Chapter 17

Death is such a common aspect of the human experience that we are all familiar with the reapers and psychopomps of Hades. It is worth mentioning that he is not the only greater god with lesser servants who walk among us. They too cannot resist meddling.

-Hecate's Guide to Arcane Philosophy

Quiet

I put Rorick to bed in our safe haven on the second floor, worried because he still seemed so troubled. I tried to get him to explain what he'd been going on about earlier, but his efforts to share with me his desire to "end the cycle" and "save his constant" distressed him and overwhelmed me. I couldn't make head or tail of most of it, and I couldn't interrogate him properly because I didn't want to upset him further.

"I did it all for you," he repeated drowsily as the sun slumber took him.

I curled up beside him atop the covers, still fully dressed. I was tired but too restless to prepare for bed just yet despite the long night we'd had. He'd insisted he somehow knew me before we'd properly met, but we'd only been partners for just over three years now—including an extended break. Yet, he'd known me with enough interest that he'd investigated my history?

It didn't bother me that he'd looked into me. I'd looked into him as well before I partnered with him, if not quite so thoroughly, and certainly not three decades before he was even a detective.

My restless thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a gentle knock, but the summons ripped me so fully from my deep reprieve that it about startled me right out of the bed.

"One moment," I called, climbing to my feet. Adjusting my skirts, I crossed the room and opened the door.

Sheridan stood on the other side, sans his coat and cap. He cracked a smile at me that didn't reach his brown eyes. A sour cloud that smelled of alcohol followed him.

My nose wrinkled. "Everything all right?"

His gaze dropped to his boots. He fidgeted with his hands in front of him. I assumed at first his visible discomfort had something to do with finding me in a bedroom alone with Rorick. I was an unmarried woman, and society had uneven expectations for the behavior of spinster ladies like myself.

I'd turn seventy-four next winter. I was too old to care about society's mores regarding women's sexuality.

"Well?" I pressed with a bit more impatience.

"Could I have a word, Ms. Quiet?" His tone was so soft and subdued, my earlier annoyance was immediately mollified.

"Of course," I said, joining him in the hall, near the banister.

He shuffled closer to the oil painting of a younger Rorick to make room for me. Even though I knew Rorick couldn't be awakened at this late hour, I still instinctively closed the door behind me carefully so as not to disturb him.

Sheridan licked his lips, his gaze trained on the floor where the corner met the wall.

"Inspector, is something the matter?" I asked softly, wishing Rorick was awake. He was much better at pacifying geds than I was. He had a lot more practice at it.

"Yes," Sheridan said with a breathy laugh that lacked humor. He worked his throat. "I'm dying, you know."

I nodded solemnly. "A shame, truly. If there's something Rorick and I could do for you—"

"There isn't," he said, shaking his head. "Rorick talked to me briefly about becoming one of him. You know, a preternatural. A vampire." He ran a hand aggressively through his dark hair. "But that's not in the cards for me. Not with this eternal consequence growing inside me. He said he thinks letting it fester turned the former duke, Alexander Harker, into something nasty."

"Nastier than he was naturally," I said. "I don't know the details of how he earned his malady of the blood, but I've no doubt that in his case it was well-deserved. I agree it likely had a negative impact on his personality after his change."

"I don't want that for me," Sheridan said. "I've already made a terrible choice once . . . Those poor children . . . I don't want to watch myself become a man who makes terrible choices as a habit."

I folded my hands together in front of me, feeling my cheeks go hot. Discussing such an emotional thing with anyone would have had me blushing, but doing it with a man I hardly knew magnified the effect. "I think that's very noble of you, Inspector. For what it's worth, if it were up to me, I'd take it from you. If anyone deserves to be redeemed . . ."

"Thank you." Sheridan bit his lip, then peered up at the great oil painting that loomed over us. "I want you to know that before I reached the gates, I sent my horse off into the woods, so you won't need to fuss over that."

My brows rose. "There are hungry werewolves in those woods."

"Don't I know it," he said sadly. "He was a good horse too, but it needed doing. I didn't want to make the two of you have to deal with my belongings after the fact. I don't want to create trouble for you. Now everyone will assume the werewolves got me too while I was traveling."

I squinted at him. A sense of foreboding fell over me, pebbling my skin. "Deal with your horse after what exactly, Inspector?" Instinctively, I took a step back from him.

He wet his lips and swallowed hard once more, like the words kept catching in his throat. "I won't live to see my next birthday, but honestly, it's the waiting for it all to be over that's the worst of it."

"Oy," I breathed. I wrung my fingers together, uncertain how I might comfort him. We didn't know each other well by any means, but I didn't want to see him harmed. He'd made a positive impression on Rorick, and with me, he always put forth an effort few did. "That would be very hard."

"Hecate said that if I shared a message with you . . . an important one, well, that just might change your fate and seal mine for good. With all the errands I've run for her, it'll likely happen now , instead of later." His voice cracked as he spoke, and his eyes went red-rimmed.

I blinked at him, needing a moment to process what he was saying. "Sheridan, whatever it is my mother asked you to pass on, you don't have to listen."

"I know I don't have to. She said it was up to me."

My heart thundered in my ears. "Come now, you need not say it. Whatever time you have left, you deserve to make the most of it. Don't throw it all away—"

"Every twelfth hour, Hecate visits a tiny pub in the historic district on—"

"I know about the pub already. Rorick has visited her there," I said earnestly, trying to silence him. "Please, Sheridan, think of your family. Think of the friends that will miss you, the people who would still like a chance to say goodbye to you. Have a last drink or two with them and—"

"I'd rather not wait anymore. It's better this way, though I'm sorry it's you that's got to see it. I wasn't quite ready yet when I arrived. I needed a last drink . . . or ten." His smile was sad. Tears welled in his eyes, turning them glassy. Loudly, he cleared his throat. "Go and see Hecate because Rorick has it all wrong. The consequences that have bled into the circus aren't because of him or anything he's done. Hecate says they're because of you and what you've done."

"What are you saying?" The words left my lips as a whisper.

"Hecate isn't your mother . . . She's you . . ." Sheridan opened his mouth to continue, but the oil painting rippled like water. A mess of strong arms, mottled skin, and feathered wings descended upon him. I screamed at the sight. Sheridan shrieked as the arms and wings grabbed him up. They held him tight, wrapping around him in a horrifying embrace. He screamed until he lost his breath, enveloped by a cocoon of limbs and ashen feathers. I stared in shock, feet inert on the floor below me.

In a flash he was gone, dragged inside the painting. Taken to the Nothing to be with Death.

The silence was loud in my ears. I stood there frozen to the spot, my body not responding to signals from my brain to move. To do something. To get away from that horrid space before whatever god or reaper or what-have-you appeared and came for me next.

When my body gave me control again, my stomach lurched violently. I vomited over the side of the railing. Sick splattered against the foyer floor. Arms shaking, I leaned over the balustrade, waiting on the nausea to dissipate.

Anita and two other scar-weaver spiders crawled out of my pocket, toting a handkerchief.

"Thank you," I said, and my voice broke. I took the cloth from them and wiped my mouth with the cool satin. They kept me company for a moment before retreating back into my void.

My legs shook. I wobbled back to our room, wishing to soak up the pleasant force there, hoping my nearness to Rorick would help further. But my heart wouldn't slow its erratic pace. I tried to breathe through my nose and expel the stress out of my mouth, but nothing was working.

I crawled up onto the bed and lay beside Rorick in the fetal position, knees squeezed to my chest, wishing the sun away so my partner could wake up and hold me.

* * *

At noon, I was standing before the tiny pub on a deserted street, my traveling artifact in my hand. Gilbert rested on my shoulder for moral support. Guilt squeezed my heart. I'd promised Rorick I wouldn't go anywhere without him, but this insanity could not go unaddressed. My mother—not my mother?—had some fucking explaining to do! Then I'd hurry back to the castle before dusk.

I would tell Rorick what I'd done, but he'd have no reason to feel distress once we were together again.

I'd never been more frightened of anything in my life than those inhuman, mottled hands. The terror etched on poor Sheridan's face, the sound of his desperate screams, the whoosh of those horrid wings. The whole of it would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my days.

And then Sheridan was just gone. It was hard to believe it. I wouldn't have if I hadn't watched with my own two eyes as his eternal consequences scooped him up and claimed him at last.

Ugh. Remembering it had my heart dropping into my belly. Gilbert picked up on my distress, and his feathery antenna twitched attentively.

What if I lost Rorick that way? Throat sore and eyes stinging, I fought to push the thought away.

My grip tightened around the handle of my traveling artifact. That was not going to happen to him. I wouldn't let it. Fuck consequences.

Fuck Fate—that inflexible, heartless bitch!

I slid my traveling artifact back into my void, feathered end first, then I let myself into the pub. No one was working behind the bar. The curtains were drawn, and the place was empty of customers save for one.

My mother sat at a table in her crone form, a cane at her side, her long black cloak draped behind her. She didn't acknowledge me even as I took the seat across from her.

Finally, her gray eyes flickered over me, then returned to the tea she was stirring. "Poor Sheridan," she said. "I take it that because you're here now, he must have . . ."

"He delivered your message," I growled. At my aggressive tone, Gilbert dropped down into my pocket. He wasn't a fan of confrontation any longer. "A monstrous collection of hands and wings scooped him up and hauled him off to the Nothing. He's dead and gone. I nearly died of fright right there and joined him."

"Just a psychopomp doing his duty," she said. "There's no need to be so dramatic about it."

Her cavalier tone turned down my lips. "He didn't need to do that. You could have just—"

"It was him or you," she said, tapping the small spoon against the brim to dry it. "You needed the information. Better Sheridan who was destined to die already than—"

"No," I snapped. "That did not need to happen to him. Not yet. If you must share something with me, then just fucking tell me."

She considered me over her bifocals. "You're upset," she said flatly, pushing the cup toward me. "Drink this."

I shoved the ceramic off the table. It broke into three smaller chunks, sending a splash of auburn tea across the floor. "I'm going to give you two more seconds to start telling me why you summoned me here. And then when you continue to play your meddlesome games with me, I'm going to walk out that door and never come looking for you ever again. Not that you likely care all that much, given how comfortable you've been allowing me to be raised by anyone other than yourself. Should any part of you wish to see the person you birthed once more—"

"I'm not the horrid woman who bore you," Hecate drawled, sounding bored. "Didn't Sheridan tell you? How could I be? I'm a witch not of this world. I'm a god, a traveler. Immortals cannot produce children the way geds can. What you're saying is completely illogical."

I blinked at her. When the shock finally faded away, it left a hollow numbness in its place. I drooped in my seat. "You've had multiple opportunities to set the record straight. What the devil are you saying? My entire life you've denied every accusation ever made about you being a goddess of—"

"That term has so many different meanings. Every immortal who lives long enough becomes a god eventually," she explained, waving away my words like they were insignificant. "I'm not a greater god, of course. I don't want anyone wasting their prayers on me. There's nothing I can do for them." Hecate reached across the table and snatched my hand. She trapped it there against the wood. I was so stunned I let her hold it. "But I do care about you," she said earnestly. "I always have. I'm not your mother, but I am responsible for your life."

Dread turned my stomach, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. "Why are you telling me this now ? After all these years?"

"Because your situation can't possibly get any worse at this point." Finally, some feeling seeped into her face. She squeezed my hand. "You've had a psychopomp after you since you were seven years old. You were safe when you were protected by your innocence, your lack of knowledge. But you know better now, and that makes you even more vulnerable. Have you noticed that the more you learn, the more aggressive those who pursue you become? There's a curse placed upon us. The cycle is not broken. We are doomed to lose our constant, and you're the only one who can save us."

"Dominion," I whispered. My brow furrowed as hope gleamed. I tried to grab onto it. "He's after me ? Then does that mean Rorick isn't in danger after all? Just I am?"

"He most certainly is in danger. And so is everyone who puts themselves close to us. You saw what happened to Sheridan. You're supposed to be dead , Quiet."

A full-body shiver snaked down my spine.

Hecate maneuvered her cane around the table. She poked at the mess I'd made. The severed bits of ceramic came back together. Tea lifted off the floor in fat droplets to refill the cup. Both returned to the tabletop. It steamed gently, good as new again, like I'd never knocked it down in the first place. Faintly, her cane shimmered, as did her cloak. I could see the illusion on them both now. She was covered in it.

Lifting the cup to her lips, spine stiff, she sipped at it. "I was there with you in the woods that night when you were only seven. Your father had abandoned you. The coals for the fire and the bread had run out. I too had a father like that, but the temperatures were more inviting in my world. I was able to escape to a nearby wheat farm. I didn't want you to be alone when you died, but then once the time came . . . I just couldn't let it happen. You were so small, and you didn't understand. It wasn't fair, and I felt responsible."

I remembered the night she described well. My home was a humble cabin in the wilds. The woods were thick and dark, and I knew in my heart that my father wasn't coming back for me.

I bit my lip, eyes watering. "I was so tired and weak from having nothing to eat. I hardly had the strength to collect snow to melt and drink. I thought I might lie down and not get back up again. But then the lightning beetles came and warmed me."

"That's right."

I met her eyes, the exact same shade of gray as my own. "Did you send them?"

She nodded once sharply. "I changed your fate, but I was nearly too late. Death's servant had already come to collect you, and he is a dutiful worker. Still, he remains, unwilling to return to the Nothing without you. More and more children gather around him, looking for their peace. But he won't go. He can't."

Being reminded of the children doubled the weight I felt on my shoulders. I slid farther down my seat. "What of the spiders? Scar-weavers came to me that night."

Hecate smiled. "I didn't send them. They brought you more food after they saw how kind you were to the beetles. They're very giving creatures."

My head was spinning, but there wasn't time to fall into a spiral. I needed to get back to Rorick. I wanted to be there when he awoke. "Death's servant—I assume you're talking about Dominion—how did you stop him?"

"I took something from him so he couldn't take you."

The trials returned to me, the thick candle, the wick . . . "His lantern? You took a psychopomp's lantern?"

"That's right. And then I left it with Rorick for safekeeping. The clowns, the older and more powerful ones, have been trying to get it back on Dominion's orders. As they age, specters grow stronger. They've only been able to break off pieces and parts of it since Rorick, your constant, was murdered. I believe that's when they discovered where I'd hidden it. They're trying to return it, but they can't. I set a curse upon it. The lantern belongs to us now. Only we can lift it. Only we can give it back."

"My . . . constant? But doesn't a ‘constant' refer to eternal things like souls and . . . and if you're not my mother, then who exactly are you?"

"I'd explain it to you, but I'm afraid if I say much more, your mind isn't going to be able to keep up. Knowledge is magic, Quiet. Time and effort are magic. A body can only hold so much of it inside themselves before they're ready. Seventy-three years is nothing amongst travelers like me. Just look at yourself."

I glanced down at my cloak, unsure what she meant. Something wet slid out of my nose. I swiped at it and found blood there.

"I can handle it," I said, slurring my words. My tongue felt too big for my mouth, a symptom of an arising I was attempting to force on myself before I'd even fully recovered from the first. "You told Rorick. You can explain it to me!"

"Jonathan Rorick spent his entire ged life studying alchemy and then he died —an experience you have never had. Many of the things he knows he saw for himself in the Nothing. With him, there's no danger—I'm simply helping him recall past experiences. But with you there are risks. You haven't traveled to the places we've been. You have only a theoretical knowledge of how the worlds work. Too much might pull you apart piece by piece."

My fingers curled, nails digging into the tabletop stubbornly, fighting back the brewing headache. I could handle it. To protect Rorick and myself from what I saw befall Sheridan, I'd risk it all. "Tell. Me. Everything!"