Ink in the Blood Page 12

“Well, that’s the wonderful irony. After watching how the people respond to your show, I realize that you’ve handed me quite an opportunity. I want you to continue. Be the bright star of the Rabble Mob—​but better. Shine so bright that people all over Illinia and beyond talk of the devil in the bell jar. With this troupe, this show, you’ve handed me the perfect platform to finally stretch Profeta beyond Illinia’s borders.”

  Celia saw what Diavala saw then. How their show pushed thoughts of devils and angels to the forefront of people’s minds, reminding them of the afterlife, their mortality. The more hideous and scary the devil in the bell jar, the greater the opportunity to present the Divine as safe harbor. Other Commedia stories told the same tale, but this one was new, fresh, exciting, interactive.

  She wanted their Devil in the Bell Jar act to spread propaganda.

  Just like Kitty Kay, thrilling at the idea of exposure.

  Then Diavala cocked Vincent’s head from side to side, stretched and tilted it back, and a soft moan pushed its way out. “This one is quite different from the ones I normally use. He fights so hard.” She gave these words to the sky and the fresh rain. “How annoying.”

  Celia clamped her lips against the sob about to burst out. The ominous whisper cracked her unnatural calm like a lightning bolt. “Is he okay?”

  Diavala chuckled, a shushing sound like sandpaper grazing smooth wood. “‘Is he okay?’ How charming and plebeian.”

  But Vincent’s tenor still flickered; he lived, somewhere, and Celia tried to hold on to that.

  Her bees stirred, but slowly, as if the hive had filled with smoke as they slept. Their wings hummed Diavala, Diavala, Diavala. If Diavala controlled Vincent, what could she make him do? Celia imagined him walking himself off a cliff, jumping into a fire, in front of charging horses, in a raging river, and in each imagining he did it with a smile on his face.

  The worst image of all: the quiet Palidon wailing in pain, howling with fury, tearing out his hair and screaming for reprieve. When Diavala was done with him, she’d leave her signature when she left his body behind.

  Diavala looked away and mused, “Little Wallis, under High Mistico Benedict’s watchful eye and stone fist, they’re not dead yet, are they?”

  Yet.

  A thousand memories of holding that flea in her arms rushed over Celia, so real she heard the thrum of Wallis’s fluttering heartbeat and smelled the scent of their warm, fluffy hair as it tickled against her neck when Celia tucked them in. You tell stories almost as good as my papa used to, Celia, Wallis would murmur. And they’d snuggle into their pillow with a contented smile on their face.

  “And,” Diavala continued, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see the world through Anya’s filter. So practical and clever . . .” She paused and looked directly at Celia. “Such an interestingly high threshold for pain, and so terribly afraid of only one thing: water. Anya—​she isn’t dead yet, either.”

  Celia’s knees gave out, and she knelt in the damp grass at Vincent’s feet, moaning or crying or both.

  With a few key words, Diavala had made it clear that her leverage extended beyond Vincent’s life to everyone Celia loved. She heard their screams, saw their blood, their skulls.

  “I’ll do it,” Celia whispered. “Of course I will. I’ll keep acting.”

  “You’ll do more than act, Inkling. Under your bell jar, you will convince people that you are a devil. You will make them talk about you, not just in passing, not whimsically, but out of true fear.”

  I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Whatever you want.

  Vincent’s pale hand reached down to her. “Time’s wasting, don’t take too long to recover. Polish your mirrors, practice your twitches with Anya, do whatever else it is you do to manipulate that crowd, and make it more. You have tonight to prove to me how motivated you are to make me happy.”

  And Celia took his hand, too stunned to recoil from the cold touch, and stood, meeting Vincent’s light blue gaze with the understanding that it wasn’t Vincent she looked at.

  A tiny thing nudged at Celia. A protection she could bargain for, laughably small considering who stood in front of her, but something that might make a difference for Vincent and the troupe. “Are the mistico truly concerned about the Mob’s messages—​or was that you?” If she could get their daggers away, their rigid vigilance about all things Profeta . . . “I can’t do my act if they shut down the show.”

  Diavala smirked, close to laughter but stopping herself at the cusp of it. “I see how desperately you want reassurances. You really must work on your game face. But it’s a fair point. You will do better with some room to roam. And I’ve already taken care of it. Or rather, Mistico Dominic took care of it before he fell into sainthood. They will no longer bother the troupe.”

  Part of Celia couldn’t believe the turn in the conversation. As if they were about to lay out the Imp tiles and have a round and were clarifying the rules before they began. She swept off her mask from where it dangled around her neck and put it to her chest as if it were her top hat. With one foot back, she dipped in a deep bow. “I’m honored to finally meet you, Diavala.” She tried to sound strong, but her voice shook and her teeth kept chattering and her words were a breathy whisper.

  A wide smile overtook Vincent’s face, the one Diavala had tried so hard to hold back. Diavala mirrored her and bowed. “Yes. Diavala. You can call me that. Or call me what everyone else does: your Divine. There is only me. I am—​and always have been—​either, neither, or both, depending on how you tilt your head.”

  Act 2

  Interlude

  The people of Sabazio stream into their Rover field. They’re riding a weeklong high, many of them on their second, third, or fourth show. Most of the town is under a spell. The world consists of either color and fire and dreams or the breathless anticipation of it.

  They’ve seen Rover shows before. A few times a year, their field fills. The Commedia represents the whole of humanity: the infinite struggles, the triumphs, the despair. But the Rabble Mob of Minos takes it all and puts it directly in your pocket.

  The blur between fantasy and reality happens as soon as they push through the gates. They step on tiptoe to press coins into a stilt walker’s palm, and the moment their heels settle back into the grass, the world is different.

  A pair of fire-masters juggle the flames of the underworld between them.

  The stilt walkers lope about, tall enough to touch the heavens.

  The plague doctor pulls them in with his brazen words and whispered promises. They lean closer when he purrs. Their hearts break when he moves on.

  The lights of the stage beckon. The gorgeous figure in flaming orange—​the clever conductor—​stands at the sideline, watching everything.

  The curtain rises.

  When Passion fights for the afterlife she desires, the audience shares her struggle. When the Commander squashes his servants underfoot, they all rise against him together. Poor Fazzi, confused. His hands flap through the air; he randomly leaps, frightened by his own nose, the sky, the ground under his feet. His mask has huge eyes, wondering at everything. So funny. So terribly relatable.

  Tanza talks the most, dominating the stage. His nonsense sentences are loud, his body movements louder, the context clear. He’s giant, walking, talking charisma. He swaggers, leading with his chest. Surely, no one is more intelligent, more handsome, more everything, than I? And they wholeheartedly agree that at least he believes this is true.

  The crowd loves these familiar characters, but they yearn for the devil in the bell jar. No one can agree who she is. Most see a servant, someone commanded. But others see a master: a pretense of captivity, a clever manipulation. Still others wonder, Is there more to this story?

  “I heard a mistico was Touched last night, there on that very stage.”

  “Surely part of their act.”

  “That would be blatant heresy. And here they still are.”

  “I was at the show last nig
ht. I saw it with my own eyes. It’s true.”

  “Does it mean something?”

  “What could it mean?”

  “What does it mean?”

  The torches go out for the finale. This is the last night the Sabazian crowd has to unlock the secret of this novel new character.

  The angel walks among them, regal and fine, telling them she’s tamed the beast.

  But when the torches spring to life onstage that night, the beast looks anything but tame. She paces and flails. She shakes her head as if tearing it out of cobwebs.

  Her gaze used to focus on the angel with single-minded abandon, but on this night she’s distracted by another figure in white: the sad Palidon.

  The Palidon stays at the sidelines. His black skullcap sits crooked across his forehead, one of the large buttons on his loose shirt is missing, the ink-black teardrop under his eye is smudged.

  And, absurd for a Palidon, he smiles.

  The crowd needs closure. They murmur, confused: the show has changed, something’s different. What does the Palidon have to do with this? How can the sad clown be happy?

  They sense there’s more to the show than what’s in front of their eyes, and they’ll understand it only when they decipher the Devil in the Bell Jar.

  Whatever the true story is, it’s important.

  Last night, even the Divine herself had been there.

  Chapter 14

  The four tenets of Profeta kept clamoring for attention in Celia’s mind as she performed that night. With one conversation, all of Profetan lore notched itself into place. Instead of a table with four rickety legs, Profeta became a coherent, ongoing story.

  The tale Celia had told her mothers the night before she’d started her life at the temple—​the tale everyone believed—​was only partially right. The true story began the same way, but took a darker turn.

  Everything had begun a thousand years ago with the Chest Majestic and the very special ink inside. So black, it sucked away all light. So glossy and smooth, it appeared more solid than liquid. Only one child could use it, and when people pilgrimaged to see her, she gave them guidance through her pictures. The ink and the child were gifts from the angels themselves, and the tattoos—​personal, intimate, and freely given—​became a comfort.

  But the gifts also made this child a target. It didn’t matter whether she’d been merely exceptional or something truly godly, her story ended when she’d been killed by some of the very people she’d tried to help.

  I bargained with a true devil once.

  She’d returned from death, but she was changed. She was a thief, stealing and using other people’s bodies. And however the magic worked, she couldn’t control the ink anymore, for technically, it wasn’t in her blood. She had no body of her own, no blood.

  When she told her story, no one had believed her. They’d labeled her Diavala, a heretic, and flogged her to death with a nine-tailed whip representing the nine levels of hell.

  There were never two beings, Divine and Diavala. There’d only ever been one.

  And there they were.

  Perhaps she’d started out good, but for all her desire to help, her own people had killed her twice. It was enough to change anyone from philanthropist to manipulator. It was clear that she held some grudges.

  She’d been drowned, much like inkling water torture.

  Then flogged. The Book of Profeta used a dozen pages to describe the welts on her back in detail. Slits that had opened her insides to the outside. Which, if she’d lived, would have formed deep scars, much like the pale lines scarring Celia’s body in hidden places, the result of her dagger punishments.

  A mirror of her experiences, inflicted on the ones she must resent most: the inklings who could manipulate the ink as she no longer could. The inklings she was forced to rely on to spread her messages.

  Inklings, mistico, the temple, Profeta . . . a flash of words to describe so much, hundreds of years for it to actually build. Miracles, deceptions, alliances, sorrow, all logged in the Book of Profeta but the truth of it lost to history.

  Now Celia began to understand everything that hadn’t made sense about Profeta. With endless patience, using endless anonymous faces, the Divine had built up an entire religion over centuries. She’d trained the first inklings as her servants, recruited mistico to manage the flock. Tricked her way through hundreds of years, to the point where the puppets managed themselves. The fourth tenet—​the Return—​must be some distant dream for when Diavala could break the devil’s curse on her and control her ink again.

  Celia saw one thing with crystal clarity: Profetan history followed one creature with different faces—​from benevolent giver to desperate thief to hidden puppetmaster—​and now Celia and Anya were the twisted puppetmaster’s new toys.

  * * *

  The curtain fell to hide the bell jar. Clevanta the Bold and Poor Fazzi lifted the jar, freeing the devil while the other performers gathered onstage for the curtain call. “Are you all right, Lalita?” Georgio’s Fazzi mask, with its saucer-wide eyes and sticking-up hair, made their inquiry all the more pointed.

  Celia ignored them, trying to push her way past. She felt exactly like the perpetually shocked expression of Georgio’s mask. They wrapped a strong arm around her shoulder and tried to lead her to the front of the stage. “Calm down, dear.”

  But no. Vincent’s pale form appeared at stage left; he nudged Kitty Kay’s arm and whispered something, his expression carefully arranged in his normal Palidon gloom, and they both set their eyes on her. Kitty Kay cleared her throat, saying, “That was a little odd, Celia.”

  “It was odd,” he agreed.

  With Kitty Kay frowning in Celia’s direction, she missed the fresh smile on Vincent’s rosebud lips.

  “But what did you think? Was it good enough? Will people talk about it?” The first words Celia had uttered since she’d greeted Diavala with a bow rushed out in a torrent. And they kept coming, the only thing keeping tears at bay. How awful, to talk to Vincent but not. And no one knew he was even missing. “I tried for wild and untamed. Casting doubt on the bell jar itself. Maybe it’s cracked, maybe one day it won’t hold me. All eyes on the devil, right?”

  Diavala nodded, Vincent’s light eyes piercing her. “You built on something special.”

  “What are you two even talking about?” Kitty Kay flicked her fingers, shooing Celia away. “Get in your position for curtain.”

  Celia grabbed Kitty Kay’s hand instead, her thoughts flying so fast her mouth couldn’t keep up. “If I had more time under the bell jar, if I could be on the playbill for Malidora . . .”

  Won’t be enough. How do I get them to love me? Hate me? Fear me?

  Anya appeared at her side as the other performers assembled. “Let’s go, Cece.” She had questions. Celia saw them, ignored them, tightened her grip on Kitty Kay’s hand.

  The plague doctor appeared on the far side of the stage, ready to make his entrance. The curtain stirred as Caspian and Sky grabbed the thick ropes. Most of the Mob stared at their little assembly, motioning for them to come. Get it together! You need to be here!

  I need more. Something bigger.

  Anya wouldn’t stop tugging. “Come on, Cece!”

  “NO!” Celia took one step back, still holding on to Kitty Kay’s hand. Kitty Kay never participated in the first curtain call, so they remained offstage. Even Vincent had stepped into position. “For goodness sake, just lift the curtain without me.”

  “Lift the curtain without her.” Kitty Kay was so red Celia thought she might explode. Vincent smiled even wider, and Kitty Kay shot daggers at him for contributing to Celia’s instability. Didn’t she see how strange it was for him to be smiling?

  Anya huffed out an impatient grunt and left her there, throwing her hands in the air. “What is wrong with you?”

  The curtain rose, the crowd cheered.

  The plague doctor threaded his way through the Mob’s celebration. Slow, deliberate. The crowd hus
hed.

  For every other curtain call in Sabazio, he’d made his way to Celia’s side before rendering his verdict with blue and purple fire. A way of teasing her with proximity, for he knew she was extraordinarily curious about his magic fire. That night, he couldn’t find her. His meandering route through the mob of smiling performers took longer. At one point he even looked over his shoulder.

  The crowd had quieted when he’d first emerged, but Celia’s soul prickled with the noiseless sound of their unease. They’d noticed his slight discomposure. The finale was ever so slightly longer than perfectly timed.

  The plague doctor rose and tossed his flames. Trapdoors swallowed up some of the performers, others collapsed, others skittered like spiders up into the rafters.

  Only the plague doctor and darkness remained. He dusted himself off. Usually, the crowd was entirely silent, but their unease had turned to whispering. The plague doctor cocked his head, as if he heard the whispers too.

  Celia looked up at Vincent, perched in the rafters, and pointed at her chest. Do you hear that? They’re asking for me.

  He shook his head and nudged his chin, telling her what she already knew: it wasn’t good enough, she had to do more.

  Celia needed to give the crowd something truly unexpected.

  She let go of Kitty Kay’s hand, her fingers throbbing as blood rushed back. She pulled down her mask, crouched like a frog, and slowly, soundlessly, crept toward the middle of the stage, well behind where the plague doctor stood. She didn’t want to be seen, she wanted the possibility of her to be seen. She wanted people to think they saw her devil horns—​maybe, perhaps.

  The whispers grew louder as the plague doctor bowed. That night, the finality of death wasn’t final, because something moved behind him.

  Celia thumped the bottom of her bell jar with a flat palm, once, twice, then scraped her fingernails against the floorboards.

  As one, the crowd froze. If she hadn’t wanted their concentration so desperately, the immediate silencing of all those whispers would have freaked her out.