The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (30 page)

— 64 —

· Midsummer’s Eve·

It’s been almost two months since I was released from the hospital. Kyla graduates tomorrow afternoon, in an overlong ceremony that will undoubtedly be punctuated by too many speeches on
the future
, and
what high school has meant
to the graduating class, now done with it, forever.

Meanwhile, just found out I failed Chemistry, and pretty much everything else, too. I passed gym class, surprisingly, but only because I joined track and field when one of the team members tore a ligament and had to drop out, and my gym teacher was impressed by my ability to sprint long distances. I enjoy the burn—it feels familiar. Almost nostalgic.

My father hasn’t mention the blood tests to me at all, and since I never had to go for biopsies or follow-ups, I assume the last round of tests came back normal. He did mention that the psychologist thought I would benefit by seeing a counselor regularly, so I’ve been seeing a therapist once a week for a while now. We mostly talk about the weather.

I’m ready to spend my summer vacation in summer school, though not exactly thrilled at the prospect. I guess it will keep me busy though, while Kyla is visiting New York City, and my father is…otherwise occupied. He’s been spending a lot of time with Laura—the petite, curvy, dark-haired woman from the porch. She’s nice enough, I suppose. I don’t spend time with her by myself, so I don’t really know.

I spend a lot of time in my room these days, avoiding Kyla’s invitations to graduation parties and prom parties and anti-prom parties. I play my violin, go through my mother’s things, stare at the red wooden box with the labyrinth and keys engraved on its top, the one that will not open. Tarot reading is all guesswork nowadays—not a single shred of intuition is left in me. My deck sits on my nightstand, untouched for weeks at a time.

When I come downstairs from another marathon violin practice on the eve of the Summer Solstice, I find my father getting ready to go out.

“Laura and I are heading to the movies, you want to come?” my father asks. “We’re going to see the new Pixar film.”

I shake my head. “Nah, that’s okay. You two have fun.”

“You got any plans for tonight?” He smiles. Abe is overly cheerful these days, because my therapist told him an uplifting environment could help boost my mood.

I shrug. “Nope. Probably just going to bed early, unless I decide to write depressing poetry. Been thinking about dyeing my hair black, so tonight might be the night.”

“Very funny,” my father says, running his fingers through his hair in the mirror that my mother hung by the door ages ago. He looks at me, that hopeful, earnest expression on his face that I wish was more genuine than it is. “I know you have a busy weekend coming up, but now that school’s out and exams are over, I’d really like you to have dinner with Laura and me. I know you’ve met several times, but I’d like you to get to know her.”

I try not to let my face move at all because I know my expression would not benefit this conversation. “Why?” I ask, and realize how terrible that sounds.

“Because I care about her, Ana. And I care about you. And nothing would make me happier than for the two women I love most to love each other, too.”

I swallow.

Love
.

My father doesn’t miss a beat, maybe doesn’t realize what he’s said, maybe doesn’t
mean
it—or, okay, maybe he does. But I see a future unfold before me that I’m not sure I’m ready for: dinner with Laura, leading to finding her in our house when I come home from school—leading to her rearranging the furniture that has been untouched since before mom was diagnosed—leading to seeing her in the morning, in pajamas, making breakfast—leading to the ghost of my mother being squeezed out of my father’s life completely.

“Ana?” My dad’s hands fall on my shoulders. “Sweetheart, come on.” He hugs me, and sighs. “Ana, Ana, Ana. I know what’s going through your head, honey. It’s okay. It’s normal to feel that way.”

“That doesn’t make it easier,” I breathe, and realize that I’m crying. I’m such a mess these days.

“I’m not going anywhere. And no one is replacing you. And no one is
ever
going to replace your mother.” He pulls back and looks at me. “I love your mother. I still love her, more than I will ever love another woman. But love is many strange animals.”

“You…love Laura.”

“Not in the same way I loved your mother. But yes.”

I frown. “I don’t understand.”

He shakes his head. “I hope you never have to. But do you trust me?”

I shrug and nod at the same time. “I don’t know. Yeah. Of course.”

Abe looks fondly at me. “Karanina is your mother. She was my first love. She saved me from a life I can hardly even fathom now—” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “But you know something? While I’ll always love her, and I’ll always be grateful for the memories I have, and I’ll always,
always
be grateful for you, I have to keep living. And so do you. It’s what your mother would have wanted.”

I nod, lips pulling down into an unstoppable frown, and lean into him. He holds me like the woodsmoke and after-shave scented bear he’s always been, protecting me from the world outside. But it’s the world inside of me that hurts, raging against the truth of his words as they expose my wounds to the sunlight.

I have to keep living.

— 65 —

When my father leaves, I collapse on the couch and sulk my way into a fitful nap. My dreams are filled with the sensation of things slipping through my fingers: moments, memories, futures, other people’s fingers. More than once I find myself dropping suddenly, falling towards an unknown end.

When I wake up, it’s well after midnight, and I have two text messages on my new cell phone from an unknown number.

At six o’clock:

UNKNOWN:
If you can forgive me, I’ll be in the apple orchard after dark

And then an hour ago:

UNKNOWN:
I’m sorry.

“No,” I whisper, and jump to my feet, running for the front door.

But then I hesitate, hand on the doorknob.

It’s been almost two months since I was released from the hospital—almost two months since I last saw Trebor. I’ve hated him, and loved him, and missed him, and wished he’d never come into my life.

And I already know what will happen if I go to him. He’s not going to fix things, tell me he has a solution to our problems, restore my magic and whisk me away to be a part of his revolution. He doesn’t want to see me so he can promise me he’ll come back for me, or that things will be okay.

He wants to say goodbye.

I know, because as surely as he’s felt it every time I’ve cried myself to sleep, I’ve felt him break down too. I’ve felt his hopelessness, his anger, his guilt. I’ve felt the dark places inside of him that he’ll never forgive, that I’m not sure I can, yet. And I’m not sure I can go to him, knowing it will be the last time I see him, when everything between us is already so messed up.

If he’s even still there.

My heart flutters in my chest, a tiny wail, hoping against hope that he’s waited for me, that it’s not too late, that my head will stop trying so goddamn hard to protect my heart and just let it
love—
fiercely, wildly, foolishly. Listening to my heart, I’m overcome with something terrible, and beautiful, and bright—the first thing that has felt anything like magic in a long time.

I take a breath, open the door, and run.

— 66 —

I don’t slow my pace until I’m fumbling down the gravel path that connects the nunnery to the old apple orchard—the same orchard where we laid together in the grass, night after night, unwrapping the magic locked away inside of me. Gravity pulls a few more quick strides from my legs, but as I come around the old pine on the left my heart pulls up short, suddenly alarmed by the fact that it’s about to get exactly what it asked for.

Through the mist, I can see the apple trees: dark, gnarled shapes bending crooked towards the sky like arthritic monsters worshipping the moon. The grass has grown tall since I was last here. It forms a wide circle outside of the apple trees, and above me the sky looks like a planetarium, made artificially round by the perimeter of pines at the edge of the grass. Everything smells earthy, damp, sweet.

My skin is sticky with sweat from running all the way here; the mist clings to my hair and eyelashes, making everything heavier, shinier. Fireflies dance brighter in the fog, tiny lights refracting and diffusing amidst the water molecules. I follow their lead, into the trees, touching the hard, flaking bark, the waxy leaves.

I hear him drop down behind me, but not before our hearts beat a little harder, a little faster.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Trebor says, and his voice runs through me like a steel cable, piercing me, anchoring me to him.

I take a breath, hold my head high, and turn to face him with my arms crossed. He’s just out of arm’s reach, barely obscured by the mist. “I almost didn’t,” I admit, and watch his shoulders fall slightly. “My head told me that no good could come of seeing you when I already know what you’re going to say. But my heart—” I falter, words dying in my chest. “My heart was more demanding.”

Trebor steps closer, hands in his pockets, and I notice the absence of his tattoos—I can see no black markings winding down from the sleeves of his tee-shirt to wrap around his arms. I guess that was part of my ability to use magic—part of my ability to
see
. And it’s gone now.

A firefly dances by his face, lighting up green the hard angles of his cheeks and jaw when my eyes meet his. It’s terrible. Everything about him is familiar, known, certain—and yet at the same time he’s distant, different, strange. I want to fall into his arms and let him hold me. I want to slap him and take out all my anger on him. But mostly I wish I hadn’t come at all, because this is not healing, not satisfying in any way. It’s just awkward.

“This whole idea was selfish of me,” he says, taking another small step towards me. “I know that. But…my heart was more demanding, too.” He purses his lips. “I’m leaving in the morning. I needed to say—”

“You don’t get to,” I snap before he’s finished.

Trebor stares at me, heartbroken.

“You already made a decision for me,” I say. “One I wish you hadn’t.”

“Ana, there was no other way—”

“There is
always
another way.” I swallow hard, close my eyes, shake my head. “I—I don’t blame you. You did what you thought was best, and I know that. It took a while, but I’ve mostly forgiven you.” When I look at him again, I feel my heart—his heart—beating fast and shallow, waiting for the final blow. “But…do you remember when you and Lykos told me that, for an Irin to lose their wings and become human—that’s one of the worst punishments imaginable? I get it now. Because you’re born with magic. You don’t know how to live without it.” I put my hand over my stomach. “More than just my
sight
has been taken. My magic is gone, too. And I may have only just learned how to
harness
it, but it’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember. That burning current of
feeling
that possessed me for so long?” I shrug, and clutch the fabric of my shirt. “It’s gone. It’s hollow now. There’s nothing.”

Trebor’s face constricts—brow furrowed, mouth scrunched up in anger. Not towards me—just impotent, directionless anger. His heart hammers like a fist, beating against his ribs, against mine.

“So, yeah, I’m safe,” I hold my hands out, palms up. “But I’m different than I was before.” My arms drop. “I’m
less
. I can’t see the things that I still
know
are lurking in the shadows at night. I can’t read
people
like I used to. I can’t even read tarot.” I shake my head. “It’s like I’m lost at sea and stuck in port, at the same time.”

Trebor clenches his jaw, frowning, and I feel the guilt rising up inside of him, trickling into me even as he visibly restrains himself.

I put my hand over my heart and step towards him. “But I have this.” I press my other hand to his chest, where I can feel our pulse drumming under my palm. “This last thing I know is real. The last of so many things that were forced on me, that I came to love, and to need—but that hasn’t been taken away. Yet.”

He stops his agonizing and stares at me, eyes bigger than I’ve ever seen, sad, and hurt, and sorry.

My mouth tenses, twists, and I have to fight with all my strength to hold back the tide of tears. “My head tells me to throw it away, now, before it can be taken from me.”

Trebor grabs my hand over his heart, holds it tightly to his chest. He says nothing, but the gesture stabs me in the gut. My fight begins to fail; a tear slips from my eye.

“My head tells me that
this—
” I thump my own chest. “This is my final weakness. That
you
are my final weakness. That if I lose this
thing
we share, this bond, I’ll be broken. But if I cut it out of me, myself…then at least I’m not a victim. Right?” The anger in me hurts, more than I thought was possible, but the look on Trebor’s face cuts ever deeper.

I shake my head, just slightly. “So, you don’t get to decide when it’s time to say goodbye, Trebor. I do.”

Trebor takes a deep, shaky breath, opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything.

I step closer, feel the uselessness of my actions, the powerlessness of my love for this man—this Irin—a love that’s more than happy to build me up and tear me down in the same instant. I’ve risked my life for him. I would die for him, still.

But I refuse to give up for him.

“I’m not letting you say goodbye. Not now, and not ever.” I frown, and our hearts hum a painful vibrato in our chests. “I don’t care if you leave tonight or tomorrow, or if you vanish in the next sixty seconds. This
isn’t
goodbye, damn it. I’m
not
giving up.”

“I’m not giving up either,” Trebor agrees, tears breaking free and streaming as he grabs my shoulders, pulling me closer, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth. “I’ll never give up.” He kisses me again. “Never.”

And when he kisses me a third time, I can’t stop myself from kissing him back. It’s desperate, deep, and violent, our mouths like wounds—inflicting or inflicted, I can’t tell, but each stab of longing sends us back to each other’s arms and lips, pressing close, digging deep, gasping, crying. I don’t know if the salt on my lips is from his tears or mine, but it’s bitter, either way. It’s the most bitter thing I have ever tasted, I think. And as our tears stream down our faces, we both know, for better or worse, exactly how each other feels.

I love you.

You deserve better than this.

I will never give up on you.

Let go.

Let go.

Let go—!

…Hold on.

“I love you, Anastasia,” Trebor whispers against my lips. “No matter what comes to pass. I promise, I’ll—”

“No. Don’t make promises. Please, God—don’t promise me anything. Just be with me.”

He nods after a long moment, brushing my hair away from my face, studying my eyes. “I can do that.”

We lower ourselves to the grass and curl up against each other, watching the stars and fireflies blink in and out of existence, listening to our hearts beat, feeling our chests rise and fall. We hold tight and close as the night and the mist pass over us, knowing that, when the morning comes, it will all be over.

But here and now, in these fleeting minutes and dwindling hours, we have each other. These last moments and their siren song of hope may be all we ever have.

And that has to be enough.

End Book One.