Chapter 18 Diantha #2
I swear the darkened pits of each skull’s face track my movements. I reach out and sweep my fingers over them. They send a small vibration of energy through me, confirming what I already know: these bones belong to spirits that are long gone.
“Diantha.” Orfeo says my name softly, gently. I look up and he tilts his head toward our classmates, who are already shuffling around the corner.
I’ve missed you. I finally let the thought take shape in my mind.
“Let’s go,” he says, glowing eyes tracking over my features. In his expression, I see my heart mirrored. It feels so good to be speaking again.
“Who built this? Who brought all of this here?” I ask in a whisper.
He shakes his head. “Someone with many secrets.”
We move from one cemetery to another. Various stone plaques tell us where the bones came from (Paris, Philadelphia, Crete, Istanbul) and the diseases they once carried (influenza, rubella, dysentery).
The air stays stagnant and heavy with the energy of a thousand untold secrets.
Orfeo remains by my side, and I can’t even act like I’m not feeling his vampiric effect. His presence calms me, blots out all my ambient anxiety and lets me focus on the pull of the energy. Bowen moves at a purposeful clip, and more than once, I hear footfall echo as my classmates race to keep up.
Eventually the ceiling slopes upward and we enter a triangular room with a fountain at the center.
Carved from heavy stone, the structure’s base tells a story.
Cloaked figures guide their animals to a river.
Flames engulf a cityscape. A powerful creature—or maybe man—looms over women as they dance nude through a wreath of olive branches and laurels.
The next carving is so warped by time I can’t make out any part of it.
“This is the room of sacrifice and sacrament.” He gestures at the fountain. “Life.” He gestures at the altar behind him, tucked into the pointed alcove across from us. “Death.”
My heart skips. Those words snag on my next breath.
Life and death. The crossroads.
“This fountain once sat in a small chapel in a Roman village someplace in the Mediterranean. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of babies were baptized in this basin. But you’ll notice, these images are not like anything you’d find in a church.”
“It wasn’t a chapel,” I say suddenly. All eyes swivel, slowly, to focus on me. “It was a temple first. Then it became a chapel.”
“Exactly right, Diantha.” Through the anemic light, I see an implacable glimmer in Bowen’s eyes. Ever since our meeting in his office, we’ve exchanged a few looks like this. “And the altar…well, you can imagine what a desperate man might do.”
A deal with the devil. A blood pact. A sacrifice in return for a favor.
And then, years later, how many fell to their knees at that altar and begged for mercy?
A shiver runs through me, turning my blood cold. What world had my mother gotten herself tangled in? What world have I been pulled into?
I’ve never believed in the simplicity of good and bad. In my life, that would have been impossible. I had a perfect mother who could barely take care of me. I lived in a vibrant city that could turn gray in a flash. I met a vampire who, for all his alleged inhumanity, makes me feel so, so alive.
Suddenly, I feel a familiar warmth in the center of my back. Orfeo is beside me.
And I see him now as he is—a sacrifice himself, but not one he was able to consent to. Turned against his will. Imprisoned by a brutal overlord. Passed from one purveyor of evil to the next.
I couldn’t blame him for running away, for hiding in his hurt. Humanity, freedom—it was always right there, wasn’t it?
In the dim light of our phones and the distant gas lamps, I look into his eyes. Those soft, caramel-brown eyes.
He reaches out and hooks a thumb under my chin. For a moment, I let my head grow heavy in his hold.
Bowen’s lecture continues but I can’t focus.
I know what I need to do.
My classmates rush after Bowen as he takes them back the way we came, and he tosses me a quick wink over his shoulder.
When their steps fade from the room, I drop to my knees beside the basin.
I press my hand into the stone, following the carvings with my fingertips and my phone’s light.
The last panel is blank, whatever piece of the story that had once been here has been worn away by thousands of hands and by time.
“This is the portal, isn’t it?”
Orfeo stays silent, but I don’t need confirmation. My entire body vibrates with the force of the energy I feel from the fountain.
I take a deep breath and invite it into me. I close my eyes and press my palm flat against the worn stone, against the missing panel of the story.
At first, I see nothing but swaying forms behind my closed eyes. But the lights grow, twist, and take shape.
Suddenly, I see women’s bodies dancing through the stars. The women I saw during my last trip to the Dream Place. They link fingers, twisting and spinning around each other until the dovetailed fabric of their skirts fans farther and farther out.
One of the women breaks away.
We’re no longer in space.
Now, we’re in a pizza shop. Crowded, bustling, bodies pushing against me from every angle.
The young woman is behind the counter. Chestnut-brown curls pulled back into a clip.
Soft mauve gloss on her lips. A handsome man smiles her way.
His hair is already silver, unnaturally so.
He has a tidy, trimmed beard and wears a perfectly tailored suit.
Even hidden under layers of luxe fabric, the contours of his body are clear.
He hands her money, and she takes his palm.
Your love line is strong, she says.
His lips curl into a smile. He takes her hand in his and…
She lays in his arms; he strokes her hair; they travel together across the sky.
The universe expands and contracts, like every galaxy is breathing with them.
He is soft in her arms, pressing his head to her chest. She strokes his hair and sings to him.
They share meals, bodies tangled. Laughter follows them everywhere.
I watch her lips form the words: I love you, Hades.
The young woman’s stomach grows. They pass hours lying beside each other, hands on the dome of her belly. They whisper. She’s worried. He placates.
One day, a woman returns. She’s beautiful in a way that strikes terror in those she passes. She sees the young woman with her swollen stomach and feels nothing but pity.
Exile her, she commands. Or I will return to Earth and send them into chaos.
We have an agreement, Hades replies. But the young woman can see he is weak for this goddess.
Fuck our agreement. With this, the goddess wins.
And so she is exiled.
The young woman wanders through the stars. She calls out and falls to her knees. Begs for mercy. Asteria joins her and holds the young woman, her child. She brings forth the young woman’s baby, painlessly. A small miracle. But she cannot intervene any more.
Finally, the beautiful, terrifying goddess appears before the young woman and the bastard baby.
She guides her by the hand back to Earth—but she never lets go. She shows her a home, beautiful and bright and peaceful. This could be yours. But, the goddess indicates to the nursing swaddle in her arms, the baby must die.
The young woman refuses.
Hades visits her. He wants the baby—she must give it over. Only then can she return home.
Again, she refuses. The baby is too young. It’ll die without its mother.
His jaw clicks with suppressed rage. What if we made a deal instead?
The baby and mother will return to Earth, but the baby can never know the truth of its powers, of its godliness.
The young woman agrees. They shake hands.
I follow her through the stars, through blackness, through the freezing cold and down a hospital hallway.
Through a police precinct.
She’s taken into a home, warm and crowded. The women gather around her and the baby. They are her coven, and here she’s safe. She tells them what happened.
The baby has to die.
It’s a blood bond. Birth is a blood ritual. The only way to unbind your soul from his power is to kill the baby.
The young woman agrees. She says she will kill the baby herself. On the eve of the next full moon.
Too long, warns a woman with deep wrinkles cut through her tanned skin. You will grow attached.
The baby learns to laugh. And clap. And smile. The baby grows curly hair. The baby learns to say a single word. And suddenly, the young woman can’t do it. Some destinies are bigger than our own strength. And she knows this baby is her destiny.
The young woman’s appearance shifts like sand in the wind, as if something more powerful than time is working at her features. The man let her keep her life, but he took something else.
The baby grows, the years pass in an instant. All of time runs together. Suddenly the baby is a girl and then a woman. Her palm presses back against mine.
That baby is me.
I lurch upward with a choking gasp.
“Orfeo?” I call out, forcing my voice out despite my fear.
Cold sweat drenches through my…
I’m not wearing my sweater or my jacket anymore; I’m in a black gown, just like the women who danced in the sky. I feel around my head—I’m wearing a black lace veil too.
I’m not in the catacombs, and I’m not decoupled. I’m literally here. Physically in the kitchen I always go to when I’m between realms.
Wearing an outfit of mourning.
“Orfeo?” I shout again, scared and desperate. “Mom?”
I realize I’m lying on the cold tile floor. Above me, the stars shine bright, galaxies swirl by in a slow-moving blur of color. I stand and it takes me a few shaky steps for all the blood to rush back down into my legs. I must have been on the ground for a while.
The kitchen table is empty. The picture frame window over the sink is open, stars glimmering where I once always saw sunshine. Wind flicks the lacy curtains back and forth.