Blightcross: A Novel (46 page)

Maybe she would see Vasi again in the future, but for now she couldn't face her. There were questions that she wasn't sure she wanted answered.

Questions such as how Capra could enter a
vihs
working complex enough to bind two people into a single form with no experience or hereditary ability, or what Vasi's wild claims had really meant.

Ultimately, she decided that she didn't care. It was over, and she still had to figure out a way to stem the flow of Valoii soldiers sent to kill her. The gods had interfered in her life, the very ones she didn't care to acknowledge, and as far as she was concerned, they could damned well keep trying, for all the difference they had made.

Just as she'd finished the thought, she startled at the sight of the unmistakable tattoo of a Valoii soldier. The man's naked upper body was a canvas of inflamed skin, scored and burned, on which the Valoii characters remained undamaged, almost defiant. Supine, lifeless, eyes replaced with sheer blackness...

Alim?

She stood and peered round the others packed against her. “Alim!” she called. By the time she thought to hop out, a group of nearby city workers had already loaded Alim and other corpses into a vehicle.

He wanted to kill you. Don't forget that. And he sure wouldn't be feeling sad about leaving your body behind if he had to, so stop thinking you're a monster for letting him be taken away to some industrial crematorium.

The wagon let her off near Orvis Dunes, and she walked the deserted street that had seemed like such an oasis in this industrial hell only days before. A few of the interesting shops and apartments had caved in, but there still stood Helverliss' bookshop. The block of buildings sat in its grimy, half-restored colonial glory as though its historical nature had shielded it from this momentary diversion of insanity.

It amazed her to smell fresh brewing shalep, and she moved her tired legs faster. The closer she came to the café, the more she heard strange sounds: baritone thumping, a strange keening, and chords of some radical harmony.

She entered the café to find it brimming with the same people she had met here before, and there was a combo playing on the little stage. The bass player smoked a cheroot as he played, and the violinist still bled from a gash on his head. The harmony they played had no pleasing centre of tonality, yet it seemed fitting.

The man at the counter didn't ask for money when she approached the counter and waved randomly at the chalkboard. He just gave her a mug and a pastry, and she sat among the other residents of Orvis Dunes, listening to the strange music, while the city around them smoldered.

All of the patrons, including Capra, gazed at the entrance each time someone new straggled in. But this time, she nearly spat out her drink.

Limping along, smoking a cheroot, was Helverliss. At his side, Irea braced him. He nodded and collapsed into a seat across from Capra, while Irea went to the counter.

“How the hell...”

He showed a sliver of a grin. “I wasn't going to just sit and wait for you.”

“I'm sorry. Things happened and I wasn't able to retrieve you.”

“Don't worry about it. As luck would have it, Irea had escaped and found me. But by the time we made it out of the tower, nobody really cared about us prisoners.”

She leaned back and rested her boot on the table. Something in her wanted to kill him for creating the painting. Maybe the thought was a remnant of the archon creature, or just a bad mood. Nevertheless, she flashed him a smile and told him how they had defeated the chaos. He slammed his fist into the table when she reached the part about the archon. “Of course. How could I be so stupid? An archon is... well, the missing piece. The ring that completes the knot. The aberrations that arise when one is taken out are...”

“Quite fatal, I imagine.”

“Which is why your friend was not at heart a real archon. Why she was flawed, why she was only suited to destroy... the Ehzeri didn't know how to properly construct these things.”

She shrugged.

“Humanity was never a mediator. The human subject is what happens when the knot is complete. Imbalances cause delusions and chaos...” And despite the bloody wounds, his livid complexion, and his frail voice, he seemed full of life again. “This will give me much to think about.”

She stole one of his cheroots. It had been a while since she'd last tried smoking. “All I care about is that I survived being turned into an archon.”

“About that.”

“Hm?”

“Well, I had already begun to work on a theory relating to psychoanalysis. One involving
vihs
in people such as yourself. Since you claim to not be an Ehzeri, there might be some other explanation for your ability to use the power in concert with Vasi.”

She let her foot drop from the table and leaned in close.

“The traumatic event you witnessed at a very young age caused you to empathize with the Ehzeri in a profound, subconscious way.”

“What?”

He turned away to cough. The man should be in a surgery, not a café. “Vasi was mistaken. I am sure that with further investigation, I would find that you were not actually Ehzeri, but that your subconscious was able to access their characteristics as a result of the extreme fear you felt. A child's mind cannot comprehend brutality, and so your ability may be an infantile complex meant to deal with how you witnessed someone murdering those people. I did not glean the details of the memory from the painting, but...”

“I'd rather not know right now.”

“But this could be a groundbreaking case study. Do you want to live on believing in some far-fetched tale of misplaced heritage?”

She exhaled through her nose, the smoke tingling and jabbing her senses awake. “I'm more concerned with my payment.”

For a long time he said nothing and stared at her. Probably trying to work his strange theories around her. But what if he were right?

Did it even matter? It was something she would have to figure out later. There were far too many thoughts in her mind whose voices eclipsed any curiosity about why she had been able to do the impossible.

At last, Helverliss sighed and squished his cheroot into the ashtray. “You didn't exactly return my painting.”

She gave him a cold stare. “I think I did far better than that, Noro. That painting was a mistake.”

“What of your friend?”

“Dannac's gone. Personal issues.”

For a long time he said nothing. He stood with his hands in his pockets, which, Capra noticed, were empty.

“Noro?”

Helverliss met her eyes. “They looted my shop. I had thought my savings to be safe, but clearly the shadows gave the mob some way to... I don't know. Perhaps they read my mind.”

Capra's throat tightened. She leaned forward, rested her forehead on her hands. The hair draping across her face reeked of sulphur, oil, and blood. “Of course,” she mumbled through her hands. “Noro?”

“Ehm. What?”

“I hope you die in a fire or something before I'm rested enough to kill you myself.”

“I'm fairly weak. You probably still could.”

“I'm pretending that I couldn't for your own good.”

“Ah. Denial. Probably the most useful coping mechanism we have. ‘I know very well, but nevertheless...'”

Capra paused, swept the hair out of her eyes, took a deep breath. “Maybe I'll stay here for a while, see what kind of work I can get. Everyone's probably broke on the continent anyway, right?”

Helverliss clapped and cheered. “That's my girl! Well, as long as you're staying... I wonder if you could make me a small loan?”

THE END

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

C. A. Lang
is a product of Nelson, British Columbia, and it shows. While meandering through the natural health industry in everything from editing to personal training to sales, he frittered away nearly a decade writing widely, all the while nurturing an unhealthy affair with no less than six guitars. Growing up around Victorian architecture likely had something to do with his appreciation of steampunk, although we're not quite sure why he felt the need to ditch the steam engines and go all internal-combustion on the genre. He has settled in Kelowna, B.C., where sometimes he can be found abusing a gigantic jazz guitar in public, hanging around certain wineries, and running obscene distances just to atone for it all.