aging body.
“About Midheaven, Zane,” I said, more softly this time.
“Why are you asking?”
“Why aren’t you answering?” I shot back, before sighing and running a hand over the top of my head. “Look, I understand you’ve taken an oath of omerta that’ll probably result in some sort of terrible death if you were to break it, but I’m not asking you to divulge anything that isn’t already widely known on both sides of the Zodiac. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little late to this game, but I can’t really afford to be red-shirted. The doppelganger said she needs a word, some sort of proper noun from me, but she can’t tell me what it is because it would break some tandem law in
Zane blew out four perfect smoke rings as he considered that, licking his lips as he watched them, waiting until they’d all dissipated. Then his eyes again found mine. “In astrology, Midheaven is where our actions reflect our true selves. Circumstances naturally arise there to-how do I put it?-bring your deeds into alignment with the seat of your emotions. Ultimately, you gain the trust of those around you, as well as reputation and fame.”
“Sounds like a nice place to visit,” I commented.
“But you wouldn’t want to live there,” he said immediately, and returned to the bed, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “See, in the Zodiac’s mythos, Midheaven was created for one of the twin First Mothers.”
I shivered at that. A twin. That at least paralleled the Tulpa’s words. And a woman…a “she” had told the doppelganger to come to me, that I was smart. That I would help. “Go on.”
“The First Mothers were sisters, complete opposites, and eventual enemies. The original manual details what happened between them, but since most cities’ manuals are long lost, including ours, the story has been passed on orally. Obviously there are a hundred different versions about what caused the rift, but what’s important-and what remains unchanged in all tellings-is that one sister was banished to a sort of purgatory, a place where things get twisted. If you’re at all divided in your ambitions, unsure of what you really want, it can be sensed in that other world. Used against you. The worst thing you can do is cross into Midheaven with a divided heart or mind.”
“Why is this considered a myth?” Because, like a chord being plucked inside me, it rang true. I knew it like I knew my own name.
“Maybe because nobody who had ever crossed into Midheaven has returned.”
Except for the doppelganger, I thought with certainty.
“See, you need a soul to enter Midheaven. If your theory is right, and the doppelganger originated there, then she’s made of the same material stuff as that world and can exit at will, but-”
“The Tulpa can’t follow her there.”
“He can’t even access the normal portals. He was created, not birthed, so he’s-”
“Soulless,” I whispered. So was she. Thus the breaches in lieu of regular portals. I bit my lip, mind turning to Xavier. Was Helen forcing the mask on the Tulpa’s mortal ally so he could steal Xavier’s soul energy for himself, then follow the doppelganger over? I ran the theory by Zane. “Because the only way to get to her there is with soul energy, right?”
“Another person’s soul sacrifice is sufficient for passage, yes.” He slanted a look at me then. “So is a stolen aura.”
“A stolen aura,” I repeated slowly as all the warmth of the cognac fled to my toes. “You thought I was going to…with Jas…”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know. I still don’t. All I know is the last time an agent took off with a changeling’s aura, the child went missing from this plane.”
He meant dead. “It was Jaden Jacks, wasn’t it?”
Zane shook his head immediately. “The answer’s in the storeroom, but you’ll have to find it yourself.”
“All right.” I sighed, not sure I even wanted to do that.
“But Archer? You should keep in mind that just because this doppelganger is an enemy of the Tulpa’s doesn’t mean she’s a friend of yours. Doppelgangers can’t spring from nothing. She’s pure energy, but it’s energy that has been pooled. She smells like you, and alternately targets and helps you, which is the mark of an opportunist. Something or someone has set this thing in motion.”
“One of the First Mothers?”
Zane shrugged. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t trust her. And I suggest you don’t let her get that final viewing of you either. Hide. Anywhere you can.”
I made a face. Like I needed him to tell me that. But I couldn’t hide. I had a city to save.
“Are we done?” he said, turning away to stub out his cigar. “Can I eat my pot pie now?”
I rose, and though nothing had changed, the room appeared entirely different from when I’d walked in. This wasn’t the pitiful apartment of some man-child who spent his time, Pan-like, in the company of children. Zane was imprisoned here, trapped with his visions until he could foist them off on someone else, an old man whose generation had moved on without him…who’d found the elixir of life, and knew it to be bitter. I’d never look at the droll shop owner the same way again.
I’d only gotten halfway back to the bathroom and the skylight I’d used to break in when I drew up short. “Zane. What’s supposed to be in the original manual that will release you from your duties?”
He looked at me like it should be obvious. “Their names, Archer. The true names of the First Mothers. Names have power, and if I have theirs, that power will shift to me.”
Because he’d speak them aloud, and like the mantra the Tulpa had given me, like prayers, like spoken thought, there would be energy, alchemy, and power in the spoken word.
“So what are you going to do now? I saw that your conduit was stolen, you know. It’s not like you have a lot of options.” Despite his caustic words, I caught the bald curiosity in his expression. It made me smile grimly, because the next time I saw him-in the shop, surrounded by children-he’d pretend we’d never had this conversation. “I’d tell you but…you’ll see anyway.”
I leaped back up through the skylight, and quickly dropped into the alley opposite the street, head ringing with all my new knowledge…and no idea what to do with it.
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t include stealing human auras to attain Midheaven, and my greatest desire. But would it entail working with the Tulpa?
All I knew for sure was that it was a sick world when siding with the leader of the underworld looked like the lesser of two evils. But I’d worry about that later. Right now I had a benefit to attend, and a long-lost boyfriend to reclaim.
There was a recurring dream I had in the early years after my rape. In it I was always cradling a child as Ben and I sat in the middle of a dried lakebed, alone for miles but for the cracked earth surrounding us like dusty, peeling tiles. But that baby was deformed. When swaddled, all I could see were these perfectly formed facial features; a tuft of dark hair whipping up from her crown, a pink bow-pinched mouth, and one brow that winged up in either concentration or confusion. But loosen the swaddling, and the child literally fell apart. She was a fragile china doll that’d been dropped, thin shards of fine porcelain chunks jumbled in the center of that blanket. At first I was afraid of her. Every move I made caused her to rattle…and me to bleed. If I tried to coo or smile at her, she’d squinch up that perfect little face, and a tiny limb would flail up to nick me, scoring my face from the corner of my mouth to my ear.
But as the months went by, I began to ignore the pain-or at least get used to it-and I pieced the dream child back together, over and over again. A shard here to reveal the tender curve of a downy soft shoulder, or an aligning of pieces that had the chubby fingers suddenly snapping into place, gripping mine so the edges dug into my skin and blood ran into that bowed hungry mouth.
The baby changed in time; sure, she was still sharp and brittle-a face only a mother could love, I remember thinking-and she was beautiful in the way broken glass is as it catches the light of the morning sun, but most importantly, she was whole. And the very last time I’d had the dream, though bloodied and stinging from her sharp little kisses, I was whole as well.
It was when I stopped having that dream that I knew I would survive. It’d taken time, but the broken pieces of me, like that child, were put back together too, though I’d also become a mosaic, a mishmashing of parts from the earlier incarnation of me.
The only person who didn’t change in all the months of dreaming was Ben. He simply sat beside me, smiling
