The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (19 page)

“Leave me alone,” I whisper, trying so hard to be brave that I can actually feel my spine quivering. “I don’t want your help.”

Nikolai’s face softens. He steps away, wings shifting down, close against his back. He looks at the carpet when he speaks. “You
will
come to us, one day. And I am sorry for the way by which you have chosen to come.” Nikolai looks up, turns his radiant blue eyes back to me, and smiles wanly. “Goodbye, my dear Anastasia. Until we meet again.”

And then he is gone, and I’m back in my bed, lying here as if nothing has happened.

The clock reads 3 a.m.

I do not fall back asleep.

— 40 —

It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Trebor.

The dance is tonight.

I’m going to tell Kyla everything this weekend.

My father has another date tonight.

The Devil was in my bedroom last night, or at least inside my head.

I don’t like any of this.

I’ve played my violin for hours today, melody surging forth like a storm from my fingertips. I ran in the afternoon, burned off as much of the excess energy from my magic as I could. I even attempted to use it, just to stop the nervous humming in my blood. It helped, but nothing can dismiss the actual anxiety tightening its grip on me. I’m worried about Trebor, worried I’ll lose Kyla, when I tell her the truth this weekend, angry and confused about my father dating someone, ashamed of those feelings, and trying desperately to forget about what I saw last night.

And I’m afraid of going to this dance tonight, that it’s a terrible mistake, that something awful will happen, either to me or because of me. I’m thinking about that fear now, even as I put on my makeup and attempt to curl my hair.

I see my tarot deck sitting on my dresser, and I consider pulling a card. I know I can’t do readings for myself, but a single card, just to get a glimpse, a feeling for what might be in store tonight…

No. If it’s bad, I’ll worry more—if it’s not, I might let my guard down too much.

My father knocks on my door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” I call back, turning off my curling iron.

The door creaks open, and my father enters with a garment bag. “Here’s the dress, kiddo,” he says, hanging it up on the back of my door. “It, uh, belonged to your mother.” He un-zips the bag and lets it fall open to display the gown against the dark plastic: a soft, earthy gold, almost shimmering in the evening light. Small amber beads embroider the bust and hem; cap sleeves made of fragile threads and more tiny amber beads hang like golden spider webbing at the shoulders.

“Oh,” I say, feeling too much. “It’s beautiful.”

“She wore it to a masquerade ball in college once.” Abe smiles, far away in his own mind.

“Didn’t you two meet at a masquerade ball?”

“Yes.”

“So this is…”

“Yes.”

I don’t know what to say. I think of my mother, young and alive, full of hopes and dreams, and meeting my father for the first time—those brief and precious moments when someone you will love is radiant, and new.

“She only held onto it with the hope that you might want to wear it someday.” Abe looks at the dress, and then at me. “I hope you like it.”

“I do.” I touch the fabric—it’s silky and light—and I can see my mother in this dress, elegant and strong. “I love it. I just hope it fits.”

Abe looks away, clearing his throat. “Well, I’ll let you find out.” He backs out of the room, and I think I might have actually seen tears in his eyes.

How confusing. My father is giving me my mother’s dress, getting misty-eyed about me growing up or memories of them together, I don’t know—while at the same time my brain and heart are warring together in the pit of my stomach over how to react to him dating another woman. Karanina has been dead only two and a half years—but is that really worthy of “only?” How long do I expect him to stay in mourning?

How long do I expect myself to stay in mourning?

I avoid answering my own thoughts, and begin to undress.

I’m actually surprised by how well the dress fits, as if it was made for me, despite the curves in my possession that my mother never had. I add a touch of pale gold eye shadow to my makeup, and don a simple pair of chocolate brown sandals with only the smallest of heels. My bold red hair spills over my shoulders in a cascade of curls, and in the mirror I look like someone completely different—grown up, maybe, or a fictional character in someone else’s story.

If I can believe that for even a little while, maybe I can get through tonight.

— 41 —

I remember the last dance I went to, I danced with Peter Lambert, another gangly ginger in a different grade. The music had been too loud and corny, and I’d felt awkward in my new dress, and too tall, and I worried I was wearing too much or too little makeup.

And then one of the chaperones tapped me on the shoulder, with that look in her eyes that said
this is going to hurt
, and everything came crashing down around me.

I had known that it would. I had always known that when the time came, the flawed bulkheads of hope and desperation that had been holding my world upright would finally shudder and collapse—that I would be left with nothing but rubble and shards. I just hadn’t been prepared for it that night. I suppose I never really could have been prepared for it at all.

I remember nodding to the chaperone, not hearing the rest of her words; abandoning Peter and walking off into the crowd; I remember finding Kyla, and immediately lying to her. I hadn’t wanted Kyla to know for some reason—and I never could figure out why. Maybe it had been because Kyla was the main support beam keeping me aloft? How could I look her in the eyes and tell her—show her—everything she’d done to keep me standing upright hadn’t worked in the end? The weight of everything I had felt in that moment was heavier than anyone could lift.

When I found her, we went out front to the steps of the school. I remember it was warm out, that the trees in front of the school were still bright with yellow autumn leaves, the sky so clear it was crisp. Every star was like a knife point, glistening in the dark. I could smell the rose water in Kyla’s hair—when it was still straight and long and shiny-black.

I tried to explain I wasn’t feeling well, I was just going to leave and walk home—but Kyla only stood there, staring, her brow flexed with so much sadness and concern that I couldn’t even look at her as I was pacing—rambling—falling apart.

“Ana,” she stopped me, grabbed me by the arms, wrapped me in the tightest embrace, as if she was trying to squeeze all the crazy right out of me. “It’s okay. She’s gone, I know. It’s okay.”

And I lost it.

“A?” Kyla asks now, her dreadlock up-do changing color under the stage lights flashing from the DJ booth.

I smile at her, drawing my focus back to here, and now.

Kyla smiles back. “Ready to dance?”

I take a breath. “I think so.”

The gymnasium is loud and dim except for those stage lights. It feels good to get out onto the dance floor and thrash around with the music blasting in our ears, the confusion of the crowd allowing us to remain relatively anonymous. We slip into synch with the rhythm and bodies hovering around us, swaying and twisting as if we were possessed by the sound, letting the world dissolve into this tiny circle of us: me, my best friend, and the girl she might be falling in love with.

I try not to think about Trebor, or where he is, or if he’s safe, or if he’s still alive at all.

“Come
on
, A!” Kyla smiles at me, dancing around Vanessa in circles. She breaks her circuit and grabs my hands. “Remember the bad dancing contests we used to have? Remember…
the squid?
” She drops suddenly, bent in half, arms and legs wiggling independent of each other, vaguely to the beat of the music. When she looks up, her face is deadpan.

I laugh, clapping my hands together. “That was the jellyfish!”

She cracks up, smiling, hooking my arm with hers and swinging me around. “How about this one.” She bends slightly at the waist, brings her fist to her forehead, index finger extended outward, and does a strange little gait-like dance.

“The unicorn?” I laugh, letting her take my hand again and spin me.

“Your turn!” She mock-threatens.

Vanessa looks on, amused, but not half as entertained as Kyla is, as I want to be.

I look at that sparkle in Kyla’s eyes and know that this is her, reaching out to me. This is my opportunity to reach back, to stop being a coward, to be brave and silly, for the sake of just
having fun
with my best friend.

“Okay…” I smirk, and I spin, hands out close to my side, weaving my shoulders around, circling Kyla.

“Ooh, ooh! The Tornado!” Kyla laughs, grabbing my hand and spinning me, again and again, herself practically jumping in place with nostalgic glee. “We broke so much shit doing the Tornado that one time, remember?”

I giggle, remembering.

Kyla grabs Vanessa’s hand and spins her, too, dancing with both of us. “Look at me, all big pimpin’ with two hotties on my cuffs. What!” Kyla bounces her hips off both of us.

Vanessa smiles and rolls her eyes. “You are
so
ridiculous,” she laughs.

Kyla grins. “You love it!” Then she leans in and asks me, “You having fun yet?”

I smile, squeezing her hand in mine. “Yes. I miss this.”

“Well, let’s make it happen more often.” She gives me a crooked smile, leaving the rest unsaid:
because this is the last year we’re going to be
able
to make it happen.

I give her a crooked smile back, understanding.

— 42 —

The playful reprieve doesn’t last long. I can sense eyes on me from somewhere, and I don’t know if they’re human or not. Just that
kind
of thought makes my mood sour.

I manage a few more songs before I start to feel the crowd pressing in on me, imagining shadowy figures among our peers, with glowing eyes and bird-black wings—none of which are actually there. I start compulsively scanning the crowd, checking my heartbeat, looking for any sign that Trebor might be near, or on his way, or at least alive and
okay
.

Thankfully, a slow song comes on, giving me an out. I wave to Kyla and gesture to the tables at the side of the gym, backing off of the dance floor. While all the young lovers shift in slow circles to some heartfelt ballad, I lean against the wall, obsessively checking my text messages.

“You look lovely tonight,” Andy says, sidling up to me, leaning his weight into his elbow, forearm positioned against the wall in a way that’s almost over my head.

I shrink away from him before I notice that I’m doing it, scanning him for intention. He’s wearing a striking white tux with no tie, and a black tuxedo shirt. His hair is gelled back, and he looks like he’s trying to appear older than he really is. He’s charming and handsome as usual, despite the obvious nature of his efforts, but there’s something strange about it tonight—something that’s making me uneasy.

“Where’s your date?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“He’s on his way.” I force a smile, trying to believe my own words.

“Ah. Would you like to dance in the meantime?”

I wouldn’t, no.
“Maybe later, I hate this song. Actually, I’ve really got to go to the bathroom—if Kyla asks, tell her I haven’t ditched her?”

“Sure.” Andy smiles, but it’s bitter and charmless, and very unlike him. It makes the hairs on my neck stand on end, and feels like spider legs crawling up my spine. Something is definitely
off
about him. I wonder briefly if he pre-gamed with the football team and their father’s flasks before the dance.

I hurry away from Andy and out of the gymnasium, down the hall towards the bathrooms, but instead of keeping straight I turn left, out the front door. The dance entrance is all the way in the back of the gym, so there’s some privacy out here for the moment. The cement steps are wide, the entrance framed by two huge columns, trying to make it look like the inside of the school is nicer than it really is. It’s already dark out, and the breeze is cold. It feels good on my skin, hot from dancing and the shared body heat on the dance floor. I lean against one of the concrete columns at the top of the stairs and breathe deeply, watching the night.

My heart beats faster.

When I was fourteen, I stood here on a night the exact opposite of this. Instead of buds on the flowering trees out front, there were golden leaves falling, skittering across the blacktop and the paling grass, caught in mid-autumnal winds. Instead of daffodils and rain in the air, there was distant woodsmoke and fragrant decay. Instead of waiting for someone to show up, I was trying to understand that I would never see someone ever again.

I remember the black dress I wore that night, scratchy and ill-fitting for my lanky body, before I began to fill out. I remember hating Kyla for making me go to that dance when I was so uncomfortable around so many people, even though she was right: I couldn’t just sit at home and wait.

I don’t resent her for making me come out tonight—for any of the times she’s tried to help me open up, and fit in. My dad is right, I’m a terrible teenage girl. Maybe if I’d been a better one, I wouldn’t be so uncomfortable with the fact that I really am one, at least for a few more years.

Anyway, I turn eighteen in December, so even if I am a teenager I’m
kind
of an adult, right? What really makes you “grown-up” anyway?

I look down at myself, all six feet and seventeen years of me dolled up in my late mother’s dress, and I feel profoundly lost.

My heels click against the cement as I wander down a few more steps, crossing bare arms against the cool air. The front lawn of the school stretches out before me, rows of soon-to-be flowering trees lining the walkway that leads up to Main Street, where kids are smoking cigarettes, just beyond school property. Cars rush by, all gleaming paint and burning headlights in the dark. A street lamp flickers to life, driving another handful of shadows away from the sidewalk.

Behind me, the sounds of the dance are muffled by the closed doors, making that world seem soft, and distant, and past. Everything at my back feels like a strange vessel, like I’m standing on the bridge of a huge space ship, looking out into a completely different world. It’s a world that doesn’t worry about dates for the spring formal, or passing Chemistry, or college applications. It’s a world that cares about terrorism, and high cholesterol, and retirement funds.

Standing in this strange space frozen between high school and the real world, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong to either.

My heart beats a little faster for no reason that I can think of. It makes me think of many other things that I can’t
afford
to think of, and I sigh.

“Are you lurking again?” I ask, hopeful as I look over my shoulder.

Trebor is standing there, dressed all in black but for a small gold pocket square. He cocks his head at me, hands half-pocketed, as if distracted mid-shove. “I don’t lurk,” he says, coyly, and steps towards me, eyes everywhere. “I’m a Watcher, not a Lurker.” He takes a breath, shakes his head. “You look stunning, Ana.”

I give him a crooked smile and feel myself blush, moving forward to meet him. Maybe I
can
be a normal teenage girl sometimes. “Thanks. You don’t clean up so bad yourself.”

We come together and stop, toes facing toes, eyes rising to meet eyes. The cold light over the stairs makes his hair shimmer green and blue, casts shadows over his eyes, makes his face angular and rugged. He looks tired, but alive. There is so much I want to say to him, to ask him, but I need to know everything is okay, first. As okay as it can be, anyway.

“Where were you?” I wonder. “Are you all right?”

He smiles, and for a moment all my worry dissolves with the familiar crinkle around his eyes, the slow spread of white teeth, holding back a secret joy. “I’m fine.” His voice is low, quiet—maybe even content.

Before I know it, he’s holding my hand. He draws a pale white orchid from his pocket, the stem bound up with gold silk ribbon, and slips it over my hand, onto my wrist, fingertips nimble against the delicate skin over my pulse. My bones shiver, but it’s not unpleasant.

“You didn’t have to,” I tell him, quiet.

“I wanted to,” he tells me, a bit louder.

“How did you know I was going to be wearing gold?” I return my gaze to his eyes, and find them shifting between the present moment, and elsewhere in time.

“Lucky guess,” he lies. I wonder what secret he’s keeping from me, but does it really matter right now?

My heart trembles, and I wonder if it’s mine or his. I wonder at the slow, hard rhythm it takes up when he holds my hand. His grip  is not delicate, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers, but firm, like an accomplice pulling me towards adventure—towards freedom.

I wonder at the wordless way we turn and walk back inside, staring at each other as we go. I wonder at the sadness and fear balled up inside of me, trying to tie down my excitement.

I wonder at my wonder.

We move through the crowd, two slight smiles belying the fierce pull and acute focus between us. Whatever song is playing, the bass drum is loud, tearing at the speakers, sinking sound into the floor and dragging bodies with it. The sound is strange, wonderful, new—but inconsequential. Sound is nothing compared to the feeling of my arms falling around Trebor’s neck—his hands settling on my waist—the space between us shrinking. Electricity forks up and down the entire length of our bodies, bridging the distance.

I look at him, fall into his endless emerald eyes, and feel intensely hateful of the fact that I don’t know what’s going on behind them—that I don’t know all of his secrets, his favorite season, what kind of music he enjoys, his best and worst childhood memories. I feel like I
should
know them, that somewhere inside of me I do. It feels wrong that, right now, I don’t.

Trebor tilts his head, parts his lips to say something, but no sound comes out. Instead he pulls me closer, and I find myself staring at his lips, at the perfect rise and fall of their shape. They curve into a strange, daring smile, and a slow warmth kindles in my belly. He pulls me a little closer, until the gap between us is almost completely gone, my stomach flat against his, chest to his chest. His leg brushes against my leg, my knee, my inner thigh, sending a jolt through me that knocks me off rhythm, makes me feel like I’m melting.

I look into his eyes and we freeze. The music bleeds into the background, until all I can hear is the beat of our heart and the waver of my breathing. I can feel his breath on my lips, his heart pounding in my chest, his hipbones angled against my hips, and I’m not sure how we got here so suddenly.

Then I think of all the times he’s held my hand, or held me—all the times our hearts have beat as one—and I realize maybe it isn’t so sudden at all.

But if I do this, if I give in to this obvious thing—the shared heartbeat, the ability to feel each other’s emotions when we’re crying—these insane feelings I have for someone who is not ever going to be human—what then?

I look at his lips, and my heart hammers. “I have to confess something, Trebor,” I whisper.

“You can tell me anything,” he murmurs back, voice tunneling through me, ripping me wide open.

I blink back the power of his words and find my voice again. “I’m a coward.”

He cocks his head, questioning.

“I’m afraid of you. And myself. And everything that’s happened, that could happen, that probably will happen.” I swallow.

Trebor takes a long breath, brings a hand to my neck to brush my curled hair back, over my shoulder, causing goose bumps to rise along my arms. “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” he murmurs, and leans his forehead nearer to mine. “Even I used to be afraid of what would happen, until I met you.”

I feel his words on my cheek, soft as sunlight. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want to be brave.”

“Then be brave, Ana. Face it head-on. Laugh at the unknown. I’ve got your back.”

“Okay,” I agree. “I will.”

He smiles. “Good.”

I lean a little closer. “I’m still afraid.”

He leans a little closer. “It wouldn’t be bravery if you weren’t.”

And then I lean in closer still, and we inhale, two breaths drawn from the same fistful of air. My whole body is alive with fear, with anticipation, every nerve aware of him and singing—

Someone slams into us, knocking us over like a single, six-foot bowling pin. Trebor takes the brunt of the fall, hitting the ground backside first. He manages to catch me somewhat, and for a moment we’re a tangle of limbs on the gymnasium floor, knees hooked, my hands curled against his chest.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say, disentangling, aware of the circle spreading out from us, the people staring, no longer dancing.

Trebor shakes his head, laughing. He helps me up, pulls me to my feet, one hand still in mine, the other settling on my waist.

“Sorry, triple G,” John laughs, wobbling in place, red-faced and shiny. “Didn’t see the Twin Towers standing there.” He cackles and high-fives a friend, stumbling away into the crowd, clearly drunk, leering back at us and giving me a once-over before they disappear.

I wonder how red my own face is. “Awesome timing, jackass,” I grumble, watching them go. My peers realize there will be no fight, and the crowd fills in around us again. I startle when I see Andy, his stark white tuxedo making him stand out in the crowd. He’s watching us closely, an eerie smirk on his face.

Trebor’s hand tightens on mine. I look over at him, wondering if he saw Andy too, but he’s staring in the opposite direction, expression frozen, eyes riveted like a cat catching sight of a mouse—or a mouse catching sight of a cat.

“Trebor?” I ask.

He faces me, hulking over me, talking fast. “Ana, quickly, listen to me, this is very important. I have to go
right now
. There’s something I haven’t told you that I need to tell you as soon as possible. Can you meet me tonight?”

“What?”

“Can you get away for a little bit tonight and meet me somewhere?”

“What?” I ask again. “Where? When?” I realize I’m clinging to him, that he’s clinging to me, but we don’t stop. He’s pushing me backwards, slowly, farther into the crowd.

“Meet me at your mother’s grave at midnight. Don’t talk to strangers while I’m gone. And please,
please
be able to forgive me.” His eyes turn to water the moment before he rushes off into the crowd, into the night. I watch him go, hear the music come up around us again as my perception expands to follow him, but he’s gone faster than I can track him. All I’m left with is the image of his eyes flashing in my mind, so suddenly sad, so suddenly
sorry.