He was gone.
And for the first time in forever—maybe for the first time in my life—I knew that no one, not even an imaginary friend, would greet me in the darkness.
I wandered listlessly around the unit, a familiar pang shooting through me as I was transported to the days after my world had been tipped into a tailspin. I’d walked through my home with the same sort of frustrated purposelessness as I did now.
Except this time, I knew how to call on Caliban.
The problem was what I would say to him once he arrived.
My pocket buzzed.
(Nia) I sent Kirby your new number. If they text your old one, it’ll still go to your laptop, right? I’m worried about them. Even if they’re slow traveling with Ella, shouldn’t they have messaged by now?
(Marlow) I think I know where they are. And…it doesn’t seem good.
(Nia) What?? What did you learn??
(Marlow) Nothing’s confirmed. It’s vague at the moment.
(Nia) Like you’re being??
(Nia) Is there someone you can ask? Aren’t you with Silas?
(Marlow) …not anymore
(Nia) Can you talk to Az or Caliban?
(Marlow) Have you talked to Estrid?
(Nia) She’s on edge. She blames me because she’s stuck here with me. I’m either going to need a new babysitter or be deemed free from harm’s way. She’s inches fromAWOL.
(Nia) Whatever you know: act on it. Find them. Fast.
I tucked the phone back into my pocket and crossed my arms, scrunching my face at the uncertainty of my next steps. I didn’t know where to go. Nowhere felt right. I didn’t want to lean against the kitchen counter, to sink onto the couch, to peer out the window. My feet took me through the rapidly fading evening light back to my bedroom. I lit the candle on my vanity rather than turning on a lamp. I settled on the bed, pulling a chenille throw over my lap, and my eyes unfocused in shades of black, white, and gray as I stared into the middle distance. The only color was the burnt red of the soft, corded blanket.
I struggled to categorize my feelings, stuck between desire and resistance. I wanted nothing more than for them to be here. But Caliban had left me.
I’d hurt him—I’d hurt all of them—and I wasn’t sure what to say to knit the wound. I’d gambled with Caliban’s life. In return, he’d forced me to reflect on what it was that I wanted. And if I called on him now, what would I tell him? That I hadn’t done anything wrong? Because I had, even if the result had ended in our favor. Would I say that Silas meant nothing to me? Because it would be a lie, and we’d both know it. What words could make it right?
Studying the gods wasn’t enough.
I’d spent years binging mythology texts for the Pantheon novels, and that had nothing on the renewed vigor with which I’d read academic papers, fanciful reinterpretations, and folkloric blogs about every god on our radar.
But I needed to do something more tangible. I couldn’t just mope.
Perhaps I could call on Azrames instead and give myself more time to figure out how to make it right with Caliban. Maybe he’d have insight on what one should say to a demon. But then again, he’d been hurt, too.
I twisted the blanket until the repetitive motion tookon a hypnotic quality. I looked down at my fingers, absently watching the pinch of soft, ginger caterpillar fuzz as it rolled. I couldn’t sit alone on my bed forever. I couldn’t let Estrid stew in worry if she was unable to contact Ella. I wasn’t sure what pacts they’d made, but my guess was that she’d sworn not to leave Nia unattended, and presumably that she couldn’t call upon someone who hadn’t been vetted by our very delicately threaded inner circle.
The red blanket began to take on shades of copper as my mind shifted to my only alternative. My angel had left. My demons and I were taking space. But perhaps I understood what it was to fuck up, to hurt others, and to need a second chance. Maybe, just maybe, I knew a Nordic deer upon whom I could call.
I hadn’t realized I’d been biting my lip until my entire body recoiled in a wince at the flavor of iron. I’d drawn blood. I wiped the crimson smear across the back of my hand and stared at it. Fauna and I had been blood once. Was that still true? After my mother’s connection had severed, had I remained a Norde?
An orange bottle toppled, the pills within rattling as I reached over my bedside table. I popped open the tiny treasure chest I’d picked up at an antique store and fetched the sølje within. It tinkled lightly, the individual spoons dangling from the trinket rubbing together as I brought it close. Most antique broaches pinned to traditional woolen dresses tarnished or yellowed with age. Heirlooms tended to betray their years. This one, however, had stayed perfectly silver. The tree at its center coiled and lifted its branches to the sky, representing the Yggdrasil of lore, before its branches cascaded into delicate, leaf-like components. Aloisa’s pretty trinket had carried me to the sorts of gods and demons and realms that I’d never dreamed possible.
Did I want to see the Nordic fae—goddess, I amended—again?
I supposed what I wanted didn’t matter. I was out ofoptions.
