Petra K and the Blackhearts (8 page)

“Now sit,” she instructed me. “Look into each other’s eyes.” I did, gazing deep into the coal black pits of my dragonka’s eyes. How strange to acknowledge his own particular existence and soul.

“This is called spirit breaching,” Isobel told me. “It isn’t enough to just feed and pet the dragonka; there needs to be an exchange that can only come in this way.” Indeed, after a while—like when you repeat a word enough times—I began to forget who Luma was. First he was just a pair of dark glossy eyes gazing back at me; then it was as if Luma was being reborn in front of me, like a seed drawing nourishment from the soil. How difficult to recognize the intelligence behind Luma’s eyes as different than my human one, but somehow not inferior—and what a crime it would be to try to dominate and exploit that intelligence. In the face of this, the past and future disappeared: there was just a live being, whose body harbored every bit of love and timeless cold passion in the universe.

The young Half Not broke the spell after a period of time that I could not measure.

“It was a good try, but watch this,” said Isobel. She repeated the exercise, gazing into Luma’s eyes with her own. But after only a few minutes she broke the spell. Isobel put my hand to her chest, then put my other hand over Luma’s heart. They were beating at the same pace.

“It is how my ancestors used to travel with so many horses,” Isobel said. “Driving a herd across all Dravonia and not one horse lost, because they moved as one creature, with one heart. You cannot fully train a dragonka without knowing how to master this.” I wrapped my loden cape tight around myself and nodded. “You see, all these wizards and potion-makers like Deklyn, they think magic is something you force into the world with ingredients and spells. But that is not the Half Not belief. Magic, if there ever was any, comes from inside. And it is in everybody, not just a chosen few. That is the real practitioner’s secret.”

We stayed in the park until late, having lost track of time. Though Isobel made attempts to master Luma, he still displayed a strong will against ownership. After I tried again to spirit-breach with Luma, Isobel ended the session.

“It is taxing for him, and you,” she said. “Let’s relax now.” She passed me a bottle of elderberry juice, gave me a handful of pomegranate seeds to feed Luma, and then pulled a violin from its case. When she began to play a strange, eerie tune, Luma immediately perked up, and, like a dog howling at the moon, began to sing in a high-pitched, atonal braying. Before long, a few other dragonka, who had also been surreptitiously hiding in the park, came out of their refuges and joined the chorus. Suddenly, I could see the notes of the song hovering there in front of me. They were colored: deep lavender and purple, fuchsia and crimson, and colors wholly new to my experience or to this world, colors that must remain unnamed. I felt calm, and for the first time since the dragonka fever, happy.

I
HAD ARRANGED
with Isobel to bring Luma to the Half Not ghetto later in the week, so that we might continue training him for the tournaments. I rarely came here, and felt particularly unsure as I entered the neighborhood.

The buildings in that part of Jozseftown were mostly grand, decaying tenements that gave the impression of jigsaw puzzles
that had lost a few pieces over time. While I was gazing up at one, a group of Half Not children chasing a chicken almost knocked me over, then I was spun around again by the clanging of the elaborate but dreadful astronomical clock that kept time in days, weeks, centuries, and millennia according to the planets rather than breaking time down into pesky seconds, minutes, and hours. The place itself was making me dizzy. I teetered, about to faint. Then, from behind, a hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up: it was a man cloaked in a long black overcoat. The brim of a hat shadowed his face, but in his hand I could see he held a cane, the top adorned with a carved dragonhead.

“Do you know that that clock above us has over ten-thousand moving parts? If but just one does not function perfectly, the clock cannot tell time.” I looked up at him. Though he smiled at me, it was a salesman’s solicitous, insincere smile.

“So like a heart, don’t you think? Two perfect contraptions, one of metal and the other of muscle. But both take spirit,” he continued. “I used to make clocks. But now I am concerned with matters of the heart.”

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I am late.” I started to walk away.

“Child,” he said with urgency, stopping me. “Where did you get that beast?”

“What beast?” I responded. Luma was safely concealed in his portable nest in my jacket.

“I can feel it,” he said. “You have a dragonka, and an exceptional one at that.” I looked around. There was no one who might help me should he cause trouble.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.

He chuckled. “You know it is now illegal to even keep a dragonka, much less train one.”

“I’m late,” I said. “My mother is waiting for me.”

“Here,” he said. “There is no reason why we can’t be friends.” He held out a sack in his hand. He shook it so I could hear the jingle of coins inside. “I will take the beast abroad, where
it will be safe. There are kings and land barons who would take great care of him. And in return, you shall have enough gold to move from this decrepit place.” It struck me that I was dealing with a dragonka trafficker. The kind who sold beasts to foreign dealers as pets, or, if rumor was true, as a delicacy in fancy restaurants. I noticed the strong smell of camphor coming off him. There was something terribly wrong about him. Luma, too, began to squirm against my chest.

“I have no dragonka,” I said, “and if I did, I would not send him abroad. Not for any price.”

At first, he did not appear to register my response. Then, he opened his cloak: there, from the fabric, I could see the sleeping bodies of six dragonka stitched into pockets. He then took his cane, and tapped it firmly on the cobblestone. At contact, the dragonka head came to life, eyes glistening, its mouth opening in a fierce growl. “I can take your dragonka in body or spirit, if you refuse. But I advise you to take the gold. Perhaps you can even buy your way out of trouble with the Boot, which is surely headed your way.”

The dragonka staff began to let out a high-pitched wail, like the crying of a huge muse of dragonka. It was unbearable. I put my hands over my ears, then hid my head in my hands. Then—as quickly as it had emerged—the sound stopped. I opened my eyes to find myself quite alone. On the ground where he stood, I saw a piece of paper. I picked it up. It was a calling card. Written on it was one word:
Wormwood
. The man himself had vanished, as if into thin air.

I
WAS EXPECTING TO MEET
all the Blackhearts by the broken fish fountain, but only Isobel was there. Under the icy glow of the moon, I could see her true beauty for the first time, as though it was only revealed at night. Her black hair was sleek like a slice of ebony, and her eyes were almost impossible for me to look at without feeling a spell was being cast from them.

Isobel escorted me past Half Not betting galleries and pubs: The Golden Well, The Basilisk and the Bull, and The Stone Pillow, all full in the middle of the day; then she led me down more unfamiliar streets. She stopped in front of a dark alleyway.

“You first,” she said.

“Here?” I exclaimed, stalling. But Isobel only met the question with her usual icy stare. Was I about to have my throat slit and be left for dead in some dark forgotten spot? I was not sure I trusted the Half Nots. In Pava, there was no such thing as a Half Not, just a “dirty Half Not.” I fought against that prejudice, but now suspicion crept back in. No, I would not enter the alleyway, not for anything. I would go home to the comfort of my mother and a cup of tea. I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again.

I went ahead of Isobel into the dark Jozseftown alleyway.

“Keep going,” Isobel said firmly.

Down the alleyway I ventured.
How many innocent tourists had been tempted into traps like this never to return?
I wondered, occasionally craning my head back to catch a peek at Isobel.

“Why are you taking me to this stinky place?” I asked.

“It is for everybody’s safety.”

We came to a great wooden double-door at the end of the alleyway. Two faces of horned demons decorated the doors; iron rings the size of horseshoes hanging from their noses.

Isobel reached around me, grabbed one of the nose rings, and banged it against the wood. After a few moments the doors creaked open, and a Half Not with a moustache greased into fine spikes greeted us. Recognizing Isobel, he threw the entrance open. I took a step back: the cavernous room was packed with people.

“Hurry,” urged the host. “You never know what Boot spies are about.” I looked at Isobel. I still had time to flee. Instead, I ducked quickly through the doorway.

“What is this place?”

“The Dragonka Exchange, reborn,” she answered.

T
HE COURTYARD WAS FILLED
with all stripe of dragonka and their masters. I could see a few mystics hurrying to and fro, arms full of folios and old books, and silhouettes of people toiling in candle-lit rooms.

“Here we are,” said Isobel. Luma was fighting to escape my grasp, so I set him on the ground.

“But why are we here?”

“Didn’t you see the post? On the board outside the old Dragonka Exchange?”

“No,” I said.

“All dragonka ownership is now illegal. They have outlawed it totally. This is the only safe place to train Luma.”

There were other dragonka I recognized from the League of the Maiden and Minor Pup being run around pylons or navigating a floating obstacle course. My gaze automatically tracked Luma as he scampered across the courtyard, frolicking with a larger, lavender-colored dragonka.

“We must be extra careful,” she said.

“But why are they doing this?”

“It is the dragonka fever. They want to cull the entire species, to eradicate it.”

“But where is this sickness? You only read about it in papers.”

“They say it is affecting the countryside, but that is not true, because those who come back on caravans have nothing to say of it.”

“Luma!” I called, a sudden feeling of dread overtaking me. But Luma was occupied, and would not come. “Luma!” I called louder. Isobel put her hand on my shoulder, silencing me. Isobel whistled gently, whereupon Luma immediately perked up and returned to our sides.

Then we got down to work. There was a lot to be done. To hone his coordination, Luma had to be trained on a levitating obstacle course of small gas balloons that were tethered to the ground. Isobel ran him through the drills: I felt a petty envy in the way she had total control of him. When she commanded a turn, he responded. When she whistled him to stop, he bounded to her side.
Her side!
I could feel my jealousy grow. Luma was “mine,” even if we were sharing the booty of his winnings.

“Let me try!” I said.

“You are not ready. Luma may depend on you, but he doesn’t yet respect the bond that is there.”

“I am ready!” I stammered. Isobel’s black eyes flashed in anger, then dulled. She stood back and let me take control.

“Luma, up!” I commanded. The beast looked at Isobel, then back at me. “Luma, up!” I repeated, taking a pomegranate seed from my pocket and holding it in front of him.

“That is not a good thing,” Isobel began. “You will spoil him that way.” But I paid her no mind. I wasn’t going to let a Half Not girl, with her stupid jingly fazek, tell me what to do.

“Luma,” I commanded, “fly! Go!” I dropped my hand as I had seen Isobel do, and to even my surprise, Luma was in the air, navigating the course. Only this time, he was flying at a pace far beyond how he had raced for Isobel. He tore around corners, spinning in the air, barely recovering.

“He is not racing,” Isobel said. “He is just speeding through the course to get the pomegranate seeds.” Indeed, he was missing his marks, and he veered wildly, colliding with another training dragonka mid-air, sending them both tumbling. When they hit the ground, the larger one attacked Luma, going for his neck with his whiskered jaws. Luma rose in flight again, the two squaring off like boxers.

“Luma!” I beckoned, but he would not come. Instead he let the other beast attack, dodging its bite, and inflicting one of
his own on the passing dragonka’s tail. This incited the larger one even more, who immediately took off after Luma. A chase ensued, despite Isobel joining the call to bring Luma down. There was nothing to be done. After another skirmish, the other dragonka pursued Luma through a second floor window.

With no time to bicker, Isobel and I sprinted up the building stairs and down the hall. We listened at the doors until we heard a commotion behind one, and thrust it open.

Upon entering, five faces looked at us in surprise. At first I thought we had stumbled upon a burglary, then I realized that we were witnessing something very secret. On the floor there was a great map of Pava, detailing the streets that led to the Palace. But also, I noticed a stack of iron weapons in the corner and a stock of bayonets, broken down and oiled. An old hand-operated printing press smelled freshly inked. Bottles of potion were resting in crates in the corner, their contents emitting a soft green mist. One boy was busy trying to subdue Luma and the other dragonka, while the rest were shielding the weaponry from the rumbling dragonka. On the wall hung a banner with handwritten scrawl that read: JOZSEFTOWN RESISTANCE MOVEMENT.

Suddenly, I was pushed from behind and fell into the room.

Then the lights went out.

W
HEN A CANDLE WAS LIT
, the first thing I saw was Deklyn’s face, a few inches from my own, his eyes piercing and full of rage. His breath came heavily, smelling of cabbage and night air. At once, it seemed like we were both orphans, like he had taken me into his world of street life—for all its adventure and loneliness. He needed comfort. It didn’t matter if it was me, or Archibald, or anybody, Deklyn would push back when pushed. It was all in his eyes.