Withstand him? But Naamah had said time and again that even if Israfel was alive, he would have no interest in Earth. Angels of his rank simply didn’t care, too lofty beyond the human imagination to bother with irritations like Sophia or the Archon. Raziel was dead and had shown his true colors as Lucifel’s lover. What reason could Israfel find to bother with his brother’s human shell?
Yet the idea of him, the sound of his name, crawled inside of her and wrenched at her insides.
“Oh . . .” Stephanie clutched her head, sick all over without warning.
The room faded. A dull ringing filled her ears.
“You . . . think . . . so much of him, don’t you?”
What little sense that made. But . . .
A deep, irrational envy had taken sudden hold of her. She laughed quietly, seeing Angela’s fierce face, the possessed glaze over Nina’s eyes, and Kim, standing beside Naamah with the strangest kind of boredom, like they were both so well acquainted with each other. In a flash, she saw dead pigeons and rats drained of blood. The pentagrams appeared everywhere, ringing her like crimson planets. But behind it all was the conviction that she was spinning out of control, until she grabbed Sophia by the chin, forcing her to stare straight into her eyes.
Sophia’s face paled. She recognized who was talking to her.
“But remember,” Stephanie heard herself say, “it’s our little secret.”
Twenty-four
Jinn have fallen in love with humans on occasion. However, the offspring of such union s are often killed outright by either parent; an act committed in cold blood, but one where instinct has rightly reigned over affection.
—BROTHER FRANCIS, Encyclopedia of the Realms
“Mama, what are you doing? Mama?”
Kim knelt beside her in front of the fire, watching as she tossed baubles into the grate. His mother was beautiful. The most beautiful person in the world. Her hair was more lustrous than a raven’s wing, full of curls, and her eyes were a mix of earth and green grass. He’d never seen a woman with skin so white, and whenever her arms wrapped around him, hugging him close, he had to touch and pinch them as much as he could, because there was always the chance it might never happen again.
Lately it was harder and harder to get her attention.
She knelt in front of the fire a lot, throwing her rocks and jewels into the ash, whispering in a strange language he couldn’t figure out. Calling for someone. Begging. And their cottage walls had become covered, floor to ceiling, in symbols she never bothered explaining: circles, sharp lines, pictures that resembled flowers, and another picture of a face with horns on its head.
He never liked that one.
“Mama?”
“Hush,” she said, clapping a hand over his mouth.
Kim squirmed, resisting her. Then he grew still and she let go, continuing her soft mumbling. She grabbed some of the earth piled in a fold on her dress near her lap, tossed it into the fire, and the flames roared, bursting into a dazzle of orange and yellow. Mice crawled up and down the wood pile to his right, squeaking, relishing the warmth. Kim cleared a patch of rushes on the floor and sat next to them, hoping to catch one. They were always too fast.
“Kim,” his mother whispered. Her pretty eyes seemed larger.
“Yes, Mama?”
“Don’t you think it’s time to go to sleep? It’s very late, and the village master will be upset if you’re not tending the fields—”
“But I want to stay with you! What are you doing?”
“Papa’s coming tonight, Kim. You should know that by now.”
He shivered; always hating the way she said “papa,” and the idea that for days she’d be gone as if she’d never existed at all. Then he’d be holed up in his tiny room, rocking on the lice-covered bed, wishing and hoping her back until it became reality. Papa’s visits were always like that. Kim never saw him or spoke with him, and often he’d just press his ears to the door, listening to them talk about places that sounded strange and far away, and then the noises would begin, suggesting that his mother was in pain. He was convinced Papa hurt her all the time. Mother’s arms and legs and feet were covered in long, thin, scars that looked like cuts. Sometimes, when she finally unlocked the door and let him out, she would still be bleeding.
The rushes would be sticky for days, mice covering the floor and licking up what they could.
Tonight, though, was different.
He was going to see Papa. He was going to make sure he was noticed.
“All right,” he said, “I guess I can go to bed.”
“Good boy.” His mother hoisted herself up and stretched out her hand.
Kim took it and allowed her to lead him to his room, a dank little space with the bed on the floor and a few rags for blankets. The walls were bare stone, and the thatch over the roof usually dribbled insects for most of the night, but it was autumn, and many of them were dying or in the process of dying. His only regret was how alone that would make him. Mama never said she’d leave him in here for days, but they both knew that was the case. Kim stared at her nervously, stripping off his shirt and pants, dropping them near a mound of potatoes she’d set next to the door.