Curse of the Divine Page 4

  But the emotional pain was worse.

  As if he were made of everyone’s sadness. As if everyone’s regret, loneliness, and suffering had been collected—twined into a never-ending ball—and then unspooled inside him.

  It was exactly like the other side of the veil; when he’d died and traveled the afterlife, he’d felt this same thing—a sorrow so intense there weren’t words for it in this world.

  He lost himself to it. He was made only of hurt.

  Some of it existed in strange images: snowdrop flowers emerging in early spring, lilies blooming then fading fast. Others were clear: a dying child, a mound of earth.

  Broken hearts and suffering minds.

  “Welcome to my world, plague doctor,” Diavala said as she let him go.

  He gasped and bolted to sitting, close to unleashing the scream. His breaths came hard and fast, and he concentrated on slowing them down. The physical pain stopped immediately, but the images and memories, thousands of them and each full of sadness, lingered before fading.

  Celia rolled toward him in her sleep, a frown creasing her brow, as if her dreams had taken a dark turn. The fire was close to flickering out, embers pulsing in a slow glow.

  Point taken, he said after his breathing had slowed. They both knew that Diavala had the upper hand, but at least he’d gotten what he wanted.

  Dia, but he was weary. He lay back and pressed one hand to his heart. Now go away, Diavala. I have some happy dreams to attend to.

  A jolt of Diavala’s revulsion washed through him. “Yes, you have the most imaginative dreams of anyone I’ve ever known,” she said.

  Diavala had meant it as an insult, but it made the smile return to the plague doctor’s face. And it was a smile he meant.

  He shifted toward Celia and waited until the crease disappeared from between her eyes and her expression was restful again. “Dreams are nice,” he whispered to her. “When you’re inside one, there’s never any doubt that it’s real.”

  Chapter 3

  Celia and Griffin entered Wisteria Township in the late afternoon with none of the parade and pomp that should have come from such a long-awaited entrance.

  It was exactly the opposite of exciting: Heavy and lush. That moment in time when you’re suspended just at the cusp of sleep—that point you can never remember, but you know it must happen.

  Wisteria was a regular Illinian town, albeit quite a bit more intense in color than any Celia had ever seen. Wisteria wasn’t only a pretty moniker—the plant grew everywhere: arching over footpaths, creeping up buildings, hanging above doorframes and windows. Clusters in full bloom dripped from every surface, painting the whole town purple.

  Strange, for wisteria to bloom in autumn.

  “Let’s find a room before we ask any questions, okay?” Celia said.

  Griffin only nodded. Dark circles hugged his eyes, and a darkness eclipsed them, the effects of the pain from the night before still fresh. He needed sleep. In a real bed. With a real pillow.

  Without a skin-jumping creature inside him.

  They rode through the wide streets, forcing themselves to smile at the two or three people they saw out and about.

  “Where are all the Kids?” Griffin asked.

  That was strange, Celia had to admit. In every town they’d passed through—on this journey or with the Rabble Mob—Kids playing outside had been the loud but comforting herald of civilization.

  The only activity was fragrance-heavy blooms of wisteria buzzing with lazy, saturated bees.

  “Excuse me.” As Griffin pulled the wagon to a stop, Celia addressed an elderly person wearing a proper suit and holding an elaborately carved walking stick. “We’re looking for food and lodging. Can you point us in the right direction?”

  The wrinkles on his face smoothed for a moment, as if he’d aged backwards forty years, before settling back into deep, furrowed ruts. “What brings you to Wisteria, good souls?” he inquired.

  Was he making lighthearted conversation or did it matter for his answer? This stranger seemed to be studying them with an acuity that didn’t fit the situation.

  Griffin said, “We’re searching for someone” at the same time Celia said, “A vacation.”

  The stranger lifted his eyebrow, his forehead disappearing into deep wrinkles.

  With a good-natured laugh, Griffin chuckled the awkwardness away. “Both are true. We’re from Asura and needed to get away from the big city, especially after certain dramatic events unfolded there. We’ve also heard that a friend of ours may live here.”

  “We’ll be staying only a short while and then moving on,” Celia added quickly.

  The stranger nodded sagely and looked up the street. A person with a basket of flowers—plump wisteria bunches mixed with plate-size peonies and dahlias and dainty baby’s breath—appeared from around the corner where his gaze had landed, as perfectly timed as if he’d conjured her. “Rosetta!” he said. “These travelers from Asura say they’re looking for someone. Should we direct them to the Outside Inn or to Rian’s?”

  Her chin high and her shoulders stiff, she waltzed over, feathery light on her feet, the blooms in her basket not shifting with her movement as they ought to. The flowers seemed carved from a light stone rather than something living.

  “From Asura?” Rosetta came over, appraised them, and nodded. “The Outside Inn.”

  “That’s what I thought as well. So, at the next block, make three left turns—your first left on each cross street—and you’ll be delivered straight to Davi’s lovely inn. She makes a fabulous carrot stew. Tell her I sent you, and she’ll give you a discount. The name’s Garuld.”

  “Thank you,” Celia said, tipping her hat as Garuld and Rosetta stepped out of the way of their wagon.

  As they continued on, Garuld shook his head at Rosetta. “I think they are,” he responded to whatever question she’d asked him.

  “This place is a little strange,” Griffin said, but he smiled wide as he said it, as if he understood that level of strangeness and wholeheartedly approved. He scanned the street, peering into windows. “Everything feels . . .”

  “Dulled,” Celia offered.

  “Yes, dulled,” Griffin agreed. “But sharp at the same time. Maybe too sharp.”

  Too stabby.

  They turned left at the first street. They passed buildings made of stone and brick, every shutter tight, very few marked as businesses, and no one else in the streets. At their next left, the street got narrower. Celia reached her hand out toward the high fence beside her as they passed, thick ropes of wisteria trailing along the top. She wanted to touch a blossom but hesitated.

  “Is this considered a street?” she asked, nudging Griffin. The road was so narrow that if another wagon came from the other direction, they would meet in the middle at a stalemate.

  He shrugged, staring hard at the wisteria climbing along the top of the fence, and as if reading her thoughts, he pulled the wagon to a stop again.

  Celia stood up on her tiptoes, keeping her balance on the wobbly cart with difficulty, and leaned right over, pressing her face an inch from the closest wisteria bunch. A bee’s fluffy body ambled slowly past her line of sight, filling her ears with the echo of its soft buzz. She could definitely smell the flower, a subtle vanilla. Up close, the bunch of blooms had white pistils laced with yellow, everything perfect, everything normal.

  “Careful,” Griffin murmured. His hand found the small of her back.

  She shivered as he leaned forward with her. They studied the plant together.

  She shouldn’t have called the town dulled. Rather, it felt normal, but too normal. An approximation of normal, which made everything stand out. Should she hear a bee’s echo? Or notice its fluffiness? “I’m too scared to touch the flower.”

  There was that sharp stabbiness to it.

  “Pardon me?” Griffin shook his head, as if getting rid of cobwebs. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “That bee was too loud,” she said, agreeing. “I sai
d, I’m too scared to touch the flower.”

  They looked at each other, as if realizing that they were acting weird, but had no clue as to how to stop. Griffin’s smile only grew wider.

  Using his gloved hand, Griffin poked at one of the small purple flowers.

  It moved.

  As if it had been poked.

  “Is it hard?” Celia asked. She still thought it looked too solid. As if, even if she tried, she wouldn’t be able to crush it out of shape. But bees wouldn’t be attracted to something made of stone. Would you be so fooled, my precious bees?

  “It felt”—Griffin shrugged—“flowerlike.” He frowned again, grabbed the cluster of blooms at the stem, and bent it off, taking the whole bunch. “We’re being absurd. I think we’re in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.”

  Celia launched into full panic. “Wait!” It felt wrong for them to alter anything. If the town would go to such great lengths to show them one thing, perhaps they shouldn’t be messing with the show.

  “Rosetta had flowers in her basket. It’s fine.” Griffin plunked back down on the wagon bench to examine the bunch, and Celia followed suit.

  But not before first making sure that the bees weren’t rallying en masse for retribution.

  She peered over Griffin’s shoulder as he turned the flowers this way and that. “They’re normal?” she asked.

  In answer, the plague doctor handed the flowers to her, but stupidly, she didn’t have any idea what to do with them. She didn’t dare leave them in the road—that felt wrong. She also didn’t want to have evidence of tampering in her hands—that felt even more wrong. She finally stuffed the flowers into her bag and tried not to think about them anymore.

  As they turned the corner at the next street, Celia wondered if they were drunk. Maybe some of the homebrew honey rum they’d bought in the previous town had been stronger than they’d thought. They’d had some with their early dinner a couple of hours ago.

  Another left turn. The third one. They turned the corner where the Outside Inn should have been and found themselves on the same street where they’d encountered Rosetta and Garuld.

  “We went in a circle?” Celia breathed.

  “A square,” Griffin said, smiling wider.

  “What the hell is going on?” Celia said. “Maybe we made a mistake with our lefts. That narrow one wasn’t a street.” She expected to see Garuld and Rosetta. If she did, she would ask for directions again.

  Then they came upon the Outside Inn.

  “Ah, of course!” Griffin said, nodding sagely. “If it’s the Outside Inn, we had to turn it inside out first.”

  Celia looked around, blinking. A second ago it was the same street, but now it was definitely different: this one boasted a clothing shop, and one of the houses was painted a cheery yellow that stuck out like butter on dark rye bread. Griffin was examining the cobblestones, as if fully expecting them to reshuffle under his feet.

  Dia, but Celia’s head hurt. She pinched the bridge of her nose and inhaled deeply as Griffin tied Aaro up to the hitching post.

  With a gentle hand on the small of her back—his sign that he understood and would do the talking—Griffin led her through the double doors of the inn.

  Inside, the air felt heavy and as thick as molasses. Celia took in the sight of the rug on the wooden floor, the bright chandelier, the desk with rows upon rows of shelves behind it lined with books and papers.

  And more flowers. Everywhere. In pots on the floor, bright fuchsia bloomed. In vases on the counter and shelves, cut daisies and cornflowers. Without the bees of outside, though, the stillness felt more profound.

  Behind the counter, someone with a tenor made of metallic reds and highlights of silver sat reading, only the top of her blond head and a portion of the spine of the book in her hands visible. It took a moment before her eyes peeked up over the book and locked on Celia and Griffin standing in the doorway.

  “Oh my!” She stood quickly, growing in size before their eyes, like a giant. Celia was short, but Griffin was not, and this person towered over them both. “Welcome to Wisteria, strangers!” Making her way around the counter after putting her book down—A Study of Carlotta, it was called—she smiled brightly at them.

  “Garuld recommended this place,” Griffin said. “You must be Davi of carrot stew fame?” He bowed low, took off his hat, and smiled so wide that a dimple appeared in one of his cheeks. Celia had never seen that adorable dimple, and she thought she’d seen every iteration of the plague doctor’s horseshit smile. Always full of surprises.

  Davi laughed. “I am indeed she, but Garuld is a rascal. I buy his carrots, and he wants my carrot stew to get famous so his carrots get famous in the process.” Her laugh was a hearty thing, springing from deep in her belly. She looked to be about thirty years old, with deep crescent wrinkles around her eyes from smiling. Despite her height, she wasn’t imposing. Her dress had flowers on it, and as she approached, Celia noticed clover woven into her pinned hair. Davi was the prettiest giant Celia had ever seen.

  “We have plenty of rooms to choose from, and after supper hour, the pub will reopen.”

  They negotiated the rate for a single room, booking it for a few days with the possibility of extension. Celia’s temples constantly throbbed, but occasionally piercing pain split through, and she could feel a fresh onslaught approaching.

  “Why would the pub close for supper?” Griffin asked.

  Celia admired his gentle tone. If she’d asked the same thing, it would have sounded more like, Isn’t a pub’s literal job to provide food and drink?

  Davi frowned, as if she didn’t understand the question, so Griffin clarified. “We were wondering where everyone was.” Maybe Wisteria was some strange sect of the fallen Profeta. Celia didn’t know what day of the week it was . . . Perhaps if it was Saturday . . . some places in Illinia had started a kind of observance for the moment their deity was killed on a stage.

  If so, how would they feel to have the murderer walk into their inn and book a room?

  “Oh.” Davi waved her hand, leaning against the counter and putting her hands on the edge as if she were about to hoist herself up. “I suppose I can see why it’d unnerve people not used to it, but it’s not a rule so much as a tradition started by our leader. For the two hours just before sunset, Wisteria folk go home and spend suppertime with their families. It began so many years ago, I suppose we forget it’s not something everyone in the world does. Everyone’s loud enough behind their closed doors, believe me. I always use the time to enjoy the quiet with my family.” She tapped a finger lightly on the top of her book and waved at the bookshelf behind her.

  “That sounds like a lovely tradition,” Celia said, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple, trying to release the pressure of her headache.

  “Are there any more traditions we should know about?” Griffin asked with the ease of someone well traveled. “We wouldn’t want to offend any resident here, nor your leader.”

  Celia started sweating when she remembered the crunched-up wisteria blossom in her bag. “Do you mean the leader of the officer’s brigade?” Celia asked Davi. Her mind went to Nero for a second—her giant of an enemy who’d eventually become her friend. She hadn’t said goodbye to him before she’d left Asura. She’d barely said goodbye to anyone, her shame and anger burning too bright. She’d needed, and still needed, to disappear. Nero would have told her—bluntly and with an economical use of words—how selfish she was.

  “I suppose mayor is the better word,” Davi said. “Halcyon Ronnea. You’ll probably meet him if you stay long enough—he’s been around a lot lately.”

  “Halcyon Ronnea,” Celia repeated, giving Griffin a significant look. The Roll of Saints hadn’t mentioned his occupation, so Celia had assumed it hadn’t been anything noteworthy. Diavala herself hadn’t mentioned him as an important figure. Yet he was the mayor? “What do you mean, he’s been around a lot lately?”

  “He travels. Sometimes he’s gone for mont
hs at a time.” Davi went back to her chair, picked her book up off the counter, and disappeared behind it again. “Watch that you don’t get lost as you wander. The streets can turn you all around,” she said. “When the pub reopens, you’ll see how not quiet Wisterians can be. It’s a ruckus—tonight’s Stomp Night—everyone sings loud and bad, and the crowd stomps along. Another thing Ser Ronnea started.”

  “Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” Celia asked.

  Davi shrugged. “Probably.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Griffin elbowed Celia in the ribs and shot her a withering look. Okay, so she was being a bit obvious, but the topic of Ser Ronnea had already come up . . . why wouldn’t she ask?

  “It would be nice to meet him,” Griffin said, walking quickly back to the counter and peering over at where Davi had resettled in her reading nook.

  Celia joined him, barely able to peer over the edge of the counter. Stupid being short.

  With her nose already in her book, Davi lifted a finger, her eyes scanning the page, trying to find where she’d left off. “If he’s there, you’ll know who he is when you see him.”

  They looked at each other as Davi continued reading. She wasn’t being rude, necessarily, but was acting as if the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. What did that even mean? Did he wear a flashing name tag?

  Celia closed her eyes, pressing on them for a second, trying to suppress the hiss of pain that wanted to escape her lips. To Griffin’s concerned look, she nodded. I’m fine.

  Griffin wrapped his hand around her upper arm and pulled her away from the counter. “Maybe we’ll see him at the pub then. After a long day on the road, we definitely need drinks.”

  Celia wanted to ask more questions, start a full-on interrogation, but Griffin was aggressively tugging her out the door, the key to their room clenched tight in his free fist. “Stop it. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

  “My head.” Celia gestured at . . . her head. “I’ll be fine, just tired.” And, if she was being honest, she was still scared of the flower in her backpack.