The Native Star Page 25

  It speaks in the music of the wind. The shift of grass and branch. The shape of clouds. In all of these, Ososolyeh speaks. It has told you its will in every bird that has flown over your head, every mote of dust that has swirled before your eyes, every piece of earth that has turned from beneath your foot.

  “I don’t know the language of grasses and birds and dirt,” Emily said. “Why can’t you just tell me yourself?”

  Ah, that would be a story that would take millions of years to tell in words, Komé said regretfully. And the foulness binds me, and I am tired.

  “You have to help me understand,” Emily begged.

  The mind of Ososolyeh cannot be imagined. To hear Ososolyeh’s voice, you must allow your mind to stretch to the size of the stars, for that is the size of Ososolyeh’s dreams. You must forget that time exists. You must forget that you can die.

  Emily didn’t think she could forget that, looking at Komé’s body, at the oily ugliness that bound her. She fell to her knees before the old woman, bending her head.

  “I can’t do it.” She put her face in her hands. “Mother, I can’t.”

  Yes, you can. Komé smiled and brought her hands down, placing them softly on Emily’s head.

  And Emily’s head exploded.

  Her tiny weak human skull inflated like an Aberrancy, a grotesque balloon, a cosmic ball of igniting gas. Memories flooded her, memories of a mind whose thoughts were too large and old to comprehend, memories that could only be felt and absorbed, memories of stars and infinite distances and eons of traveling, drifting, seeking. Her body exploded, too, becoming immense and spherical and bright, oh so bright, taking and returning the sweet force of life, cycling it back and forth in a beautiful complicated dance. The pleasure of it was unbearable.

  Do you see? Komé asked finally, as eternity receded from Emily’s mind.

  Emily found that she didn’t need to speak.

  YES.

  She saw that the heartbeat that surrounded her was her own. She saw that she could make the colors dance with the smallest impulse of thought. She made reds and blues shift, and discovered that she’d made them shift in the exact same way in one perfectly remembered moment a billion years earlier. She longed to remember more. She longed to stay here forever, now that she knew what forever was. But Komé gently lifted her hands from Emily’s head, and the dream began to fade.

  You cannot stay here, Basket of Secrets. You must go to them. They are waiting for you.

  “Who is waiting?” Emily murmured sleepily, as dawn light seeped through her eyelids.

  The Sons of the Earth.

  Emily sat up with a gasp, knocking her head against the low ceiling. Groaning, she rubbed her forehead. Her arm felt like it was five hundred feet long.

  She felt all out of proportion; everything around her was so narrow and close, but she felt so large and diffuse and rubbery. Tendrils of the dream spun away from her, and she felt a desperate desire to clutch at them. In that gleaming shimmering place, she had been so large. She had been Ososolyeh—a living thing with memories that stretched beyond the void of infinity. Now she was trapped, returned to the small sore breathing hungry confinement of a body that could die—circumscribed, imprisoned.

  She jerked the curtain aside, desperate to escape the feeling of sudden, smothering enclosure.

  The first thing she saw was Rose.

  The girl sat on the seat directly across from Emily’s berth. She was leaning forward, elbows resting on splayed knees. Her eyes were wide and glittering, unfocused. Her dress was rumpled, her blond hair all askew.

  The second thing Emily saw were Rose’s guns.

  A revolver was clutched in each of her dainty white hands. Pulling the hammers back, Rose lifted the guns and leveled them at Emily.

  “Buon giorno, Miss Edwards,” Rose said, her voice accented in lilting Italian. “Pleasant dreams?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rose’s Thorns

  Emily’s eyes darted around the compartment. Stanton stood with his back to the door, as if he were holding it shut with the weight of his body. His head was drooped; he stared at the floor. His green eyes were narrowed slits.

  “Mr. Stanton?” Emily ventured. She looked at the girl. “Rose?”

  “Not at the moment,” Rose drawled, the strange new accent making her words lazy. “I have her body for the time being.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes.

  “This body belong to Rose Hibble. Indeed, most of the time it is inhabited by that silly little girl. Except when I need to use her.”

  Emily still stared.

  “I see you are confuse. It is a common reaction.” Rose stood, giving the courtliest bow possible in the limited space. “My name is Grimaldi. Antonio Pietro Grimaldi. Or at least, that was my name, when I have a body of my own. But that was many years ago, and there have been so many names and bodies since then.” Rose—or Grimaldi—separated each word carefully, seeming to take pleasure in the act of speech. The girl touched a pendant that hung at her throat, a smooth brown nut that looked like a buckeye mounted in an ornate gold setting. “This, actually, is all there is of me. Here, in this uchawi pod, is where my spirit is remain attached. But I have learned to ride the bodies of humans. They are my mounts, my steeds. I use them to hunt.”

  “What do you hunt?” Emily said, knowing the answer but wishing she didn’t.

  “People.” Grimaldi’s voice caressed the word lovingly. “People for who other people will pay money.”

  Emily swallowed hard. She looked past Rose at Stanton. She watched desperately for any sign of a reaction, but he just stood, eyes fixed on the floor. Emily looked back to Rose. The cheerful spark in the girl’s blue eyes had been replaced with distant coldness and a formless malice.

  “You’re a Manipulator.” Emily suddenly remembered what Stanton had said about emancipated spirits who jumped from body to body, losing more of their moral compass with each transference. He’d said they were rare. Leave it to their luck to run into one.

  “If you like to call me that,” Grimaldi said. “But I prefer to be called what I am. Bounty hunter.”

  “What have you done to Mr. Stanton?”

  “It is nothing. A minor compulsion. Compulsions, they are my specialty. It is so much easier to transport people when they don’t even know they are being transported. When they are bind by chains they do not see or understand.” Grimaldi paused. “You remember the Eye-Opener I give him? I hid in there a skeleton key that unlocks the will of the one who drinks it. Once I have him, I have you.” Rose’s lips curled into a sneer. “Because you will do whatever he tell you to do.”

  Emily pressed her lips together tightly.

  “Carissima mia, how disapproving you look.” Grimaldi laughed. “But I hear what you do to that man in Lost Pine. Forcing him to love you—what is this but a kind of compulsion?”

  Rose’s body shuddered from head to heel. She was fighting to regain control of herself, but it was futile. When she spoke again, it was still Grimaldi’s smooth voice that came from her lips.

  “Most Warlocks keep up a constant defense against such hostile magic.” Grimaldi regarded Stanton with a lazy smirk. “But I am able to sneak it past him because he was asleep.” Then Grimaldi paused thoughtfully. “But it do not work on you. Very unusual. Very unusual indeed.”

  “So you work for Caul.” Emily hurried to change the subject. That Grimaldi didn’t know about the stone was something, at least.

  “Caul hire me,” Grimaldi said. “He offer me a thousand dollar for each of you. But I am not take you to Caul. There are others who want you. Others who will pay ten times more.”

  “Who?” Emily breathed.

  “They are call the Sini Mira,” Grimaldi said. “Sons of the Earth.”

  Sons of the Earth.

  Something must have passed across Emily’s face when she heard the words, for Grimaldi peered at her with close interest. “You know of these?”

  “No.” Emily lied. Komé had s
aid the Sons of the Earth were waiting for her. That she must go to them. Surely the Holy Woman couldn’t have meant this? That this body-jumping bounty hunter—this Manipulator—was to take her to them?

  Emily noticed that Rose’s body was shivering harder now. A miserable tear streaked a path down her dirty face.

  “And are you going to let Rose go?” Emily demanded. “Once you’ve delivered us?”

  “Oh, of course I will let Rose go!” Grimaldi’s voice was slimy with pretended kindness. “Her body has amuse me, but I ride her since Promontory, and carissima Rosa, she grow so tired. Soon, her mind will be broken, and then she will be just a lump of meat. It does not do for a huntsman to ride a beaten horse. So I will take a new body.” Grimaldi eyed Stanton. “His body.”

  Emily saw a shudder of revulsion pass over Stanton’s entire frame.

  “Like hell you will.” Emily knew she had only one chance. She launched herself at Rose with a wildcat cry, knocking the girl’s body to the floor of the compartment, grabbing for the uchawi pod at her throat. Stanton stared down at them from his position by the door, his eyes fixed and glazed, his hands clenched in fists.

  “Bind her, Warlock!” Grimaldi screamed at Stanton. “Use your magic, hold her!”

  Stanton did not move, just clenched his fists even tighter.

  Rose had Emily’s arms pinned at her side, but Emily worked one free, reaching up, fingers searching for the uchawi pod. The blond girl was heavier, her muscles strong from farm work, but Emily was strong, too. She grabbed a handful of Rose’s now-loose hair, jerking her head down.

  “Bind her, Warlock!” Grimaldi shrieked again. “I command you. Do it now!”

  “No,” Stanton choked. “No magic.”

  Rose rolled swiftly up over Emily’s body, straddling her. With a ferocious cry, she brought her fist down hard into Emily’s face—twice, three times. Emily fell back, stunned; the world spun and shuddered.

  “Warlock, I command you!” Grimaldi’s voice became vast and awful; Rose’s hand clutched at the uchawi pod around her throat. Stanton winced, throwing his hands up over his head.

  “No magic!” he screamed, his voice edged with agony.

  Then, Emily saw it. Tucked underneath one of the seats was Rose’s flowered carpetbag. Even ridden by a body-jumping bounty hunter, the girl wouldn’t leave her treasured books behind. Emily reached for the heavy bag and grasped the rattan handles. She swung it up, smashing it against the side of Rose’s head. Rose toppled. Emily swung herself over the girl’s body, using the carpetbag like a bludgeon, bringing it down again and again. Blind, heart thrashing, she hardly knew what she was doing.

  Finally, she stopped, and Rose lay still. Emily grabbed the revolvers from where they’d fallen, used the side of a seat to pull herself to her feet. She cocked the revolvers, pointed them down at Rose. Blood streamed from her nose; she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  “Kill her!” Stanton bellowed, his eyes shifting and churning with strange confusion. “Kill her, for God’s sake!”

  “It’s not Rose’s fault!”

  With a roar, Stanton grabbed her and threw open the door, pulled her out of the compartment. They careened down the hall, into the vestibule. There was the thunder of clattering wheels, the hot inferno blast of steam rising up from the train’s brakes.

  Stanton wrapped his arms tightly around her body.

  “Hold on to me,” he said.

  And then they jumped.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Cockatrice

  They fell hard on the small gravel of the siding, crashing through scrub and dead weeds. They must have finally stopped, Emily supposed, for she could very clearly see the ground on which they had landed and it wasn’t moving.

  Stanton climbed to his feet, legs trembling. He swayed, holding his head, the heels of his palms pressing hard into his eyes.

  “Knife,” he muttered. “I need a knife.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the misprision blade, and slid it open with a hissing snick. Then he looked up at Emily, his face wild with fury.

  “Get away from me!” he screamed at her, sweeping the air with his arm. “Far away!”

  She scrambled away from him, turning to watch him sink to his knees on the train tracks. With swift brutality, he slashed the sharp edge of the misprision blade over each of his wrists. She watched with horror as he clenched and unclenched his hands, spurting arterial blood pooling around his knees. He barked a loud, resonant command and the bleeding stopped.

  Rubbing his hands together, he drew strange glyphs in the spilled blood, chanting guttural magic in a language she had never heard him use before. The words were not clear clipped Latin but something else—something far older, harsh and cruel, rich with acrimony and malice.

  As he chanted, power surged around him. The wind whipped the tall dry grass alongside the tracks. Emily drew back even farther, clutching her right hand to her chest as she watched a black thing rising from his spilled blood—a small black thing like a writhing leech. With bared teeth, Stanton seized a large piece of stone and began bashing the thing, crushing it into a pulp. The thing squealed.

  “Bastard!” Stanton screamed, as he brought the rock down again and again. “Oily, stinking bastard!”

  He beat at it until only a greasy stain remained, then threw the rock away from himself with an angry cry. He slumped over the smeared blood, breathing hard through clenched teeth.

  Emily watched him for a long time. When she approached him, her steps were tentative crunches on the gravel. She touched his shoulder. There was a large rip in the shoulder of his coat through which torn and abraded skin showed.

  “That … thing …” Stanton stammered. “In my own mind. Filthy, vicious … I would have used magic on you! I would have …”

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  He was silent for a long time. Breathing.

  “I cleansed myself. I had to do it before Rose had a chance to wake up.” He touched the blood around his knees, pressed his palms into it heavily. “It was the only way.”

  Emily looked at the crimson splashed all around him, at the garish blotches streaking his face and arms.

  “What … kind of magic was that?” she asked, aware of the smallness of her own voice.

  Stanton said nothing. His jaw was clenched.

  “I’ve never seen you work that kind of magic before,” Emily said.

  “It’s none of your business,” he growled.

  “But—”

  “It’s nothing,” Stanton said, with a horrible force that made Emily shudder.

  “We should get away from here, Mr. Stanton,” she said quickly, not wanting to hear him speak in that voice ever again. “It’s not safe here.”

  “It’s not safe anywhere,” Stanton said, closing his eyes. He made no move to stand.

  The bleeding had slowed, but his wrists were still oozing, sticky crusting rivulets flowing over his fingers. Bending, Emily tore fabric from the hem of her skirt, then knelt before him. Carefully, she took his hands, examining the cuts. They were not deep; they seemed to be healing even as she looked at him. She began bandaging them anyway. He took her hands midmovement. He took her by the arms and pulled her close. She felt his heart thrashing in his chest. He smelled of sweat and blood and creosote.

  “Thank you.” His voice resonated against her ear, his breath hot on her skin. The heat from his body beat against her in waves, but still she shivered.

  “You only ever thank me when I save your life,” she murmured.

  He lifted his gory arms and took her face between his hands. With his thumbs, he smoothed the swelling places where Rose’s fists had landed. Then he pressed his mouth hard against hers. His lips were hot and feverish; she felt the brush of his stubble against her cheek. She leaned into him, kissing him back, suddenly remembering all the times that she’d wanted desperately to kiss him but didn’t know it. She felt light and translucent, like a paper lantern lit from within.

&nb
sp; She felt his hands slide down over her waist. The touch made her breath tremble, blood rising to choke her. He pulled her closer, until the whole length of her body rested against his. The kisses became slower and softer. She could feel the ugly power of the blood magic fading from around him. Finally it was him she was kissing, not the anger and pain that had possessed him. But almost as soon as she realized this, he pushed her back gently and let his forehead rest against hers.

  “No, don’t stop,” she said, her body flushed from crown to toe. “I mean … you don’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do.” He rolled to the side and climbed to his feet. He fumbled with the bandages hanging around his wrists, wrapping them tight. “I most certainly do.”

  “Mr. Stanton …”

  “Come on,” he said, not looking at her. “We have to go.”

  They struck out on a dusty frontage that soon veered from the tracks to cut arrow-straight through vast swaths of farmland—freshly plowed fields that showed the roots of turned-under winter cover crops. They walked in silence as the day grew hotter, the sun beating against their backs, the whirring shrieks of cicadas saturating the heavy air.

  Emily hung back, walking well behind Stanton, staring fixedly into the clouds of dust that rose from her heavy boots with every step.

  She was not sure what exactly had happened.

  A Manipulator and strange sinister magic and … She touched a hand to her cheek. There were streaks of dried blood there, where his long fingers had touched her face.

  No, she wasn’t sure exactly what had happened at all.

  Or why she felt safer with her hands on the revolvers she’d taken from Rose. They weighted her pockets and swayed against her legs. She kept stroking the hammers with her thumbs.

  When they came to a crossroads where the road split off into four cardinal directions, Stanton stood squinting up at the signpost for a long time. If there had been signs on it at one point, they had long since been torn down.

  “Cynic Mirror,” he said. “Sini Mira.”