Chapter 17
Seventeen
Elodie
As I slump in the backseat of my ride home, an ache sinks right through my ribs. The heaviest sort of homesickness swells inside me—the kind even going home wouldn’t fix.
I want my mom. I want her to pull me into one of her warm hugs, stroke her fingers over my hair, and tell me I can handle anything the world throws at me.
Even while she was alive, could she ever have imagined I’d need to handle the problems of not just one world but two?
When I get to Other Elodie’s house, the building feels empty. I drift into the vast, gleaming kitchen, drawn by an urge I can’t pinpoint until my gaze falls on the tea cannister.
My throat tightens, but the rest of my body moves with the confidence of habit. I set a little water to boil in a pot on the stove, check the cupboard to confirm there’s no loose leaf around, and settle for dropping a tea bag in.
It won’t be quite the same as Mom’s blend bought in her favorite Little India shop, but she always said the process mattered more than the leaves.
I find cinnamon and ginger in the cupboard and sprinkle a dash of each in to add a little punch. Then I pour in the milk, stirring constantly so it doesn’t film.
By the time I take the pot off the heat, a comfortingly creamy scent floods my lungs, dispelling the worst of the ache.
I pour the chai into a mug and immediately bring it to my lips. My first sip burns my tongue, but I don’t care.
Sitting at the island, I inhale even more of the steam and the familiar scent. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
Mom didn’t share much of her cultural heritage with me. I don’t even know how much that’s because her family didn’t hold on to it after they left their country of origin, however many generations back that was, and how much it’s because she was purposefully avoiding it.
She was born here—I know that much. She told me she was the first in her family to show magical ability, a latent talent that sometimes pops up when two bloodlines collide. It could be that surprise caused the rift.
She never talked about her parents or any other relatives, no matter how much I pushed as a kid. We never visited anyone. She wouldn’t even say which exact country her family immigrated from.
“Don’t you have more important things to worry about than what happened ages before you were born?” she’d say with a tsk of her tongue.
When I was younger, I read every book on South Asian cultures and mythologies I could find in the library and tossed references at her to watch her reactions. Exclaimed the names of gods and goddesses to see if she’d chide me. Analyzed her phrasing and items around the house for hidden meaning.
I never uncovered any thrilling surprises. All that research simply mixed in with the other practices and myths I’ve read up on that float around in my head, only slightly more poignant because of my uncertain connection to it.
As a kid, I wanted to believe there was some special secret on that side of our family, to make up for the side I lost. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve accepted Mom was just who she said she was, and the tidbits she passed on to me were the only parts that really mattered to her.
If Uncle Nik hadn’t found me himself, I’d have no idea she even had a lucent younger brother. He never talked about the rest of the family either, only saying it’d be easier not to tell her he’d gotten in touch.
It could be Mom simply threw herself whole-heartedly into her new community, as much as her fellow lucents would allow it.
For most of my life, I had no similar families to compare ours to.
But when I mentioned to Byron once how closed-off I felt from that half of my identity, his chuckle came out sharp.
“Magic is our culture,” he said. “It’s so big, there’s no room for anything else, not if you’re committed to it. I guess most people figure it’s not much of a sacrifice for what you get in return.”
I couldn’t tell if he agreed. That was one question I never dared to ask him, not when he’d thrown his whole family away to stick with me.
I’m taking a larger gulp of the cooling tea when Aunt Daphne bustles into the kitchen. She pauses, her gaze flitting from my mug to the pot on the stove.
“Chai,” I say before she has to ask. “My mom used to make it. I had a craving.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sure—” She cuts off whatever she was going to say with a laugh and waves her hand toward the room at large. “Your father has a dinner meeting, so I thought we’d order in. I don’t know— Do you like pizza? That’s what we’d usually get. Whatever toppings you’d want, it’s all good.”
“We” means her and Other Elodie, obviously.
At the thought of the grease-drenched slices, my stomach clenches up. I used to love pizza, before maintaining optimal health became so very important.
It doesn’t matter here, though. My glim isn’t active. It’ll stay that way as long as I’m in this reality.
A couple pieces couldn’t really hurt. If I can’t even indulge when I’m an entire parallel universe away from home, what kind of life am I living?
Anyway, Daphne is watching me with hopeful eyes as if she thinks she can fix all our problems with a little girl-bonding. Some melted cheese might drown my guilt that I haven’t made more progress.
“Pizza’s fine,” I say. “I’m not picky about the toppings.”
Her widened smile makes me feel like I’ve broken a princess from a witch’s curse. As she taps away on her phone to place the order, my thoughts drift to the pictures I recently took on my own phone.
She reaches for the fridge. “I’ve had a craving for mango all day. That’ll make a good appetizer. You want some?”
Fruit is a much easier sell to my conscience. “Sure.”
To my surprise, she pulls out two intact mangos and sets them on a cutting board. A Devine is going to lower herself to preparing her own meal?
It’s just a snack, but still.
As she grabs one of the paring knives I didn’t steal, I keep my tone carefully casual. “Hey… Do you know anything about a place on Holland Avenue near Linwood Road—some… establishment, I guess, where lucents from the neighborhood go to hang out?”
Daphne’s hand freezes with the knife braced against the mango. She peers at me. “How did you— You don’t want anything to do with The Eclipse. You couldn’t anyway. She couldn’t have.”
I knit my brow as if I hadn’t already observed as much. “The Eclipse? What’s that? What’s the big deal?”
She relaxes slightly, but her grip on the knife handle stays tight.
“Nothing to worry about. It’s a very exclusive lucent club—men only.
Members aren’t even supposed to talk to anyone else about it.
I only know because of your dad. All they do is drink and play cards and gossip. Why are you asking?”
I choose my next words even more carefully. “It just came up when I was looking into things.”
Daphne shakes her head with a rustle of her billowy hair. “I’m sure it can’t be connected to what happened to—to Ellie. She never even knew about it. Better not to bother them at all.”
Well, I know at least part of what she just said isn’t true. “Don’t you think we should try every possible—”
She doesn’t even let me finish. “Why waste time where it won’t lead to results? No, if anything had come up to do with that—she’d have said something. You don’t need to worry about it.”
The finality of her dismissal only convinces me more.
Daphne isn’t willing to believe how very deep her niece might have gotten into the city’s darker corners. And the fact that she’s so adamant that I leave this exclusive club alone begs the question of what she thinks they might do if someone—like, say, her “Ellie”—did bother them.
I don’t need to convince her right now. I simply need to find the evidence to prove what happened.
How in the nine Norse realms am I going to do that?
Daphne slices the knife through the mango’s thick skin with perfect precision.
I find myself staring—now not because she’s going to the trouble of cutting it up herself, but because she’s wielding that blade as if she’s carved plenty of other things up into little pieces in the past. When she moves from one swiftly diced fruit to start on the next, she spins the knife between her fingers with a graceful flick.
Suddenly I’m wondering how much my aunt knows about “bothering” people.
That’s ridiculous, right? Maybe she’s just very fond of certain types of fruit.
Well, if she wants to carve up whoever murdered her Elodie once we figure out who that is, I can’t say I’d stop her anyway.
As she scoops the neat chunks into two bowls and brings napkins and cups over to the dining table, I pull out my phone and flip through the photos I took this afternoon.
It only takes a few for me to realize that there’s a general blurring effect around the club’s front steps and the sidewalk beyond, leaving everyone’s faces obscured.
What did I expect? These pricks clearly enjoy their privacy.
But not everyone has that option. I pause my skimming thumb when I get to a picture aimed down the alley.
My photo of the two employees who barged out captures their tense faces perfectly.
The memory of the one guy’s furious declarations reverberates through my mind. The corner of my mouth ticks upward.
I think I’m already holding the key.