Chapter Six • Heirloom • Lillith
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“Okay, so, Oren was reading this book called the Kyballion,” Damien says as he idly presses his thumb into the arch of my left foot two hours later. “It says a lot of the same stuff you’re talking about.”
He transitioned a while ago from focusedly massaging my feet to using my legs as a way to keep physical contact going between us.
“Wait, no shit? Oren’s dad is a Freemason,” Damien says.
“No shit,” I say. “That’s one of the most active ones today. A lot of the others have disbanded.”
“So, what’s the main difference between the Kybalion and the uh—”
“Corpus Hermeticum,” I supply. “The Kybalion is a modern—or modern-ish—interpretation of the Corpus Hermeticum. Basically, reading the Corpus Hermeticum is like reading Shakespeare’s original text, and The Kybalion is like reading ‘No Fear Shakespeare’, if that makes sense.”
“It does, surprisingly. You’re way better at explaining this shit than Oren and his dad are. They always go right over my head.”
I smile, feeling a swell of pride in my chest when he says that. “Thanks,” I say.
Damien nods through a yawn. “I’m going to go get some coffee, I think. You want some? This couch is fucking dangerous.”
“Sure,” I say. “Can you get me a Turkish coffee?”
“Think I’ll get two. Turkish Coffees fucking slap,” he says lifting my socked toes to press a kiss to them before standing and going off toward Reina’s domain.
I watch him retreat before smiling down at my book again.
My heart feels so full and light and suddenly, I don’t really mind if I wind up absolutely devastated by the aftermath of tonight.
Even if this is just a one-night stand for him, I think I could bank it in my mind as a precious memory forever.
Damien is... so perfect. Being thirty, I had long given up on the idea of finding a suitable partner.
Bastion always seemed like the best I was going to get—a dear friend and fuck buddy who I sometimes pined over and sometimes wanted to push off a cliff.
Especially since, of late, it’s been more of the latter.
But there’s something about Damien. Even if the complications of my family’s history made a long-term relationship seem almost impossible to pursue, it felt good to know that there could be someone out there that felt so perfect for me at first blush.
I snuggle back into the cushions a little more as I turn to the midpoint of the book.
I read about the principle of correspondence according to this scholar when a familiar, unwelcome feeling creeps into the warmth I’ve been hiding in.
It occurs to me that it’s late. Nearly four in the morning.
And with how excited I’d been about the Portent show, I barely slept last night.
I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours. Which is not a good idea for an epileptic.
The cozy warmth of the bookshop shifts, turning oppressive. Almost claustrophobic. I exhale slowly through tight lips as I work on extricating myself from the hoodie Damien gave me at the venue. By the time I’m done, a faint sweat forms on my brow and a feeling of dread tightens my ribcage.
Fuck. This is definitely an aura.
I ball the hoodie and lie down on it, turning onto my side.
For one blessed, vertiginous moment, I think a seizure isn’t coming.
And that maybe I’ll just vomit instead. That would still be humiliating, sure.
But at least Damien wouldn’t come back to someone who looks downright possessed.
Grand mal seizures are not for the faint of heart, and I fear that having one in front of him might scare him away forever.
The anxiety pushes me over the ledge of the aura. My heart hammers heavily in my chest and I close my eyes when the room spins.
A voice, smooth and liquid as a glass of whiskey, cleaves through the haze of the aura.
“So, the youngest Nightingale has finally left her roost,” it says.
Perhaps not an aura, then. But an entity. A dense one.
When I open my eyes again, I’m not in The Nocturne anymore.
I’m seated in a leather wingback chair, a fire crackling soundlessly in a nearby hearth.
Its flames don’t emit light. They devour it.
Looking at it brings to mind the same untethered wrongness of looking directly into the bulb of a blacklight. It almost hurts.
“Hello, you little disaster,” the same voice says, drawing my attention away from the anti-flames. It’s faintly accented—some indiscernible lilt that could be Irish, could be Scottish, could be Welsh.
The entity—whatever he is—sits across from me in a similar wingback chair.
He’s wearing a nice suit, dark violet. His wears his coat unbuttoned, no tie.
A handsome silk pocket square perches in his breast pocket, one shiny black Oxford-clad foot drapes over the opposite knee.
He reclines in his chair like some kind of monarch, his chin propped on a ringed hand.
“What are you?” I ask firmly. I know better than to show any kind of uncertainty or weakness, even as my heart races against my sternum.
“A concerned party,” he says.
“Concerned?”
“It’s not something I can talk about very directly.
Not while you’re here. Suffice it to say that you need to get yourself sequestered back into that little apothecary of yours if you’d like to continue breathing,” the entity says.
“And you need to follow some very specific instructions on reworking the wards so I can follow.”
I squint at him across the checkered, marble floors. “You’re him, aren’t you?” I ask. “The demon who cursed us?”
He sighs, put-upon, brushing his middle finger over his smooth brow. “No.”
“There’s no point in lying,” I say. “You think Nan didn’t warn me about you? You think we don’t make every subsequent generation aware?”
“It’s almost like there’s no point in talking to you Nightingales anymore,” he gripes.
“You have no idea how right you are, dickhead,” I say. “Because I’ve already broken the curse. At least functionally.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?” he asks.
“I took matters into my own hands. Factory is closed, assface,” I say. “You’re about four months late. I had my uterus taken out in February. A little Valentine’s Day gift for me. So, this whole ‘multigenerational child bride’ thing you worked out with whoever the fuck is over.”
His expression shifts through a few baffling stages. Confusion gives way to understanding, then darkens into rage. He leaps to his feet, stalking toward me. I press myself into the back of my chair as he braces a single hand over my head and reaches for me with the other hand.
“What are you doing?” I yelp, hating how fearful it sounds.
“Shut up,” he says, reaching for the pearl around my neck. “You have no idea what you’ve done, you little fool.”
He grasps it and I shudder as the velvet ribbon slips off my neck with ease. The image of a deer skin sloughing off its rotting carcass flashes in my mind’s eye as I stare at the Nightingale Pearl nestled in the Demon’s palm.
The world as I know it tilts on its axis.
He... shouldn’t be able to... to do that.
It’s supposed to protect me from him. I watch in terror as the pearl cracks and decays, the remains of generation after generation of Nightingale women drifting away in a phantom wind.
The pewter skull melts into blobs of lead and iron right after it.
He... destroyed it. He broke the Nightingale pearl.
“Go. Home,” he grinds out through his two rows of perfect teeth.
Between one blink and the next the demon and his chamber are gone and I’m falling, falling, falling through a dark, endless void. I close my eyes as I fall forever, my stomach roiling, my body breaking out in a sticky, warm sweat.
“No, no, no, no,” I whimper into the darkness.
“Shhh,” Damien’s voice answers, a cool wash of comfort over the terror overtaking me.
I open my eyes. They’re still unseeing—or—perhaps not unseeing. It’s just that my brain can’t process the colors and edges of my surroundings. These details boil like a soup while my ocular nerves come back online.
“You’re alright, little bird,” he coos. “You had a seizure. You’re safe. You’re alright.”
My eyes adjust and my body comes back to me in pieces.
I feel the sweat all over my skin, the cool rag he’s dabbing on my face and neck as he cradles my head in his hand.
The smell of the rich, aromatic coffee sitting on the coffee table a few feet away.
The hoodie has fallen on the floor along with several of the cushions.
I shift my legs slightly, testing for wetness. It’s rare that I lose control of my bladder during a seizure, but knowing my shitty luck, today would be the day. Nothing feels uncomfortable or sticky, which is a relief. Embarrassment still burns my face as I finally meet Damien’s gaze.
He’s... so calm. He continues brushing cool paths over my sticky brow and the slope of my neck. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, quiet and kind.
“Damien,” I slur. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Seizures are nothing I can’t handle. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to help you when it started.”
Relieved tears rim my eyes and drop onto my cheek. He tuts gently, brushing them away with the edge of his callused hand.
“Do you want an ambulance?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly, frantically.
“Alright, no ambulances,” he says. No cajoling effort to change my mind. No uncertainty or distrust. He listens and trusts me to know what I need.
I sigh, closing my eyes. “Thank you,” I say. “H-how long was it?”
“About three minutes. Are they normally that long? Normally grand mal?”
“Usually quicker,” I say as my eyelids get heavy. “I think... I just overdid it today.”
Over Damien’s shoulder, I catch the stricken face of Naomi. Then drift my gaze over to Binx, just a few feet away. His sketchbook is on the floor. His glasses are on the couch next to me. He looks so frightened and it twists my stomach with guilt.
“I’m so sorry,” I whimper, emotion flooding my tired brain and filling my eyes.
“Shhhh,” Damien says, combing his hand through my hair. “You should have told me you were epileptic, little bird. I wouldn’t have kept you out so late.”
“You scared us shitless, Lil,” Binx says.
“You mentioned the epilepsy to me before, but I totally blanked on it,” Naomi says, sounding guilty.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I’m usually pretty good about it. I just...” My focus lapses and it takes me a moment to remember what I was saying. “Fuck, I’m so tired.”
“That’s alright,” he says. “Get some rest. You probably need it after all those muscle contractions. I’ll order us another rideshare to get you home, okay?”
I let out a low hum, comforted by the gentle brushing of his fingers through my hair. Some distant part of me is screaming that I’m not safe. That no one is safe around me. Not without my necklace. Not outside of the shop.
I hear paper tearing, and when I look toward the source, I see Binx has ripped a page out of his sketchbook. His unfinished sketchbook. He walks over to where I’m still settled on Damien’s lap, and hands me the cream-toned paper.
“To cheer you up,” he says.
I blink down at the paper as my eyes blur with tears again. This little gesture, this surrender to irritation and inconvenience, does cheer me up. It disrupts the absolute terror threatening to take over every neuron in my brain.
“Damn,” Damien says with fondness. “Binx, I love this fucking drawing.”
I do too. It’s a detailed, shaded sketch of me reading while Damien stares at me, his hands cradling one of my feet.
I sniffle and Damien wipes away the tear that falls for the second time.
I want to stay awake and spend as much time with these people as I can before I’m trapped in my house for the indefinite future.
But my body demands rest. And my concern over everyone in proximity to my stupid, cursed body isn’t enough to keep me on this side of consciousness. Sleep is a siren dragging me under the surface of her calm water and I am her willing captive.
That’s the only good thing about seizing—the absolute oblivion that I escape to while I sleep off the aftereffects.
The reality that awaits me when I wake is not one I’m ready to face.