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Content warning: Nothing in this chapter, but they are eating some good food so maybe have a snack first?.
Chapter 18
“What?” He glances at his hand, trapped in its grip, then watches it reach for the door. “Wait!”
It yanks the door open and pulls him forward, striding down the hallway with him stumbling behind. After a few steps he catches his balance and his wits and matches its pace. “Where are we going?”
“To get something to eat.”
“But the priests—”
“No, Micka. Food.”
“But what about—”
“Micka!” It stops and faces him, his hand still tight-clenched in its own. He’s wincing, it notices, but it doesn’t loosen its grip. “I’m hungry. I want to eat. And if I’m doing that I’m not running away or trying to kill the demon. So tell me someplace to go.”
He stares, confused, then stammers, “The . . . the drinking house from last night. It has food.”
“Right. That’s where we’re going.”
Before he can say another word, it turns and leads him to the nearest stairs. Its instincts want it to find a back exit and slip out, but it ignores them. Micka said we could go out the front, so we will.
They pass a few other students in the hallways, and while they get curious glances, no one says anything. The door warden sees their clasped hands and gives Micka a raised eyebrow, but doesn’t tell them to stop. It leads him outside, its eyes searching for other Deaths. This time of day, they are more likely blending into the crowds than running the rooftops, so it looks for loiterers and followers. They reach an alley and it pulls him in, leading them to the next block. It turns into a second alley two blocks later, pushes Micka into a doorway, and watches the street.
“Metilia,” Micka sounds more uncertain than ever. “What are you doing?”
It puts a finger against his lips to hush him and keeps watching. When it’s confident that no one is pursuing them, it steps out and drags him along again. Three more turns, two more alleys and a long walk down a wide street leads them to the drinking house. It sees no followers, and hopes that, for now, they are all right.
The staff look askance at it when they step inside, and it remembers its clothes are filthy. Before they can ask it to leave, it walks up to the nearest server, pulls a sinet from its bag and holds it out In Silinie’s haughtiest voice it says, “A quiet table, your best meal, and privacy.”
The woman takes the coin, checks to see if it’s real, and leads them to a small table in a corner. It waits until she walk away, and opens up the folder. The drawings are neat, with careful lines and detailed images. The instructions, too, are easy to read and understand. It raises its eyes to meet his. “You did this in one morning?”
“Am I allowed to talk now?” Micka asks.
He’s angry at it, and it doesn’t blame him. “Sorry about that.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Making certain we weren’t being followed.” It raises the paper. “Why flowers?”
It can practically hear his teeth clenching. “Demons are creatures of death, destruction, and evil. They are countered by life, creation, and divinity. Why would anyone follow us?”
It ignores the question and reads, “The frames must be made of willow, and red flower petals sewn onto the wood with new red thread—”
“And once the weapons are completed, a priest must be bless them,” Micka finishes for it. “Why would someone follow us? Did your uncle tell your Dirarch you were out with a boy?”
“No.” It stares at the papers, wondering how it will find a priest to bless the blades. Silagh Lacinth might do it. She already knows what’s going on. But will she try to stop me?
“What aren’t you telling me, Metilia?”
That I’m a Death. That I’m a thing. That I’m cursed. It raises its eyes to his and sees impatience and curiosity and an infuriating concern. He’ll be so angry when he finds out the truth.
Why do I care? I’m just using him to get the plans.
Just like Talint used me.
It is a thought that turns its stomach sour. Micka is a decent person. He even tried to fight for it when he barely knew it. He doesn’t deserve to be lied to and thrown away.
The server comes with a teapot and two cups. Micka sits back, giving it a moment of respite. The server’s face is a mask of polite boredom that does nothing to conceal her curiosity. She puts down the cups, pour a measure of tea into each, and leaves the pot behind. It picks up the cup. The tea is too hot to drink, but the warm smell from the cup at once fruity and savoury. It holds the cup under its nose and lets the scent fill its head.
I have to expain everything. It breathes in the tea’s scent once more and puts its cup down. It tries to speak, stops, and admits, “I don’t know where to begin.”
Micka reaches out and puts his hand over its own—fair, after how I squeezed his—and says, “Just tell me the truth, Metilia.”
And because it has to start somewhere, it says, “That’s not my name.”
He freezes in his seat, staring. “What?”
“My name isn’t Metilia.” It takes a deep breath, because its secrets feel like they’re squeezing the air from its lungs. “I don’t have a name.”
It watches him trying to understand what that means. At last he aks, “How can you not have a name?”
“The House didn’t give me one.”
His eyes go to its hand, clasped in his own, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he asks, “Is . . . is anything you’ve told me true?”
“The demon is real,” it says, “And I need to kill it.”
“You can’t.” He squeezes its hand, as if the pressure can make it listen. “If the demon is real and after you, the church is the best—”
“It’s not after me.”
“Then why do you have to kill it?” he demands.
“Because I will die if I don’t.”
Micka lets go and sits back. He looks lost and hurt and says, “I don’t understand.”
It is trying to figure out both what to say and why it wishes he was still holding its hand when food arrives: two trays with thin-cut, smoked and spiced duck meat, bowls of spicy oil, pickled beans and hot peppers and stacks of flatbreads, each small enough to be eaten in three bites. Everything smells delicious.
The last time it ate this well, it was Silinie’s companion.
It shoves the thought and the emotions accompanying it away and picks up a piece of flatbread. “Eat first. And while we do I’ll try to figure out how to explain it, all right?”
It adds a slice of meat and pickled vegetables to the flatbread, rolls it tight and dips it into the spicy oil. When it bites down, the flavour—savoury, sharp, sweet and spicy at once—explode in its mouth. It chews slowly, revelling in the taste. Micka’s lips tighten at the delay, then the scent of the food reaches his nose. He huffs out an irritated breath, fills a flatbread, dips the roll into the oil and takes a bite. His expression changes from irritation to wonder, and neither speaks again until they’ve eaten everything.
It tries not to eat too quickly, and intersperses its bites with sips of the tea, whose taste is as good as its scent promised. Even so, it soon dips its last flatbread filled with meat and vegatbles in the remaining drops of oil. It revels in the final bite as much as it had in the first. Both their cups are empty, it sees, so it picks up the teapot, and refills both. Micka swallows the last of his food and lifts his cup. But instead of drinking, he cradles it in his hands, as if taking courage and calm from the warmth, the way it had done earlier.
It watches him muster arguments in his head, and waits. Finally, he says, “The church executes people who summon demons.”
“I’m not summoning the demon.” The other houses will do that. “I’m killing it.”
“You can’t kill it without summoning it.” His voice rises in frustration. “And why do you think you can kill it? Do you know how powerful demons are?”
It thinks about its bruised chest and back, about the scrapes covering its arms and legs, and the blood on the library floor when it woke up. “Yes.”
He looks ready to argue for a moment, but then his eyes narrow. “How?
Because I already fought it. The words won’t come out, because once they do it will have to explain how it survived, and that discussion will probably send Micka straight to the priests. Its eyes fall onto the folder and the pictures inside it, and an idea sparks in its head. “The flower blades need to be blessed to work. I can put them together, but can’t use them without talking to a priest first, right?”
“True,” he says warily. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to say anything else here.” It puts the papers into its shoulder bag and rises. “Come with me, Micka. We’ll go to my House, and I’ll make the flower blades and tell you the rest.”
Micka hesitates, unsure. It holds out a hand, knowing how manipulative the gesture is, and says, “Please, Micka?”
Chapter 19 comes April 11th!
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