Chapter Twenty-Four
The apartment was so quiet.
Silas had made his bed once more that morning, which felt so final.
I could only distract myself with the mortal perils of the internet.
My hours of researching Apep—Apopis, Apepi, Apophis—had grown to a close, leaving me staring at a blinking cursor in the search bar.
He was the serpent god destined to devour the sun at the end of eternity.
He was the devil of the other world.
He was the demon of chaos, the foe of the sun god, Ra, and the representation of everything outside of the ordered cosmos.
And by every single account, he was completely evil.
I stared as the cursor blinked, and blinked, and blinked.
Silas brought me a warm mug, which only hurt me, though I couldn’t explain why.
He’d made coffee and stirred honey into mine without me having to ask.
“Have you learned anything new about Apep?” I asked him, warming my hands with the mug.
“That he’s no joke, Marlow. Don’t go after him. Don’t talk to him. Do not engage.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“My new title as independent liaison for masculine spirits compels me to tell you that you will be murdered if you link up with Apep. Please don’t go.”
I knew he’d used the new title to make light of the day’s events, but I couldn’t find humor in it. He was leaving, and I was the reason he had no kingdom, no realm, nowhere to go.
I’d let him fall, and I wasn’t even a net.
He ruffled my hair as if reading the trajectory of my miserable thoughts; then, we began to tackle strategy, however gingerly.
We went over the string of instructions for Silas’s new role that O had sent in the night. He wrapped warm arms around me, and I rested my head against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat as we stood in the living room.
We conferred about the wards and their strength. Mine, it seemed, only allowed for four immortal beings to come and go freely. With that, he said his presence was only a hindrance for my next steps. Our parting words hurt.
“I don’t want you to go,” I said.
“You don’t want me to stay, either.”
And my silence was answer enough.
He brushed a thumb against my jaw, tipping my chin upward as he looked into my face.
“I’ll use whatever’s left of my grace to cast an extra shield—not around your apartment, but around you.
I trust your Prince’s wards, but I’m not about to leave your safety to chance. Not when we’ve fought to get this far.”
“You could have been shielding me directly this whole time?” I joked weakly.
He breathed out one low chuckle. “No. I can only shield one thing at a time. Giving it to you leaves me vulnerable. It’s all been stripped away from me, Marlow. You’re the only thing left to lose.”
He read the question from the pained expression in my eyes. He was telling me that, by shielding me, he could be killed.
“Don’t argue,” he said. “I wouldn’t listen, anyway.”
He ensured I had the poppet before brushing a kiss against the top of my head. And when he stepped out of the hug, it was into nothingness. It was on this living room floor that he’d first entered my life, and it was in this same room that he left me.
He was gone.
And for the first time in forever—maybe for the first time in my life—I knew that no one, not even an imaginary friend, would greet me in the darkness.
I wandered listlessly around the unit, a familiar pang shooting through me as I was transported to the days after my world had been tipped into a tailspin. I’d walked through my home with the same sort of frustrated purposelessness as I did now.
Except this time, I knew how to call on Caliban.
The problem was what I would say to him once he arrived.
My pocket buzzed.
(Nia) I sent Kirby your new number. If they text your old one, it’ll still go to your laptop, right? I’m worried about them. Even if they’re slow traveling with Ella, shouldn’t they have messaged by now?
(Marlow) I think I know where they are. And…it doesn’t seem good.
(Nia) What?? What did you learn??
(Marlow) Nothing’s confirmed. It’s vague at the moment.
(Nia) Like you’re being??
(Nia) Is there someone you can ask? Aren’t you with Silas?
(Marlow) …not anymore
(Nia) Can you talk to Az or Caliban?
(Marlow) Have you talked to Estrid?
(Nia) She’s on edge. She blames me because she’s stuck here with me. I’m either going to need a new babysitter or be deemed free from harm’s way. She’s inches from AWOL.
(Nia) Whatever you know: act on it. Find them. Fast.
I tucked the phone back into my pocket and crossed my arms, scrunching my face at the uncertainty of my next steps.
I didn’t know where to go. Nowhere felt right.
I didn’t want to lean against the kitchen counter, to sink onto the couch, to peer out the window.
My feet took me through the rapidly fading evening light back to my bedroom.
I lit the candle on my vanity rather than turning on a lamp.
I settled on the bed, pulling a chenille throw over my lap, and my eyes unfocused in shades of black, white, and gray as I stared into the middle distance.
The only color was the burnt red of the soft, corded blanket.
I struggled to categorize my feelings, stuck between desire and resistance. I wanted nothing more than for them to be here. But Caliban had left me.
I’d hurt him—I’d hurt all of them—and I wasn’t sure what to say to knit the wound.
I’d gambled with Caliban’s life. In return, he’d forced me to reflect on what it was that I wanted.
And if I called on him now, what would I tell him?
That I hadn’t done anything wrong? Because I had, even if the result had ended in our favor.
Would I say that Silas meant nothing to me?
Because it would be a lie, and we’d both know it. What words could make it right?
Studying the gods wasn’t enough.
I’d spent years binging mythology texts for the Pantheon novels, and that had nothing on the renewed vigor with which I’d read academic papers, fanciful reinterpretations, and folkloric blogs about every god on our radar.
But I needed to do something more tangible. I couldn’t just mope.
Perhaps I could call on Azrames instead and give myself more time to figure out how to make it right with Caliban. Maybe he’d have insight on what one should say to a demon. But then again, he’d been hurt, too.
I twisted the blanket until the repetitive motion took on a hypnotic quality.
I looked down at my fingers, absently watching the pinch of soft, ginger caterpillar fuzz as it rolled.
I couldn’t sit alone on my bed forever. I couldn’t let Estrid stew in worry if she was unable to contact Ella.
I wasn’t sure what pacts they’d made, but my guess was that she’d sworn not to leave Nia unattended, and presumably that she couldn’t call upon someone who hadn’t been vetted by our very delicately threaded inner circle.
The red blanket began to take on shades of copper as my mind shifted to my only alternative.
My angel had left. My demons and I were taking space.
But perhaps I understood what it was to fuck up, to hurt others, and to need a second chance.
Maybe, just maybe, I knew a Nordic deer upon whom I could call.
I hadn’t realized I’d been biting my lip until my entire body recoiled in a wince at the flavor of iron.
I’d drawn blood. I wiped the crimson smear across the back of my hand and stared at it.
Fauna and I had been blood once. Was that still true?
After my mother’s connection had severed, had I remained a Norde?
An orange bottle toppled, the pills within rattling as I reached over my bedside table.
I popped open the tiny treasure chest I’d picked up at an antique store and fetched the s?lje within.
It tinkled lightly, the individual spoons dangling from the trinket rubbing together as I brought it close.
Most antique broaches pinned to traditional woolen dresses tarnished or yellowed with age.
Heirlooms tended to betray their years. This one, however, had stayed perfectly silver.
The tree at its center coiled and lifted its branches to the sky, representing the Yggdrasil of lore, before its branches cascaded into delicate, leaf-like components.
Aloisa’s pretty trinket had carried me to the sorts of gods and demons and realms that I’d never dreamed possible.
Did I want to see the Nordic fae—goddess, I amended—again?
I supposed what I wanted didn’t matter. I was out of options.
The soft, crushed blanket fell to my lap as I released it. I took a deep breath, then lifted the broach to my lips, closed my eyes, and said her name.
The air around the room might have wobbled, or it might have been my imagination.
My candle might have flickered, or it might have been the heat kicking on in the unit to counter the early October chill.
I could have heard a sound from the living room, or maybe it was the ice machine in my freezer releasing cubes.
I set the broach on the bedside table once more and sat with my hands in my lap and waited, and waited, and waited.
***
February 2, age 25
“You’re burning up,” a voice murmured from behind me, the r’s curling and rolling as the final consonants clipped in a bright, Irish accent.
Each word was like an ice pick through my temple.
I groaned and struggled to turn. Normally I loved the sound of her voice.
She knew her accent made Americans feral, and she used it to her advantage as often as possible.
At present, if I had to hear one more sound, I was going to die.
Eve was lucky I didn’t have the energy to kill her.
My eyes remained shut as a cool, damp cloth settled on my forehead.
“There, there,” she said quietly. “Doesn’t that feel better?”