Steadfast (24 page)

“Hey, come on. You don’t want to talk with us?”

“By now I’d think that would be obvious,” she snapped.

Both of them just laughed, and the one who had been quiet up until now said, “You’re not gonna share? You’re not the only hungry person in the world, you know.”

What a relief to know they only wanted the food. If it came down to it, she could drop the sack and run as fast as her legs would carry her. These two wouldn’t come after her, because they’d be too busy scooping up this crappy canned food.

But then she and Uncle Dave wouldn’t have much to eat. She’d have to try to tough it out.

“Why are you being so stuck up?” the first guy said. “We’re trying to be friendly. You’re too good to talk to us, share what you’ve got to eat?”

Walk faster,
she thought, but she couldn’t. Her body had burned through all its adrenaline at the hospital, and she had none left to match her fear. Exhaustion dragged at her, and she wondered whether she could run even if she had to.

The second guy, still quieter, said, “Why are you being such a bitch?”

Verlaine turned. “Why are you being such idiots? Listen. This is my food. Mine and my family’s. You want yours?
Get in line
like everyone else!” She dropped one of the bags at her feet, reached into her purse, and pulled out the pepper spray. “Things are screwed up in this town right now. But that doesn’t mean you can get away with anything you want. Now get the hell away from me before I burn your eyes out with this stuff, and don’t think I won’t.”

That wiped the smiles off their faces. As they slunk away, Verlaine let out a sigh. She doubted they’d follow her—they looked pretty shamefaced—but still, she thought she’d watch them go for a while before she turned her back.

Then she heard a soft laugh. “You’re more ferocious than I realized. I like that in a woman.”

“Asa.” Verlaine turned her head to see him standing off to the side, leaning against a parked car, utterly casual. “Wow, thanks for jumping in and saving me.”

“Demons aren’t big on saving people, as you might have guessed. Besides, you hardly seem to need rescuing.”

She’d had more than enough attitude for one day. “I’m going home,” Verlaine said. But even as she turned, she hesitated. She couldn’t shake the fear that the dock guys might yet decide to come after her and her stuff.

“You know, I was just thinking of taking a stroll,” Asa said, walking to her side. “I’d offer to carry your bags, but I’m afraid I’d burn through them.”

Being walked to her house was as much of a favor as she was ever likely to get from him. Verlaine decided to take it.

They went together side by side, through a town so still and shadowed that it might as well have been the middle of the night, though really it was only just after noon. Asa matched the speed of his steps to hers, and they were close enough that the unnatural heat of his skin warmed her slightly against the cold.

Verlaine knew she should thank him. Yet he remained a demon, and Elizabeth’s servant. She would thank no one working for the Sorceress who was even now torturing one of the people she loved most in the world.

When they reached the front step, Asa stood by her as she unlocked the door. It swung open, bathing them both in soft light; Uncle Dave must have left a lamp on. Verlaine was grateful for the illumination on this dark, weird day—until she saw Asa’s face looking down at her expectantly, and wished she hadn’t.

Because there was something about seeing him so . . . wistful, so eager, that turned her inside out.

“Help me put this stuff up,” she said. Was it rude, to just order him around? He didn’t seem to think so. Instead he just came inside and made himself busy beside her in the kitchen.

Wait. Should I not have done that? Is there something about not inviting demons inside your house? Or is that just vampires? Oh, crap, I hope there aren’t vampires. I have to ask Nadia about that. Also about asking in demons, but I’ve already done it, so—okay.

Smuckers came and twined himself around Asa’s legs, tail curling along his ankles and knees. Asa glanced over and saw Verlaine watching them. “Cats love demons,” he said.

“Why is that not even remotely surprising?”

He laughed. He had a beautiful laugh—nothing like Jeremy Prasad’s. Sometimes it was hard for Verlaine to remember that this was still Jeremy’s body; everything about Asa’s speech and laughter and movement was so different that he seemed to have transformed.

Asa wasn’t all bad. He couldn’t be. He deserved a chance. But could he be given one?

“Is there—” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Asa, is there any way to free you?”

His hand froze, still holding a bag of rice, halfway to the shelf. “. . . Free me?”

“From Elizabeth.”

“Only the One Beneath could do that. I serve at His pleasure.”

“Then, from the One Beneath.”

Asa turned to her then, his gaze impossibly sad. “Nothing any mortal could ever do.”

“It’s not fair, that you got—stolen into this. Kidnapped. Shanghaied.”

“
Shanghaied.
An old word. I like that.” Asa shook his head. “No. It’s not fair. But it’s the only existence I’ll ever have. I’ve accepted it.”

“Does that mean accepting everything that’s going to happen here? Everything that’s happening to my dad?”

“Don’t you know I’d change that if I could? Most of this world—this stupid, corrupt world—who gives a damn what becomes of it? But I’d save the lot if I could, just because you live here.”

It was too much. Verlaine stepped back from him. “You’re toying with me. Again.”

“I’m not. I wish you could believe that. Not that it makes any difference, I suppose. But we can’t help wishing, can we?”

Their eyes met, and once again Verlaine felt it—that unmistakable surety that she’d finally been
seen
, that one person in the world could really, truly look at her and see the truth. That had to be some kind of demonic magic, like the burning of his skin or the voodoo he’d worked on her besotted cat. And yet she couldn’t not revel in that unfamiliar feeling.

“Give me one thing,” she said. “One truth, and I’ll believe you.”

Asa blinked. “What?”

“Tell me one thing that will help us against Elizabeth. Anything real. Give me that.”

He stepped closer to her, until they were very nearly face-to-face. “All right,” he said. “One truth.”

“Say it,” she whispered.

“You know that Elizabeth’s responsible for the deaths of your parents,” he said. “For the fact that no one else can see you. But do you know why?”

She hadn’t expected his truth to be about her. Verlaine blinked, suddenly unsure. “No. I don’t know. I’ve never known.”

“Everyone in town loves Elizabeth, don’t they? They adore her. She’s only a dim shadow in their memories, a vague impression of the perfect girl.”

“Well, yeah. That’s her magic at work.”

“But what part of her magic?” Asa reached up and brushed a lock of Verlaine’s silvery hair from her cheek. “Elizabeth’s not that lovable on her own. So she steals the very ability to be loved. She steals it whenever she feels she needs more, and who do you think she steals it from? The very people who have the most. The ones whose hearts would be pure, whose joy in living could be unbounded, the ones who nearly every single person would find themselves drawn to as if by the gravitational pull of the stars. In other words, she stole it from you.”

Verlaine shook her head. “That’s not me.”

“It
is
you. Or, I should say, it ought to be. Who can feel joy when everyone else overlooks them? Whose heart can stay pure when they’re tormented by loneliness, and by jealousy for the simplest human connection? No one. Though you’ve come closer than anyone else I’ve ever heard of. There’s so much good in you, Verlaine—so much light, not even Elizabeth could take it all.”

“Stop,” she said, stepping back from him. “Please stop.”

“The theft is an illusion, really.” Asa’s voice was desperate now. “You still possess it, this ability to be loved, but the light shines on her instead. Like a candle that’s only visible in a mirror, do you understand?”

Verlaine shook her head. She was dangerously close to tears. “I don’t understand any of it. You have to stop.”

But Asa kept going. “The illusion doesn’t work on demons. I know you, Verlaine. No one else in the world does, but I do.”

“You could be making all of this up.”

“You know better.”

She did. But Verlaine had learned to deal with a hard world. She had learned to hold on to what she knew was true even when faced with hatred or indifference. She could hold on to it now, too.

“You’re a demon,” she said. “You’re helping the person who’s ruining my life. Whatever you feel doesn’t matter. Whatever I feel doesn’t matter. You’re here on this earth to do evil, and I’m here on this earth to stop you. So—that’s that.”

Asa straightened. He looked even sadder than she felt, and Verlaine had the absurd urge to comfort him.

Or maybe that was only the urge to put her arms around him.

“That’s that,” Asa said, and he turned and walked out into the cold. The door shut behind him, untouched.

21

NADIA SAT ON THE 22 BUS, HEADING NORTH ALONG
Clark Street, cell phone clutched in her hand. Texts from Verlaine kept scrolling along the screen, one after the other, each of them explaining what Elizabeth had stolen from her, and why. Although Verlaine’s misery was clear even through textspeak, Nadia couldn’t bring herself to feel anything—and for once, she didn’t think dark magic had anything to do with it.

She was only ten blocks from her mother’s new home. Nine blocks. Eight. A powerful numbness had settled over her, which Nadia knew was an attempt at self-preservation.

Only a few minutes remained before she faced the person who had hurt her more than any other. She couldn’t afford to have feelings right now.

When she alighted at her stop, her boots sank down into days-old snow, already gray and crusty. Nadia had missed so many things about Chicago—Ann Sather, the “L,” real pizza. But she’d forgotten about some of the sucky parts, like snow that never melted and only became grimier. Or cold that bit through your coat and your flesh to make your bones quiver. Days like today: Nadia had managed to blot those out.

It was amazing, the things you could make yourself forget.

She double-checked the address as she walked along the street.
Stupid,
she told herself. It wasn’t like she hadn’t memorized this from the moment she’d first seen it. But her hands had started trembling, and despite the cold, sweat made her skin sticky beneath her thick coat and socks.

What else can Mom do to you?
Nadia told herself savagely.
How could this get any worse than it already is?

The apartment building was a nice one, but there was no doorman, and Nadia was able to slip in as someone else was walking out. As the aged elevator shuddered its way upstairs, Nadia clenched her fists, spread her fingers, clenched them again. She was ready for this. She had to be.

Finally she stood at her mother’s door. Only then did it occur to Nadia that Mom might not even be home; despite the ample settlement Dad had paid out in the divorce, she might have taken a job. Or just gone out, to shop or visit the Art Institute, something like that. Her mother had a life now, a life that didn’t include her at all. Nadia hadn’t thought of it because she couldn’t imagine it. Their lives still had that jagged hole torn in the center, the place where she had been. Maybe Mom had moved on.

But she still knocked on the door.

Mom answered it.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. Nadia didn’t feel as though she could speak. All she could think was that Mom looked awful—even haggard. Her soft brown hair, which she used to always wear braided back in complicated, impractical, romantic styles, now hung lank around her face. She’d lost weight, though she’d been thin to start with. Instead of one of her rich cowl-neck sweaters in plum or rust or gold, she wore a plain T-shirt that didn’t look very clean. Even though this was the first time she’d seen her daughter in more than half a year, her mother’s face showed no reaction save a great tiredness.

Finally Mom said, “You shouldn’t have this address.”

“Don’t blame Dad. I snooped through his things.”

That should have earned her a scolding at minimum, but Mom merely shrugged. “I suppose it was inevitable. What do you want?”

What do I want?
What do I want?
For you to explain yourself, you worthless, miserable, hateful—

Somehow Nadia held back the angry words. “I want to know why a Sorceress says you traded me away.”

“Dammit.” Mom ran one hand through her hair. “A Sorceress?”

“Her name’s Elizabeth Pike. She happens to be in the same town we moved to—in Rhode Island—” Did Mom even know that much, or care?

“Happens to be? There’s no ‘happens to be’ about it.” Her mother sighed and stepped into her apartment. “You might as well come in. I’m only going to explain this once, and it’s going to take awhile.”

The apartment was nothing like Nadia would have expected. Mom loved color and texture, making things beautiful; she always spent enough on decorating and redecorating their condo that Dad sometimes got annoyed. But this space was bare and joyless. The furniture seemed to have been purchased from secondhand shops almost at random, because nothing matched, and while everything was in good condition, none of it seemed pretty or even cozy. Her walls were bare, the floor uncarpeted. Her witchcraft materials lay out in the open; apparently her mom didn’t expect anyone to come in, ever.

It was strange not even to feel comfortable taking a seat. Nadia had been more at ease in a doctor’s office.

For her part, Mom didn’t seem to care whether Nadia sat or stood. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, hardly even glancing at her daughter. “It’s no coincidence that you’ve been confronted with a Sorceress. The One Beneath has more influence in the mortal world than we’d like to think. Probably He . . . aligned the forces. Smoothed the way. Made it more likely your father would wind up there, dragging you along.”