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Content warning: brief images of child death and body horror.
Chapter 17
“Oh God.” Micka drops the contract as if touching the scroll defiles him. The child doesn’t move, their eyes on it, as if it is the only source of hope. Micka’s head swings back and forth. “There’s no one here.”
“They’re standing beside you, staring at me,” it says.
“But no one’s here!” Micka protests. A moment later he understands, and his face twists with horror. “You see the dead?”
“Yes.”
He looks at the contract, and the place where he thinks the ghost stands. “I thought only priests could do that.”
“Most people who can become priests,” it says. “Not all.”
It waits for him to realize which other profession sees the dead, and is relieved when he doesn’t. Instead, in a quiet voice, he asks, “What’s it like?”
The child is staring at it with sad, pleading eyes. “Awful.”
Micka doesn’t speak. It stays where it kneels, still and silent, waiting to see what he will do next. At last, he reaches for the contract, his hand hesitating before touching it. “Only demon contracts are written on human skin.”
“Yes.”
“This contract . . .” He stops, and when he speaks again, it hears a faint hope in his voice. “Is it from the house that tried to destroy yours?”
It wants to give the easy lie, but it is so tired. Its body aches with the strain of climbing the wall and running and two full days and nights with too much clohalc and not enough sleep or food. Its mind hurts with what it has learned and the lies it has told, and its heart cries in grief for the dead child staring at it. “No. It’s the contract my house made with the demon N^klabl’ch*gik’dm.”
“N*klabl’ch^gik’dm.” Micka’s face falls as he correct it—it reversed the tongue click and deep gulp. He picks up the contract—between his finger and thumb at first, but then cradles it as if he is holding the child and not just its skin. Tears form in his eyes, and his body shakes. He whispers, “How could you do this?”
“I didn’t do this,” it protests. “It happened two hundred fifty-six years ago. I only found out yesterday.”
“How could anyone do that to a child?”
It thinks of all that was done to it, and doesn’t answer.
“Metilia,” Micka’s voice is quiet, unsure. “Why did you lie about the demon?”
“I didn’t learn it until last night,” it says, which is partly true. “Will you help me, Micka?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Micka whispers.
“Micka, please. I don’t have anyone else.” The words are manipulative, it knows, and no less so for being true. It takes the contract, puts it away in its case and hopes the child will vanish. “Give me the drawings, Micka, and I’ll leave you alone. I swear.”
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” he says, and his voice becomes low and sad. “I don’t know what to do.”
It stands, intending to find the drawings and take them. But the movement is slow and weary and makes the room spin. It stumbles to the table, leans on it to stay on its feet until its balance comes back.
“Metilia!” Micka jumps to his feet and holds out a hand. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re going to fall over.”
“I’m tired, is all.” It takes his hand because physical contact will make it easier to get what it wants, it tells itself, and not because it needs to hang onto him to keep upright. Micka’s hand is soft, unlike its own, and warm.
Micka bites his lip and looks away. When he turns back, there’s determination on his face. “Stay with me tonight.”
As exhausted as it is, it cannot resist tilting its head and raising its eyebrows. It takes Micka a moment before he realizes. He turns bright red, and his mouth forms an O. He stammers, “I didn’t mean that. I just meant that you’re too tired to talk anymore or go anywhere. Sleep here and we’ll figure things out in the morning. You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the rug.”
“Will you give me the drawings?” It wants the words to be pleading, but suspects they only sound exhausted.
“I will, I swear,” he says. “You can barely stand. Stay, please.”
Micka is right, and he’s agreed to help, which is what it needs, so it says, “I’ll sleep on the rug.”
He starts to protest and it squeezes his hand. “You’ll be in enough trouble is someone sees me here. What happens if they me in your bed?”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.” It lets him go and sinks onto the rug. “I am sleeping here. You take the bed, and if you argue, I’ll sneak out.”
Micka’s lips press tight together in irritation, but he doesn’t press the point. He opens the chest at the foot of his bed and takes out a thick blanket. Before it can protest, he unfolds the blanket and covers it. The blanket is heavy and warm and so very comfortable. It tries to remember if it ever had one before, and cannot.
I’ll get up before him, take the drawings, and leave. It decides as its eyelids grow heavy.
It wakes with its chest burning white hot. The pain drives it from lying to standing in a single move, hands on its daggers, legs still tangled in the blanket. Light pours through the window—late morning, on a guess. Its eyes land on the bed, rumpled but empty, then snap over to the desk. Micka is sitting in front of a pile of papers, dressed in full student robes and cape, making notes. The curse, having woken it up, fades enough that it can speak, though its chest burns hotter than the day before.
At least the child isn’t here. It puts on a pleasant voice to hide its irritation at itself. “Good morning.”
Micka jumps up from his chair, smacks his knees against his desk, and sits again, wincing. When he jumps up the second time, he stays on his feet and smiles. “You’re awake!”
“I am,” it says. “What time is it?”
“Just before noon. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“It’s fine,” it lies, cursing itself for its failure.
“I brought fresh water for the pitcher so you can wash. The latrine is down the hall to the left, if you need to . . .” He looks embarrassed, which confuses it, as everyone does those things.
“I do need to,” it says. “I’ll be right back.”
It checks that the hallway is empty before going to the latrine, and before returning. No one sees it, and it suspects the other students are in class. It borrows a clothing brush from Micka and brushes off what dust and grime it can from its clothes. They still look wretched. It sighs and goes to the washstand, not taking off its jacket so Micka doesn’t see its daggers. Micka turns away when it starts washing, which allows it to reach under its shirt without fear of him seeing its weapons. It cleans its face and takes as much dirt off its arms and legs and body as possible while avoiding the bandages. Not satisfied, but knowing that it can’t do more without a proper bathhouse, it straightens its clothes and calls, “I’m finished.”
“Good.” He turns around and asks, “Are you hungry?”
“I’m fine,” it lies, daring its stomach to growl in disagreement. “If I can have the drawings, I’ll leave before I get you into trouble.”
“We’re allowed guests during the day,” Micka says. He stops, and it watches him nerve himself up to speak. Finally, Micka picks a leather folder up from his desk and hands it over. “Here are the instructions and drawings. But we have to do something before you go.”
His words and the hesitant way he says them put it on its guard. It puts the drawings in its bag and asks, “What?”
“We need to see the priests who run this school,” Micka says. “And tell them what you told me.”
Its stomach twists. “I can’t, Micka.”
“You won’t be in trouble,” Micka says earnestly. “Neither will your House. Not for something done two hundred fifty years ago. Just explain, and they’ll help you.”
“They can’t.”
“Metilia, they teach demonology.” From his tone, he thinks he’s being reasonable. “If they can’t help you, no one can.”
“You’ve helped me.” It pats its bag and the folder within. “This is enough.”
“Enough for what?” he demands, exasperated. “To risk your life and break the law by summoning the demon? You’ll die, Metilia.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Everyone who messes with demons dies and I don’t want you to die.” Micka hesitates, and the unspoken because I like you hangs in the air between them. “I won’t let you.”
It shakes its head, not wanting to deal with his feelings. “Micka, I have to go.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Come to the priests with me, please.”
“Why do you care so much?” it demands, frustrated and unsettled. “You don’t even know me, Micka.”
“I want to, and I can’t if you die.”
Oh God. “I’m leaving.”
He blocks its path to the door. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll go by myself.”
It looks at his earnest face and wide, worried eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw and thinks how best to kill him. “You can’t.”
Micka throws his arms up in frustration, his voice rising. “For the God’s sake, why not, Metilia?”
A quick slash to his throat and a stab under his arm and it can leave while Micka bleeds out on the carpet, unable to speak or breathe. He’ll be dead for hours before someone comes looking for him.
Its hands go to its daggers, the fingers tight on the grip.
Killing him is the fastest way to solve things. Its master would order it to kill Micka in a heartbeat. The Dirarch would tell it, “kill him and be done with it for the honour and safety and secrets of House Kilcharni.”
“Metilia,” he is pleading for an answer. “Why not?”
Fuck the secrets of House Kilcharni. It takes its hands from the daggers, grabs his arm, and pulls him around as it heads for the door. “We’re leaving.”
Click here to read Chapter 18!
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