Tav revved the engine. “Waiting to grow roots?”
Eli could almost feel the shape of the hilt in her hands, the smooth surface under her rough palm. Grief itched under her skin and made her fingers curl into fists.
“Eli?”
Eli looked up. “I’m coming.” She swung herself up behind Tav and breathed in their familiar scent. She hadn’t fallen apart yet; there was still time.
“Think you can do this?”
Eli leaned forward, a strand of purple hair brushing against her mouth. “Yes,” she breathed. She could feel Tav shiver. Then the bike jumped into action, and they drove closer and closer to the hole at the centre of everything.
Eighteen
THE HEIR
It had begun as a rumour.
Kite knew that every rumour in the City of Eyes was born from a feather of truth, a chipped rhinestone of reality; shiny objects that marked a trail into danger.
Made-daughters disappeared all the time. How did the Coven repurpose the bodies of broken or flawed tools? Eli had been raised on myths that the Heart would devour disobedient girls, but the Coven would never show their preciously guarded secret to a defective daughter. And when Eli had finally touched the Heart they had merged into one. No, that was not where the Coven buried the bodies of their daughters. The graveyard was a secret as well guarded as the recipes for making assassins. But Kite had discovered it.
In her years as a reader, Kite had learned how to listen to silence as well as sound; to understand the turn of a page or the stutter of a wing or the nervous flicker of an essence peeking through skin. Even witches had vulnerabilities if you knew where to look. Even guards and buildings and plants spoke, although not always with tongues.
“You can’t come,” she told the Beast as he gently gnawed on her elbow. “It isn’t safe.” He shook his entire body, sending sparks scattering over stone, and did not let go. She relented. “Stay close,” she told him. He purred.
They were in the library again. The ball of light buzzed around her head.
“Stop that,” she said, swatting it. The light floated away, dimming, and hovered just out of reach.
We could have the best revels in here.
“We can’t bring the children here,” she told Clytemnestra’s essence.
You’re no fun, said the light. You bring me here.
“You have self-control,” said Kite. “But if you damage the books, I’ll extinguish you.”
There’s no need for more threats. The light sulked. But I don’t see why I can’t materialize. This form is so boring. I can’t eat anything. It hovered over a shelf of loose-leaf pages, yellowed with age.
The Beast growled, a low rumbling like a distant thundercloud.
Kite reached out and let the Beast chew on her forearm. He left delicate teeth marks on her wrist, but would never break the skin. “You’re upsetting him,” she scolded.
The light ignored her.
Kite closed her eyes and touched one of the walls. She was struck at first by the absence of a pulse, by the empty deadness of a body whose heart had been ripped out by a clumsy surgeon. It was cold. She shivered, her body trembling with the presence of death that she felt in the building she loved.
It needed the Heart.
Kite held her breath as she pressed her mind and magic deeper into the building, looking for a sign of life. A moment passed, and then another. And then she could feel it again — the buzzing, biting, snapping strands of magic that kept this place alive, that threaded through every stone and brick and petal and strand of hair, woven into a nest of knowledge. She breathed out in relief. It wasn’t dead yet.
But it was angry and in pain. Sadness coloured her vision, and everything went grey.
The Coven was a distrustful creature. Perhaps once it had been open-hearted and willing to love. Kite liked to imagine that it once offered its knowledge and power to any animal or spore or leaf that reached its halls. But the witches had burrowed too deep into stone, had wormed their way into the ancient structure like ants building an underground network. In response, the Coven had become afraid and selfish, hoarding the magic that the witches fed to it, stolen from stars and bodies that had not come willingly.
Once, it might have been easy for the children to walk into the Coven. Once, no one could have been chained under the earth. But there were all kinds of prisons now.
Kite was the bridge. She just hoped that when the children had walked over her and carved out a new place for themselves in the City of Eyes, they wouldn’t forget on whose back their victory had been won.
I’m bored, complained the ball of light. Why are we here?
“You’re forgetting who you are, Clytemnestra,” said Kite. “You’ll have to materialize soon.”
The ball of light ignored her, instead hovering around the Beast. He whined and snapped his jaws at it. The light danced out of reach.
“Stop teasing him.”
You don’t tell me what to do.
Kite sighed. She pulled her hand away from the wall. “I think it will take me to the daughters.”
The Beast stood up, unfurling long wings. They were thin and opaque, like a bat’s wing. She could see the veins stretching across pale skin.
“If Eli comes back, you’ll keep her safe, won’t you?” She looked to the ball of light, black crystals dropping from her eyes.
You were always such a crybaby, the light huffed. She’ll be fine. Are you sure I can’t come? You never let me explore the Coven.
“It has to be me,” said Kite. “The Coven only recognizes one Heir.”
Not for long. The light wavered and then flashed again. Can I do it now?
Kite nodded, more crystals falling onto her
