Chương 12: a ring

"Car's fucked." Jordan counts it on her fingers.

"Witnesses everywhere. Emergency pager was on, which means they were already suspicious. Shotspotter definitely picked up that gunfire and they're going to match the ballistics to my service weapon. Security is about to be tighter than a fly's asshole at the docks and the ports since there's armed suspects running around." She finishes on a full five-star jazz hand of trouble and smacks herself in the forehead with it.

"I'm burned. Your papers are more legit than mine at this point. So everything has gotten a lot more complicated."

"And a warlock just tried to kill us," Caspar says.

"And that. Very true." Jordan sighs and stares out the diner window.

"So what the fuck." Caspar picks at his slice of strudel.

"You looking for suggestions, Miss Jordan?"

"Jordy," Jordan says.

"My friends call me Jordy. Called me Jordy. I don't imagine I have any left." Caspar reaches across the table and rests his big farm boy hand on Jordan's.

"Mine called me Cas." Jordan's iceberg eyes slide away from the open window and study Caspar's. She flips her hand around so their palms touch and gives his a squeeze.

"All right, Cas." Caspar squeezes back.

"All right, Jordy."

"What's your suggestion?" Her fork incises through the strudel's flaky crust. Man, that looks delicious. I need to give that a try. I get muted sensations through Caspar, but ever since creating my Irene body, I've realized it's like looking at a photo instead of being in a place. Humans have such active nervous systems.

"I think we find a no-tell motel type place and hit the hay," Caspar says.

"The sisters owe us an explanation, and maybe Miss Irene will have ideas."

"Or maybe Bina will," Jordan says, with a note of surprising defensiveness that makes Caspar chuckle.

"Could be." He takes up his fork. Oh yes, Caspar. Give me a taste of that strudel through the connection.

"Either way, well—I've always told patients and privates alike. Sleep helps. Meeting the patrons aside." I let out a pleased hum as he takes his bite and its buttery crust melts on his tongue.

"How did you meet yours, anyway?" Jordan asks.

"Nice Pastornist fella like you. Why'd you take up with her?"

"Irene saved my life," Caspar says.

"You were coming to Rogarth, so the boys back at the taphouse took it upon themselves to hang me. If you'd have shown up and found they were harboring a sorcerer, it would have been decimations."

"Would have been. Yeah." Jordan chews pensively.

"Suppose I oughta say sorry, then." He shrugs.

"It wasn't you, it was just… the wheels. Turning everything and making us go along the little tracks they cut out for us. I always thought it was the Father doing that. But I guess they're just spinning on momentum, huh?"

"Well, you can't blame momentum," Jordan says.

"Can't shoot it, either. Think I blame the Suzerain." Caspar shifts uneasily. Still so reluctant, my warlock.

"You and me didn't know, did we? He might not, either."

"I get it, Cas." She swallows a mouthful, shaking her head.

"You grew up with his picture in your schoolhouse and your temple and his statue, I bet, in Rogarth Square."

"Yes, ma'am," he allows.

"Well, I didn't," Jordan says.

"No schoolhouse, no temple, no square. Only place the Suzerain smiled at us from was our money and we had fuck-all money. Belief was my ticket out of the Chutes, and then it was my passing grade at the Academy, and then it was what I held on to in the Inspectorate, cause my job was picking weeping farmers at random and shooting them in the head. And now I have no use for it."

"Not even for Bina?"

"Sure, I believe in her, and I believe in us. From now on, I believe it when I see it." Caspar pops the last crust of strudel into his mouth.

"We're a couple broke-down old lean-tos, huh? All built up for something that doesn't live in us anymore."

"True that." Jordan clatters her fork onto her empty plate.

"I intend to make it someone else's problem." ₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪"Out here, Cas." Caspar follows my voice to a wrought metal gate, which he swings outward as he steps into Autumn. I'm on the downward swoop of a hill looking out over the stretching auburn forest. Over my dress is a fluffy cream cable-knit sweater. In my hand is a copy of the Father's Precepts. By my hip is a wicker picnic basket.

"Evening, Miss Irene," he says.

"Evening, Mr. Cartwright." I nudge the picnic basked toward him.

"I've been doing some light reading while I waited for ya."

"Uh oh." Caspar pulls a chicken parmesan sandwich, of course, wrapped in crinkly brown paper, from the basket. I've put a cola in there too for him. He was jealous of Jordan's.

"Some of these rules you went and broke, Cas." He gives me a rueful smile as he unwraps his sandwich.

"You're having too much fun with me."

"Be You a Traveler, you shall Halt at thy Thirtieth Mile, and Thirty Upon Thirty Thereafter, to give thanks unto the Father for the Welcoming Road," I read.

"Well, you certainly haven't been doing that."

"They wrote that when we were riding horses," Caspar says.

"There's… you gotta interpret it." I flip to another dog-eared page.

"The Joys of the Flesh—""Okay now." Caspar sets his picnic aside and reaches for the book. My arms disjoint and spaghettify as I keep it away from him.

"—are Joys Espousal. You who Take of Them, Without Marriage's Covenant, Pluck the Green Fruit before it Ripens and Thereby Spoil thy Feast."

"Miss Irene—""Hey, hey. I think it's all fine. I'm just reading the book. But if we're talking about…" I stand up as he makes another grab.

"Sowing thy Seed within Untilled Earth, that thy Love be only for thyself, and in no part for Me. That's pulling out, right?" He lays his face in his hands.

"I've seen you pull out," I say. Caspar makes a strained gargling noise that I choose to take as a laugh.

"Looks like you sinned, Cas. I don't know how to tell you this, but I think your soul might belong to the Adversary now."

"There's a lot of really interesting interpretive scholarship on that chapter," Caspar says through his interlaced fingers.

"And how it applies to modern courting."

"I bet."

"Can you come back here and have a seat?" Caspar gestures to the blanket.

"And maybe you can tell me why a warlock almost killed us today." I inhale through my teeth.

"Ah. Yes, that." I return to the picnic blanket and remove my lunch from it. Apple strudel, of course. I snap a crisp, sugar-powdered corner from it.

"I hadn't mentioned this yet, because I thought we had more time before it reared its ugly head and I didn't want to rush you at the beginning of your warlock career. But you and Jordan talking about we've got time and Suzerain ain't going anywhere. That's not strictly true." The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He frowns and waits for me to continue. I pop the bit of strudel into my mouth. This is exactly the fortifying sweetness I need.

"My sisters and I, Bina excepted, have some… disagreements about how Heaven ought to be reformed," I say.

"I want things returned, more or less, to the place's original goal of a shielding paradise. Although I'm thinking fewer mile-high skyscraper palaces and more... I don't know. More like this." I gesture to the field around us.

"I guess I've watched you too long, and now I'm a hayseed." Caspar is about to take umbrage to the term, but he supposes it's as accurate as any.

"I've convinced Bean," I say.

"And I'm hoping to convince more. But we're all strong-willed, and whoever gets the key gets their way."

"You're in a race." He sets his sandwich aside.

"You're all in competition."

"And ruling over Heaven, and humanity, is the prize," I say.

"That warlock who tried to kill you was one of my sisters trying to slow me down. That red armor makes me think it was Alexandra, and what I got out of that goon you delivered me has me further convinced. She's excitable. It makes sense she'd strike early. I'll talk to her."

"What does she want to turn Heaven into?" I shrug.

"Don't think she's thought that far ahead. She just wants to win. Believe me, Caspar. You don't want my sisters to win. I am the best hope your species has." He looks unsure.

"How many of you are there?"

"Seven," I say.

"Well. Eight."

"That eighth has you tense," he says.

"That eighth has everyone tense," I say.

"She's… well, she never picked a human name. Not like the rest of us. Just call her Eight, I guess. She's the oldest of us and very much the strongest. I keep telling my sisters that if we don't get our acts together, or at least out of each other's way, she wins. Which would be very bad."

"What happens if Eight wins?"

"She eats Heaven and all the souls in it, then she eats us," I say.

"Eating is the only thing she's interested in doing. I think it was when she tasted the Father. Something broke." Caspar has grown still. Ill-defined, catastrophic visions are warring for prominence in his mind. None of them come close to the true horror that awaits at Eight's hands.

"And she's in the lead?"

"She is," I say.

"She has many human servants, and unlike the rest of us, she's powerful enough to tend multiple warlocks. That Adversary the pastors warned you about, the devouring Void, she comes closest to fitting the bill. We've been at this key business for a couple of decades now. It's my opinion, and Bina shares it, that we're in the endgame." Caspar's grip has tightened on the crescent of sandwich in his hand. His fingers are nearly. smushing the damn thing.

"Hey," I say.

"Put your head in my lap." This snaps him out of it somewhat. He puts his parm aside.

"Why?"

"Because you're worried and stressed out," I say.

"And because I've never had someone's head in my lap."

"We have to plan," he says.

"That's why I'm here. That warlock attack, it's ruined—""I know. I was watching, remember. We can plan with your head in my lap. C'mon."

"Miss Irene."

"I'm your wrathful goddess and I'm gonna fill your stomach with bees or something unless you put your head in my lap." I wriggle closer.

"Thou shalt put thy head in my lap." I've banished the apocalypse from his mind and replaced it with a much tastier kind of stress.

"I don't wanna be… inappropriate," he says.

"Why? You're mine forever, aren't you? How could this be inappropriate?"

"It's just that it's a bit of an intimate gesture. That's all." My lips curl at the edges.

"I'm aware." He adjusts his collar.

"Oh. I got an idea. Maybe this'll help you relax about it." I pull a diminutive black tendril from my head.

"Give me your hand." He haltingly does. I clasp the tendril around his finger. I tap it and it turns into solid, swirl-designed gold.

"There you go."

"What is this?"

"That's your engagement ring." I twirl my own finger and a matching ring appears on it.

"Now you're my fiancé and not even the Father could object, if He hadn't been digested. We're appropriate as hell." He gives his ring a tug. It stays firm.

"Very funny, Miss Irene." An expulsion of surprised air from him as my hand lands on his shoulder.

"I'm not kidding. I own your soul, remember? Did you think I'd let anyone else have a piece?" I knead my fingers into his muscle.

"Not gonna happen. Sorry. The Father may have let you go giving your matrimony to other mortals. But that old dead bastard wouldn't know a sexy single if one ran up and chewed His face off. I speak from experience. I'm locking you down, mister."

"Typically," he says, the trepidation clear in his voice, "you ask first."

"I did," I say.

"You said yes, little warlock. Remember? You bear my mark." And I make him feel it. Not a pain, not really, but an itch. A raising of his skin. My brand on his heart.

"You're as mine as if you swore it on the nuptial altar. More mine than that. I just thought it might make you more comfortable about the whole thing if we put it in human terms." I hold my own ring up.

"I got one too, see?"

"Mortal husbands and wives… do things together."

"That's right," I say.

"Things like putting their heads in each other's laps."

"Miss Irene," he says.

"I'd appreciate it if we didn't discuss it in these terms. There's a lot of human baggage on this stuff." He twists his ring awkwardly.

"My baggage." I raise a brow.

"Is this about Vesta, then?" Caspar flinches at his ex-fiancee's name.

"Little bit."

"All right," I say.

"No marriage. We'll send back the cake and cancel the cover band. And you can take that off. On one condition." I pat my thigh.

"Heeeere, Cassy-Cassy." He rasps an exasperated chuckle.

"All right." He scoots over to me.

"Good boy," I say, as he lowers his head. I feel the weight smush against the softness of my thighs. I ignore the illogical stab of numb discontent as I reduce our rings once more to inert tendrils and slough them from our knuckles. Caspar lets out a deep sigh and gazes up at the eternal sunset. I frame his face with my void-dark hands.

"Now, does that feel so terrible, Mr. Cartwright?"

"You are a strange woman, Miss Irene."

"I'm your strange woman, Mr. Cartwright. The last and strangest woman you'll ever have." His eyes move to mine. The little prickles of his short-sided hair poke through the fabric of my dress and brush my bare skin.

"I'm sorry for today," he says.

"I fear I'm not measuring up."

"Shhh." I scratch my fingers behind his ears.

"Don't be silly, boy. The world is arrayed against you. It's you and me, and it's everyone else."

"What about Bina and Miss Jordan?"

"Okay and them," I say.

"The point is. I'm not disappointed in you. Not at all. You're surviving and you're getting closer. You're doing a fair bit better than most of my other warlocks have ever done. I have a feeling, Caspar. A good one. You're my winning ticket."

"All right."

"I only wish I could be there for you more," I say.

"That I could protect you myself. You'll see once we win. Then it'll be my turn to do all the hard work. And I'll take care of you." He wants to nestle further into the fluffy wool of my sweater. I wish he would.

"Do you have any ideas?" he asks.

"In fact, Mr. Cartwright, I do." I tap his nose.

"Beep." He expels a humored gust through his nostrils and quarter-turns away from me.

"Of how we could get to Pastornos, I mean."

"That's what I mean, too," I say.

"You won't be getting onto any public or provincial airships, that's for sure. But I think I have a hookup on a private flight."

"Oh? Didn't take you for someone with that kind of stroke on the surface."

"Well, that's the thing. I'm not, exactly." I sigh.

"I got a sister who is. Which means it might be time to cut a deal with Saoirse." He reads my tone.

"Not a fan?"

"Oh, she's fine. She is. But I'm going to have to make concessions, and I really hate doing that." I pick at my strudel as it cools in the fall air.

"Still. If Alexandra's tracking you and Ganea's trying to cut treaties, then we've got to get our butts in gear for the final act. And she's been someone I've put off a few times."

"Do you need me in attendance?"

"Nah," I say.

"You ought to go meet that fellow Jordan shot. He's rather shaken up." Caspar chuckles.

"Since when do you care about how they shake up?"

"Well, I don't, but I know how you get your sick altruistic kicks." I shake my head.

"You've got an addiction. Such a shame to see. And here I am trying to make you a proper evil cultist of the Adversary."

"Problem is," Caspar says.

"I don't really want to get up." A tickle of tranquil happiness eases across me and loosens my shoulders.

"Then don't. Sit awhile with me." I drop the precepts against his chest.

"Read me something."

"You're gonna make fun of it."

"I am not," I say.

"Not if you pick a good passage. Your favorite, maybe."

"Gosh, all right." He cracks the precepts.

"It ain't exactly a page-turner." I settle onto my forearms as he scoots his head down my thigh to prop himself up.

"We have time," I say. And here in the Autumn meadow, it's true. Eventually, the food is eaten and the jokes are cracked and the time, even in this timeless space, has come. We can't keep avoiding the people we need to see. Caspar heads off for the taphouse and I send an echoing psychic cry through Heaven's carcass, seeking She of Gentle Repose in whatever decaying cavity she's infesting these days. While I wait for her return ping, I sit up alone in the Autumn meadow. A breeze cuts across the tops of my thighs.

I blow out a sigh, letting the air raspberry my lips. That's fun. Tingly. I manifest the ring again.

"Ridiculous," I say, although nobody's here to listen. And isn't that peculiar? How deeply I feel it? I used to spend content decades alone in vacuum. Now my silly little human is gone and after a bare minute, I get this itch in my skull. I recycle my blanket to fibrous keratin and my basket to glistening tendon. Then I turn my attention to my humanoid. It's time to absorb Irene back into the mainframe. I can have my fun with him without letting myself become this… affected.

I understood academically the way your bodies meddle with your minds, but I wasn't prepared for just how strong and confusing the sensations would be. I must stop this experiment before it becomes a complicating factor in my decision-making. And I'm going to do it right now. Right now.

"Right now," I murmur, as I turn my ring in a slow rotation with my thumb. But I don't. And when Saoirse's burbling call returns to me, I delicately hike up my skirt and set off across the meadow with a very human determination in my stride.