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Content warning: Violence.
Chapter 22
It’s a fair question, which doesn’t make it any less irritating. It thinks, and offers, “I’ll tell you everything that happened. And the names of the Houses that made the deal with the demon, if you can hold off telling the church until tomorrow.”
“And what proof shall I give the church?” Silagh Lacinth asks. “Will you leave me the contract?”
“I can’t. They need it to summon the demon and renew the agreement. That’s the only time I know where the demon will be.”
“I’m the proof,” Micka says. “I researched the weapons and the drawings and gave them to . . .” he nods at it, showing that he still isn’t comfortable with its title. “I’ll testify to whoever you want, and swear on my student oaths.”
“All right,” Lacinth says. She looks at the paper again. “This calls for a formal blessing, which takes a while to set up. Tell me everything while I get things ready.”
And so, while Lacinth moves around the room, it tells her what happened from the beginning. Lacinth listens as she places seven candles on the ground, lights them, and lights seven incense sticks from the candles, putting them in between the candles. At last, she puts the blades in the circle and steps back.
She asks Micka. “Will you swear to what you’ve heard?”
“Yes,” he says. “And that the parts that include me are true.”
“That’s enough,” she says. “Time to begin.”
Micka and it stand back as Lacinth begins praying, shaking a wooden rattle in one hand and ringing a bell with another. She calls on the God to imbue the daggers with power to defeat N*klabl’ch^gik’dm—she gets the name right first try—and return the God’s peace to the world. It’s a long ritual, with many repetitions. Lacinth circles the flower blades seven times in each direction and bows at each of the seven points with each one.
At last, Lacinth genuflects before the altar. She whispers a final prayer and snuffs the candles one by one. She picks up the daggers and hands them to it. “Take them, Death of House Kilcharni, and may the God grant you the strength you need to face the demon.”
It bows and puts the willow and flower petal weapons into its bag. “Can Micka stay here tonight?”
“He can have my cot,” Lacinth says. “The ladies from House Tishia will find a spare mat for me in the back.”
“Thank you,” it says and turns to Micka. He’s going to be safe. “I should go.”
“I’ll walk you out?” Micka asks. It nods and the two walk together to the chapel door. Micka opens it and asks, “Will . . . will I see you again? After you kill the demon, I mean. Will you say goodbye before you leave?”
If I live. “Yes.”
Micka hesitates, and he swallows hard before asking, “Can I kiss you?”
“Not in here, you can’t,” Silagh Lacinth calls, which makes Micka turn bright red. It stifles a laugh, catches his hand, and pulls him out of the chapel. They close the doors and stand before them, hands clasped together. And that’s when it realizes it has no idea what to do.
Kissing is something that people do, not things. A few of Silinie’s male friends had suggested kissing it before, but it always said no, and not only because its job was keeping an eye on Silinie. It never understood why kissing mattered. But now . . .
Do I want to kiss Micka?
Micka’s nice. He helped me and listened to me. He didn’t order me around or beat me or treat me like a thing. And he’s waiting instead of pushing for an answer.
“You don’t have to say yes,” he says, mistaking its hesitation for rejection. His voice is gentle and free of disappointment. He and starts to let go but it grips his hand and tries to decide what to do.
Silinie would kiss him.
“I’m not against the idea,” it says. “I’ve just never kissed someone before. I’ve never wanted to. Also, I don’t know how.”
It won’t hurt anything if I do it.
And so it says, “Would you show me?”
It takes Micka a moment to understand. Then he smiles, leans in and kisses it. His lips are soft and the pressure on its own is gentle. It remembers Silinie being flushed and breathless and happy after Ralleen kissed her. It doesn’t feel any of those things. If feels . . . nice? Pleasant? Not terrible or painful or awful?
Micka steps back. His face is flushed, but he’s not smiling like Silinie. Instead, he looks curious, and asks, “Was that all right?”
It touches its lips as if it expects them to have changed. They haven’t. It frowns, realizes that he might take that the wrong way, and says, “It didn’t feel bad. And it was interesting.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Micka squeezes its hand once more and lets it go. “Goodbye Mel . . .” He stops, smiles, and says, “Goodbye, Death of House Kilcharni. See you soon.”
“Me, too.” It steps back and puts on a smile. “Goodbye, Micka.”
It walks away, hoping he doesn’t feel upset, then wonders why that worries it, but not feeling nothing from the kiss. A glance over its shoulder shows Micka, still watching it, wearing an expression somewhere between sadness and hope.
“Very sweet,” says House Felcina’s Master of Death, stepping out to walk beside it. “Is this what’s kept you so long, little Death?”
It takes all of its training not to jump in surprise. Even so, it needs a steadying breath before it says, “Kileiteria. I said I’d deliver the contract this afternoon.”
“Master Kileiteria. We’re tired of waiting for you, little Death.”
The “we” warns it, and a quick scan shows two men and a woman converging on them from both directions of the boardwalk. It doesn’t change its pace or reach for its weapons, yet.
“People have died while you were messing about,” Kileiteria says. “Give me the contract.”
“So you can kill me?” It shakes its head. “I’ll take it to your House myself.”
“And kill the demon with your flower daggers? I don’t think so.”
Fuck.
“I thought you wanted your curse removed, little Death,” Kileiteria says. “I thought you wanted your freedom. So why do something so stupid?”
They’ll kill them both. Then they’ll take the contract and kill me.
Kileiteria steps in front of it. It expects to see her daggers, but the woman keeps her hands open. “I will give you one chance, little Death. Hand over the daggers and the contract and come with us.”
“And what about them?” it asks, motioning with its head toward the church.
“You should have thought of them before you made your decision,” Kileiteria says. “Now hand it—”
It bolts back the way it came. Micka, still standing in the church doorway, stares at it with wide eyes. A Death races between them and goes low, trying to tackle it. It jumps, slaps its hands onto the Death’s back to get more height, then slams both feet against his shoulder blades and launches off of him. It pulls its bag from its back and shoves it at Micka.
“What do I do?” Micka asks, his eyes wide with panic.
“Run!” It grabs the leather case with the contract from the bag and yanks the church door open, hissing, “Tell them today!”
It pushes him inside, draws a dagger and charges the Death that tried tackling it. The man is back to his feet, his own daggers out and ready. Behind him, the other two Deaths are racing forward.
“Surrender or die,” the closest Death yells.
Surrender?
It fakes high, goes low and to the side, opening up the man’s thigh. He grunts and slashes at the hand holding the contract. It stops him with a cut to his wrist and, when he yanks his arm back, steps in and cuts. Blood spurts and the man falls, slapping his hands over his neck in a vain attempt to staunch the spurting blood.
Around them, people are screaming and jumping off the boardwalks, desperate to get out of the way of the knives. It tries to run the other direction, to force them away from the church, but the two Deaths block it. Its world shrinks to the slashing daggers coming at it. The Deaths try for its arms, aiming to cut the knife from its hand or make it drop the contract, or for its legs to slow it down. Their blades block its advances, but never come at it in a killing strike.
They don’t want to kill me. The realization makes it slide back quick steps to put distance between them and it. Why don’t they want to kill me?
“Give up,” one shouts. “Give up or die!”
It bares its teeth in a snarl and charges, giving up defence to do as much damage as possible. It cuts the first Death’s arm twice and drops low to the slice the tendons on the back of the woman’s knee. She screams and falls. It rises and the second Death kicks its leg. Its balance goes and it rolls, coming up inside the man’s guard and slamming the top of its head into the Death’s chin. He stumbles back. It shoves its dagger into his thigh and rips it out, splitting his muscles open.
Something stings its neck, then the flesh turns numb.
Plander’s weed. Fuck. It scrapes the dart out with its dagger as its arms grow heavy. Its legs will go next, and when the drug reaches its torso, its lungs and heart will stop working. If the shooter has the antidote and I take it, I can still escape.
Kileiteria slips the blowgun back into her cloak, and watches it, her eyes narrow.
I’m screwed. Its legs go numb as it runs at her, and its arm won’t work to raise its dagger. Kileiteria catches it by the shoulders, her voice almost tender when she says, “Sleep, little Death.”
It pushes up to headbutt her, but its skull falls forward, and it collapses like an exhausted child into her embrace. Its brand burns hotter even as the world goes grey, then fades into darkness.
The first things it feels are cool air on its chest and stomach, and cold stones beneath its back. Its arms and legs spread wide, and when it tries moving, it realizes strong, taut ropes hold them in place. It opens its eyes and sees the Felcina church crypt. All the decorations are gone, save the lanterns hanging on the walls. Iron stakes, driven into the stone floor, anchor the ropes that bind it.
It wears no clothes save its loincloth, and writing it cannot read covers its torso.
“Call the others,” says Kileiteria, behind it. It cranes its neck and sees her, sitting cross-legged above its head. She nods to someone it can’t see and says, “It’s time.”
Chapter 23 comes May 9th!
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