As soon as I'd gotten home from meeting with Samael, Oona had demanded that we go out and get something to eat. I'd hardly eaten anything all day, and she claimed I was looking pale. Her solution to most problems in life seemed to involve food.
"Yeah, I saw her," I replied, looking down at the table, and then I noticed her hands. "What's that?"
Her dark skin was covered in elaborate white henna designs from her wrists down to her fingers, stopping just before her long fingernails, which were shaped to a point and painted a matte gray.
"What?" She glanced down, then waved me off dramatically. "It was just something I did for class today. Don't change the subject, Mal."
I gulped down the rest of my beer, then I put my arms on the table and leaned forward. The lighting in Aprazivel was dim and low, and it was crowded enough that the noise from the other customers should keep our conversation private. But still, I felt edgy about someone overhearing, and the unblinking gaze of the tamandua chifres did nothing to ease my nerves.
"He was right," I whispered.
"What?" Oona leaned forward to hear me better.
"Asher Varja," I said, and it was at that moment the waiter appeared with our food, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"For the lovely lady." The waiter smiled, putting a bowl of rice, beans, and curded cheese in front Oona. "And the palmito for you."
Another day, I would've made a comment about his lack of a descriptor for me when he put my plate in front of me, but today I couldn't focus enough to come up with something to say.
"What do you mean?" Oona asked after the waiter had gone.
"I mean ... she didn't do it," I explained in a hushed voice.
Oona had taken a bite of her food, and she stared at me for a moment, her mouth full, not chewing. Finally, she swallowed and asked, "Marlow didn't do her job?"
"No." I shook my head. "She had one thing to do, and she didn't do it."
"But Marlow loves her job, and it's a really important job," Oona said. "Why wouldn't she do it?"
I leaned back in the booth, and the warped plastic seat groaned underneath me. "She said she thought he could do more good alive than he would dead."
Oona put her hand to the side of her face, as if she just couldn't believe what she was hearing. "That's not how your job works, right? The people that are chosen to die are chosen for a reason. Leaving them can only do harm."
"That's pretty much exactly how it works," I said.
"Oh crap." She took a long drink of her cachaca, then motioned to me with her fork. "Eat your food. Starving to death won't help anything."
I sat up straighter and did as she commanded, cutting into my baked heart of palm. It was normally one of my favorite meals, but today it just felt tasteless and empty.
"So what's the plan?" Oona asked.
"What plan?" I shook my head. "Everything is totally messed up, and I don't know how anything can ever be made right."
"For starters, finishing the job that Marlow left undone would be good," Oona suggested.
"But he's already killed someone. Asher only knows about his mother, but that doesn't mean there aren't others," I realized. "He might have a whole trail of dead behind him. The damage is already done."
"The longer he's left alive, the more damage he can do," Oona countered.
"Probably," I conceded. "But I have no idea how to find him. Asher's been looking for him for years, and he has no clue."
"But he was looking on his own before," Oona persisted between bites of food. "He didn't have you or the connections you have."
I snorted. "What connections?"
Oona held up her hand, raising her fingers as she went down her list. "Samael. Your professors at school. Other Valkyries."
I shook my head adamantly. "I can't tell any of them what's going on or they'll string up Marlow." I paused as I came to a dark realization. "That's probably what she deserves, but I can't be a party to that. She's still my mom."
Oona's expression softened and her voice was gentler when she spoke. "No one is suggesting that you turn Marlow in. But maybe if you team up with Asher and pool your resources, you two could figure something out. Without dragging the authorities into it."
"Maybe," I admitted grudgingly.
"Look, you can't undo what Marlow did, but you can do what she wouldn't."
I laughed sourly. "That doesn't really make sense."
"No, it does," she insisted. "You're just overthinking it."
"But that Asher guy seemed too unstable," I reminded her.
"Breaking into our apartment was extreme, but just imagine how pissed you'd be if you were him. I mean, when he broke in, he thought you were Marlow," Oona reasoned.
"I am pissed at Marlow, and I haven't even lost what he lost," I agreed.
But that wasn't exactly true. My mom hadn't died, but I had lost the idea I had of her.
When I was growing up, she'd been cold at times--well, most of the time--but she was also strong and infallible. I'd always thought of her as a lighthouse, guiding the immortals safely to the end of their journey so they didn't go crashing into the shore.
But that wasn't her. She wasn't a hero or a savior. She had managed to become the villain in her own story.
"He left his business card, right?" Oona asked, drawing me from my thoughts. "You can give him a call tomorrow."
I picked emptily at my food. "Maybe I should wait until Monday. It's the Feast of the Dead this weekend, and it's gonna be crazy."
"Malin," Oona said firmly, causing me to look up at her. "Don't make excuses. You're going to have to deal with this, and it's better sooner rather than later."
"You're right," I said with a heavy sigh. "I'll call him tomorrow."
"Excellent." She beamed at me. "Now eat your food and order another beer."
"I don't see how that will help."
"Alcohol and food may not fix everything, but I've yet to encounter a problem they haven't at least helped with," Oona assured me.
FIFTEEN
Most of the historical texts had been transferred onto digital formats for ease of reading, but not all of them. Ravenswood Academy had a whole wing dedicated to books that weren't permitted to ever be transferred into digital.
Those who oversaw Ravenswood Academy--a joint effort between an elite board of education and the Evig Riksdag--believed that some texts contained information too valuable and dangerous to be distributed en masse to the population, and they feared that digital media was rife for pirating.
The "sacred texts" were all carefully locked up behind secure doors in the Sacrorum Wing. As an added level of security, several Sinaa roamed the halls, guarding the books and chasing out troublemakers. The Sinaa looked just like jaguars, except some of their spots were actually additional eyes, so they could see everything, and they were obsessed with preserving knowledge at all costs.
Two dozen bomb-shelter-like rooms filled the wing, and each had shelves filled floor-to-ceiling with books. Some of the books dated back centuries, worn tomes bound with leather made from human flesh, and others were brand-new, with hardly a crack in the binding.
Once, between classes, Quinn had shown up and taken me down here, under the guise of studying, which for some reason I had believed. Leading me by the hand, she had chosen the room titled PLANTAE VITAM AETERNAM.
As soon as we'd gone in, she'd thrown me up against a bookcase--so hard it nearly toppled it over--and began kissing me roughly on the mouth.
"We shouldn't be doing this," I protested as her hands slid underneath my shirt. "What if someone comes in?"
"These are all books on immortal plants. Nobody wants to read these," she assured me between kisses, but it had only been a few more minutes before a Sinaa caught us.
A dozen tiny dark eyes locked on us, staring up from the spotted camouflage, and the Sinaa let out a low growl. We'd raced out of the room, Quinn laughing all the way as the beast chased us down the hall and out of the sacred library.
What I
remember most about that afternoon was the way my heart had been pounding--terrified the Sinaa would maul us if it caught us, and also terrified I might get kicked out of school. Quinn had ignored all my fears, and then, after, once I was certain we were safe, I'd been so exhilarated and relieved. I told Quinn that I never wanted to do that again, but she'd only laughed and silenced me with kisses.
Today I had an hour-long break between my first and second class, so I headed down to the Sacrorum Wing to see what more I could find out about the situation with Marlow and Tamerlane Fayette.
The search took me to a room marked by a plaque above the door that read ET VIRGINES IN MORTE. My Latin wasn't as good as Oona's, but I deciphered it out to be DEATH AND THE MAIDENS. The Valkyrie room.
Last night, after dinner, Oona and I had proceeded to get drunk on cheap beer, but that hadn't done anything to help the situation. Before I left for class this morning, she'd reminded me to call Asher, but I thought it might be better if I did some research on my own first.
It would be easier for me to be able to just ask my professors or Samael about things, but that would only raise a lot of red flags. I mean, I was a Valkyrie in training, and if I kept asking what happens if a Valkyrie doesn't kill her mark, people were liable to think either I was plotting something or that I had already screwed up.
And I definitely didn't need that added scrutiny.
I'd just sat down, leaning back against a shelf with a small stack of books on my lap, when my phone started ringing in my messenger bag. I scrambled to answer it, before one of the Sinaa came in and chased me out, because the last thing I needed was a supernatural jaguar angry with me.
"Hello?" I whispered into the phone, glancing around to make sure nobody was around.
"Malin, it's Marlow," she said wearily, sounding irritated that I had disrupted her, when she had been the one to call me.
"I'm kinda busy--"
"I've been looking into that Varja boy's claims," Marlow interrupted me. "And it seems like something went wrong."
That something being her failure to do her job, but I couldn't say that to her. So I just waited for her to explain what she meant.
"Mistakes were made," Marlow said, still skirting any culpability. "But I want to help make things right. Before things get worse. Do you know how to contact the Varja boy?"
"Yes," I replied cautiously.
"I'd like you to arrange a meeting with him," Marlow instructed me. "Today, if possible. I'm free this afternoon, so that would be best."
"You want to meet him?" I asked, so shocked I forgot to keep my voice down.
"Yes, I feel that we should talk," she elaborated. "There's a nice coffee shop near where I work--Kahvalti. That should be good. See if you can get him to meet there, and let me know what time."
"Yeah, okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do."
And that was it. She hung up without thanking me or saying goodbye. Which was just as well, because a Sinaa poked his head into the room, his ears back flat, and let out a low rumbling growl before stalking off to quiet someone else.
I sat in a stunned silence for a few minutes, then I decided that I ought to text Asher before I lost my nerve. His business card was in my bag, so I pulled it out and quickly entered it into my phone.
Hi Asher--this is Malin Krigare. I've spoken to my mother, and she wants to meet today to talk to you. Would that be possible?
Roughly twenty seconds later, he replied back with, Yes. Of course. Where/when?
I gave him a time and the place, then forwarded his response to Marlow. Then I turned my phone off and shoved it way in the bottom of my bag. I couldn't handle dealing with anyone else.
I finally opened the book on my lap, and then I buried my hands in my hair and stared down blankly at the words. My mind was still reeling and I barely noticed the sound of footsteps until it was too late.
"What are you doing here?" Sloane demanded, like she'd caught me digging through her underwear drawer instead of reading a book in the library.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" I shot back.
She stood over me, glowering down at me with her arms crossed over her chest. Her plaid skirt was short enough that I would've been able to see her underwear, if it weren't for the opaque nylons she wore.
"Sucking up and doing an extra-credit project for History of Supernatural Professions and Their Modern Applications," Sloane said.
"Yes ... that is what I am doing," I said, since that sounded much better than telling her I was trying to figure out how to save my mother and the world.
Sloane rolled her eyes. "I should've known you'd pick Valkyrie. It's so obvious."
"Why wouldn't I pick something that's relevant to me?" I asked, growing irritated about a fictional problem that I didn't even care about. But if Sloane Kothari was going to accuse me of something, I was damn sure going to defend myself. "Why did you pick it?"
"I'm trying to broaden my horizons and stretch out of my comfort zone." Sloane pursed her lips and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "My career adviser said it would be good for me."
"Sounds great," I said, hoping that would be the end of that.
She narrowed her eyes at me. "Well, what are you doing? Maybe I can approach it from a different angle."
"I doubt it--" I tried to deflect her, but she was already bent over and lifting up the cover of the book to see the title.
"Predestination and Divinity?" Sloane asked, wrinkling her nose. "That doesn't have anything to do with the history of your job."
"Yeah, it does," I insisted, mostly because I didn't want to raise her suspicion. "I've just been thinking, and ... do you think we have free will?"
She arched an eyebrow and stared down at me over her sharp nose. "What are you going on about?"
"Did I choose to be a Valkyrie, or did it choose me?" I wondered.
"You were born into it," Sloane reminded me. "I can't be a Valkyrie. Ninety percent of the beings on this planet could never be a Valkyrie. So, yeah, I would say it chose you."
"But I could've said no. Lots of people aren't cut out for it," I said.
"Then say no." She shrugged. "Are you rethinking your career? Because I've never really thought you were cut out for it."
"Thanks," I muttered, slamming my book closed, and got to my feet. "I'm looking for help, and you kick me when I'm down. Nice."
I started walking away, but Sloane sighed and called after me. "Sorry. I didn't realize you were actually having a genuine existential crisis."
I stopped to look back at her. "Well, I am."
"All the Valkyries I've ever known have been dumb jocks," Sloane explained, as if that would somehow make me feel better. "I'm working on trying to get over my own prejudices, and it's unfair of me to stereotype you like that."
"Thank you," I replied cautiously.
She took a deep breath, relaxing her stance slightly, and seemed to start over.
"To answer your question about free will ... I used to believe in it. I still do, to some degree. Or at least, I'd like to believe that I chose to wear my hair up today." She pulled at one of her black curls, causing it to bounce back into the ponytail when she let go.
"I know some people find comfort in the idea that gods are watching over every little detail, helping them decide everything from what color underwear to put on to who they're going to marry," Sloane went on. "But I'm not one of those people."
"Neither am I," I agreed.
"I like to believe I make my own decisions. That I'm in control of my own fate. But..." She drew in a shaky breath. "My father is a Deva. He's inherently honest and good, because he was born that way. He has a great difficulty lying, which leads to some awkward situations sometimes."
"That can be helpful, too," I piped in.
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not asking for your approval on my dad," she said in a haughty voice thick with venom, but then she apparently remembered that she was trying to be nice, and she forced a smile. "Sorry. It's just n
ot about my dad."
"Okay. What is it about, then?" I asked.
"He's good, not because he wants to be, but because he was made that way," Sloane explained. "Sure, he still chooses how he likes his coffee or what color tie he's going to wear, and that might seem like free will, but it isn't."
Her expression changed again, slackening a bit. Her mouth turned down in a frown, and sadness darkened her eyes. "And one day, you'll kill him."
"Sloane--" I began, but she held her hand to silence me.
"If not you, then someone like you," she went on. "But his time will come, and that will be that. He didn't choose to be born. He didn't choose to be good in life. And he won't choose his death. Where is the free will in that?"
I let her words sink in, then softly said, "There isn't."
"So that's my answer," she replied.
"But what if he could?" I asked. "What if he changed the way he lived and went rogue and started lying and being bad?"
Sloane laughed. "You show me an angel that breaks bad, and I'll show you a devil in disguise."
"You think we can only be bad because we were made that way?" I asked. "Then we're all just behaving as we were made to, filling our role as good little cogs in the machine, and we can't choose to get off the tracks."
"Exactly. Then something else is the one in control of it all," she said. "If I don't believe in free will, the unfortunate logical conclusion is fate. If we're not choosing things for ourselves, then someone must be choosing it for us. They're the ones deciding our destiny."
Her words hit me like a slap across the face. If Sloane was right--and her theory made sense--there were only two conclusions about what Marlow had done.
The first assumed that Marlow was supposed to kill Tamerlane, and she didn't. That meant she somehow managed to bust free off her preordained track, and the whole thing would break down without her cog there rotating in its place.
The second assumed that this was actually Marlow's destiny the whole time. She did exactly as she was always meant to by shirking her duties in killing Tamerlane. But if she was only running her true course, who was the one plotting her path?
SIXTEEN
Marlow sat closest to the window, amber sunlight spilling in through the wooden slats of the blinds. Hot black coffee filled the mugs before us, each rim stained with our own particular shade of lipstick. Hers was a sharper blood-red, while mine was more of a matte merlot--aptly called Velvet Vampire.