Chapter 24 Csilla #3
He brought her hands to his lips. They were cold, not even warmed by his breath.
‘Powers we don’t understand are being unleashed. What if our killer isn’t even human at all? There might not be any blood to use, even if we do somehow find him before Ilan.’
The idea that a demon could hold its form long enough to kill was absurd; there would certainly be blood.
‘It will hurt you.’ Her own scars itched at the memory of his.
He chuckled, grim, and there was so much pain there that she couldn’t help but put her arms around him.
She knew well enough that physical hurts were nothing compared to those of the heart.
She’d seen him sweat with traumatised fever; she’d seen him cry.
Maybe he was the only person who would let her help him anymore.
His fingertips combed through her hair, soft like petting a kitten.
‘I’ll be more careful this time. And if Ilan’s right, perhaps you can still help. You were raised here, confirmed here.’
‘Expelled from the Church here.’ Her hand twitched.
‘Your blood is still on the Seal.’
And having a soul could give her whatever spark it was that borrowed the presence of the divine. She tilted her chin to look up at him, taking in all his grief and glory.
‘Please.’ The word was the plea of a burning man needing water.
She had agreed to this. And she didn’t want to die and be nothing. But . . .
‘You won’t care about saving the city anymore. And I might not either.’ Tamas’s warnings and Ilan’s threats rang in her ears, loud as any death bell.
He flinched, caught, and she took both his hands in hers.
‘Promise me we won’t leave Silgard until it’s safe,’ she said. ‘Promise me we will keep trying.’
‘And if you don’t—’
Her smile tightened.
‘If I don’t want to? If I tell you I want to run away to the last safe province, marry and have your babies?’ Each word was salt in her mouth. ‘Then you’ll know that that is not me. And you’ll have to say no. Not until this is over. Can you be that strong?’
After a long second, he squeezed her hands. ‘I swear.’
She nodded, knowing she shouldn’t believe him. It was always going to come to this.
?
The thin curve of the moon barely gave enough light to see the sharp lines of concentration on Mihály’s face. The knife in his hand was freshly polished, looking shop-front new.
All life began and ended with blood, be it gushing or cooling. A rebirth was no different.
‘We should both sit.’
They were behind the house, where dark garden soil would absorb any spill and make it innocent, and the thin weaving branches of dead rosebushes would hide most eyes.
Night wind pulled at Csilla’s hair and eyelashes, the sting teasing her to close her eyes.
Mihály settled himself in the dirt. Csilla started to follow, sitting across to face him, but Mihály reached out.
The moonlight outlined him in silver, every inch divine.
‘Against me. The closer we are, the less chance of a mishap.’
She settled in the V of his legs, half turned so her shoulder met his chest. Cold from the ground leeched through her skirts and the thin leather of her shoes, and when she shivered against him, he smiled.
‘Trust me, Csilla. This will be good for you, too.’
Good was starting to seem like such a relative concept. Every nerve in her body was alight, jumping at the slightest brush of his body against hers, twisting at the whisper of his voice against her neck.
‘She’s here now?’ There was nothing hanging in the clear night air that she could see. The only thing spectral was the faint white of their breath.
He hummed assent as he rolled his sleeve up, then tugged on hers. The material had less give and ripped under his hand. He turned her arm so the pale underside rested upwards, showing this blasphemy to the heavens.
She squirmed, all instinct telling her to double forward and protect everything vital. His steady breaths pushed against her back, the rise and fall of his broad chest lulling. If he was so calm, there couldn’t be anything to worry about.
‘Don’t worry, Csilla,’ he whispered against her ear. She could hear the smile in his voice, soft and hopeful. ‘And don’t move.’
Carefully he traced the old scars on his forearm with the blade, blood rushing up to meet it. The urge to take her skirts and staunch it was like a sudden itch. This was good blood, she told herself, like letting out poison. It didn’t make it easier to watch.
He took his bleeding cut and smeared it over her arm like he was washing down a board for chopping meat. There were so many notes in the streaking red, crimson glisten and thinned rust.
The rabbits had been clinical, no different than a surgery or stitching. Neat. Planned.
This was birth.
His fingernails scraped a pattern over her stained skin, and the whispers were an invocation. With each syllable the smell of old ash rose around them, and her body froze as if bound by invisible rope.
‘Mihály . . .’ Even her jaw felt the pressure. Nothing about this was holy, and as the dead scent crawled down her throat and stopped her protests, she gagged.
The knife on her forearm drew a sharp slice. It was like pledging herself to the Church, she told herself as her fingers dug into his thigh. Ceremony and faith, real stars above instead of dying magic below. It only felt wrong because she was scared, and that was her own weakness.
‘Steady now.’ He jammed his thumb against the cut, opening it wide, as white pain sent her shuddering. ‘You have to be open to her. Let her in. Otherwise, she can’t stay. Say yes, my dear.’
The pressure on her head released to allow for the tiniest nod.
A buzz like locusts vibrated in her ears, under her skin, shaking her to the teeth with unnatural, discordant notes. Something cold moved on her exposed skin and hooked, more like the slide of slick leather than delicate spectral hands.
Her chest jerked upwards outside her own power and she groaned.
His free hand slapped over her mouth, stifling any sounds, and the panic of drowning set in, her gasps against his palm like the desperation for air.
This was wrong. This was no ghost. This was a thing she’d seen in old books and nightmares, and . . .
The darkness set on her wound like a suckling babe on a breast, ice filling her veins.
Every scream was stoppered in her throat as the Shadow found a home.
It laced itself inside, thin as a razor blade, cutting as a garrotte.
And everywhere it settled, she felt its hunger.
Notes of bile and copper filled her mouth, and her heartbeat felt sluggish.
The sound of each pulse was far away, like it was beating from the bottom of a pit.
‘There,’ Mihály whispered, freeing her mouth and pushing the raw edges of the wound together. ‘There, my sweet. I’ve saved you now.’ There was wonder in his voice. He bent close, lips on her bruised ones, his breath and falling tears the warmest thing on her.
She jerked away from the kiss, legs bracing with an urge to stand. ‘Mihály,’ she managed through chattering teeth and what felt like a hand on her mouth, ‘what did you do?’
‘It might be uncomfortable for a moment.’ His breath had a far-away hiss as she pushed herself up, balance coltish. She felt heavy and dissolving at once, and the pressure of the ground under her feet was unnerving.
‘Mihály . . .’
‘Hush, Evie.’ He struggled to his own feet, right hand clamped to his forearm. She couldn’t quite stop the blood dripping down her arm, watering the grass with rich rain.
Do I sound like Evie? she wanted to say, but there was too much pressure in her head, under her skin, in her lungs.
She pitched forward and he caught her, her back becoming a compress as he locked his arms around her.
She forced herself to push away enough to raise her head and meet his eyes. ‘Mihály. I’m not . . .’
She had just enough consciousness to watch his expression change before her eyes rolled back and everything went dark.
?
She woke in front of a fire, wrapped in furs.
Dimly, she recognized the small and bare space as Tamas’ house, and the angry voices behind her as Mihály and his mentor.
She raised her hand to look at it in the red-tinged glow.
It looked as it always did, scars and all.
When she put it against her cheek, it was warm.
Everything seemed as it should be, though her dress was filthy with dirt and her arm throbbed.
‘You didn’t do anything except send her into shock, which even you should have known enough to recognise, and cut yourself and her in a garden likely filled with fertilising pig shit. What were you even thinking?’
‘I did something. Evie is gone—’
‘If she was ever there, you delusional, arrogant—’
Csilla pulled herself up, the movement cutting off the argument. There was hope in Mihály’s indrawn breath, worry in Tamas’s. They were in the house, but she couldn’t tell how many hours had passed. She’d been unconscious long enough for Mihály to call for a second opinion.
‘I’d like some water,’ she said, voice cracking with the words. Her throat was raw, strange since she remembered not screaming. Her old scars ached in a way they hadn’t since she was very young.
‘Evie,’ Mihály tried, but she shrunk back before he could reach for her.
‘Csilla.’ She meant the word as a slap, and by his recoil, it hit. But it wasn’t entirely enough to deter him; he knelt by her side and after a moment she leaned against him, grateful for the firm support.
‘You don’t feel any different?’ He looked different. His skin was sallow, dull, but his eyes were clearer than they had been.
She shook her head. She couldn’t even say it wasn’t the outcome she’d hoped for. Maybe it was her fault; Evie had sensed her doubts and refused to make a home in Csilla.
‘I feel ill, but not different.’ She ran an experimental hand down her torso. The strange cold and hunger were gone, a nightmare evaporating in the dawn light.
There was something sweet about the guilt on Mihály’s face.
‘Well, there is one way to check.’ Tamas procured a small, wrapped bundle, the embroidered yellow and red flowers far too cheerful for the atmosphere. He unwrapped the cloth and tumbled the glass piece onto her palm.
She held her breath, waiting for the shimmer of a soul.
There was still nothing save shadows cast by firelight.
None of them should have expected any better. She squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t matter – she still had things to do, a slice of hope thin as her new cuts that they would perform some great good for the city.
Her stomach rolled at the thought, and she slumped against Mihály. Surely she hadn’t lost enough blood for this level of exhaustion. Even her thoughts were slow.
Tamas set the glass down hard enough to rattle. ‘Let her rest.’ The words were more an order than request.
‘Well I won’t be able to look after her, I’m escorting that woman to her party.’ Mihály gave an irritated inhale. ‘And if I don’t go . . .’
‘You’ll piss that old woman off and lose what home you have managed to give the girl. Go with her. I’ll take care of Csilla.’
‘You’re right,’ Mihály said, and there was a softness in his voice, in his hands as he stroked her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Csilla. I’m so sorry.’
The apology wasn’t much, but it was genuine.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, bracing herself to stave off the dizziness. If she just said it enough, even to herself, it had to be true.