What does this poster have to do with it?
I damn the decision to leave my phone in her living room if for no other reason than I can’t take a photo. But I commit every centimeter of the lithograph to memory, from the spelling of the names to the primary, cartoon colors to the quirky lettering. And especially the woman, a curving contradiction at the core, intricate as nautical knotwork.
I can’t help seeing her horns superimposed with crab claws, her hair slick and black, then wild and bright, the sun, the sea, the same in so many ways. She is like my painting of Thalassa, but she is darker, devastating in a way I can’t look away from.
I leave the poster behind, but not what’s on it. When I get out of here, I know who to ask.
The sharp tines of the gate in Medusa’s basement at last come into focus, Twig’s magic prowess left behind, and I am relieved to see they left it open for me. Gripping one of the bars, I let the weight of my head fall over as my other hand grasps my knee, breathing deeply until my lungs feel at capacity again. Lifting up, I hear a wet, muffled splash, the sound of something large turning over in a body of water.
It came from the chamber at the center of the room.
My eyes dart forward, starry vision fading as the real world encroaches, and a strange light gathers along the bricks of the chamber, pooling between them and sparking off imaginary angles and slashes, the glint of unread words in the mortar, just like before. One dragging step at a time, I make my way toward it, the monotonous pattern of brick upon brick restored as the words fade. I blink as my fingers make contact, expecting the warmth I felt from the door earlier, but it’s replaced by an eldritch slime, cool as mucus, the bricks damp as if leaking from the inside, a weeping wall.
Slowly, I move along it, leaning closer to hear. But whatever made the splash is now dormant.
I turn and trail along another blank wall before turning again to the side where the door waits and sidling up to it. I’d have to crouch to enter,ifI had a way to get inside. But the latch and bolt are locked fast, probably requiring another key that Arla has tucked in the ample recesses of her bra. My fingers brush the metal, it, too, now somehow quizzically cold. “Hello?” I whisper, lips inches from the seam. “Is someone in there?”
The voice that answers is not the one I expect.
“I told you,” I hear Arla say from behind me. “Not. Yet.”
I rise and spin to see her silhouetted against the basement stairs like a dark angel, pale light filtering down. She is sitting on the second to bottom step, the sclera of her eyes dully gleaming.
“You abandoned me,” I growl.
“I left you,” she counters. “There’s a difference.”
“It was dark,” I shoot back.
“Yes,” she says, smiling a little. “Twig’s magical affinity. I think you’ve encountered it before? You have her to thank for the damaged security footage that night at your job.”
Calvin said it had been obscured. “You told me you had that footage, that you could use it to turn me in.”
“I lied,” she says, shrugging it off. When I scowl, she adds. “Well, it worked. Besides, I didn’t take you for someone who was afraid of the dark.”
I thrust my chin forward. “I’m not.”
“Good,” she says, sighing. “Because I have a job for you.”
I tick them off my fingers. “Electricity. Fire. Nightmares. Darkness. What next? Hurricanes? Sharks?”
“Don’t give me any ideas, kitten.” She smirks. “Yes, everyone has tried you. It seems you keep passing our little tests. Is there something youcan’tdo?” She studies me from her place on the stairs, proud and perturbed at the same time, as if she both wants me to succeed and fail.
“Cadence—” I start to say, fear escalating. What will the oracle have planned? The poster from the tunnel looms large in my imagination—Oracle of the Pacific.
But Arla only chuckles. “Surely, you’ve realized by now? If you get an invitation, you’ve already passed Cadence’s trial.” She stands, coming to my side, staring at the metal door that is just perceptible in the light wafting down the stairs.
“So, what’syourtest?” I ask, even though I’m afraid to know.
“Not a test,” she insists. “A responsibility. My test is yet to come.”
I won’t oppose her because I’m not done here, much as I wantto be. Not after seeing the poster. Not while this door remains locked. Not until I know what’s behind it. But I’m starting to feel like a tiger in a circus, jumping through one flaming hoop after another thinking freedom is on the other side, only to find a new cage.
“Do this,” she says, “and you may pass my test yet.”
I cross my arms. “This is the last thing.”
“Sure, kitten,” she whispers.
