception to his curse?”
“The curse of silence has no power over you, for your soul is tied to the origin and the end.”
She’s connected to this curse? How? It began aeons ago, long before she or Cassius ever existed. Her mind and her heart are racing. Maybe killing celestial witches will be the means by which the curse breaks. That could explain why Claudia is tied to it.
Maybe Cassius is going to kill her.
“Did Cassius have any involvement in what happened to Odette?”
“No, he did not.”
Then who did? The question almost spills out of her mouth, but she swallows it down. She can’t keep letting thoughtless questions ruin this.
“Is Cassius going to kill me?”
“No.” One flicker. One last question.
“Then why did Dorian tell me to stay away from him? I don’t understand why he was so furious. What makes him convinced that Cassius is dangerous?”
That’s too many questions, but she couldn’t stop herself.
The floor rumbles and groans. The candle erupts in a final, blinding flash of bloodred light. The last words from Malevimus are “Dorian lies.”