The unnamed nodded and turned to the assassins. “Speak to the objects, if you wish.” She had clearly become their spokesperson.
Kite watched as the girls sifted through each stone and toy and metal contraption. She looked at the new girls, the runaways who had abandoned their mothers to fight for freedom. She felt a little in awe of their rebellion.
The gentle hum of insect wings rubbing together made its way to Kite’s ears, and she turned to see one girl who had hung back, uninterested in forging a bond with something that did not live in her blood. Kite’s eyes brightened at the body before her — all muscle and sinew and tendon. Muscular biceps and thick thighs. A powerful body. Kite’s eyes shifted upward, catching the steel eyes that had no pupils but seemed to glow with an inner light. Then the assassin turned slightly, and the swords strapped to her back took Kite’s breath away —
Thousands of iridescent insect wings, like a stained-glass window in a cathedral, only with more venom. Hundreds of Phillips-head screws and broken bottles — green, brown, and blue. A mosaic of death. A work of art.
“You’re the Heir.” The girl’s eyes met Kite’s.
“For a little while longer,” Kite agreed. “Your design is ingenious. Artistic. I’ve never seen anything — anyone — like it. Who was your mother-maker?”
The daughter hesitated. “I’d rather not speak her name.”
Kite nodded. “Names have power. I understand.” Her eyes lingered on a dragonfly wing at the sword tip. A familiar smell hung around the daughter, and Kite tried to remember —
A bloodcurdling cry from behind her caught Kite’s attention like a butterfly in a net, and she turned to see Clytemnestra wrestling with another child over a piece of chain mail woven from candy wrappers and aluminum foil.
“I saw it first!” whined the Warlord.
“I got it first!” yelled the boy.
The chain mail wrenched itself away from both of their greedy claws and affixed itself to one of the junkmade monsters that were assembling themselves from the flotsam.
Clytemnestra stuck her tongue out at the other child, who threw a spitball at her.
Kite turned back, but the daughter was gone. Her signature scent still lingered in the air, and now she could recognize it.
The daughter smelled of espresso and rusted nails.
Forty-Two
THE HEALER
Tav sprinkled the dirt of another world over the ground, and Eli used her knives to mark out a circle to try to contain their cut. They wanted to make a small incision in the material of the universe, not another bleeding wound that would only quicken the Earth’s death.
Eli rubbed one eye with the back of her hand, smearing dirt across her forehead. She was sweating, and her body had started fading again, the light of the Heart under her rib cage pulsing with anticipation of the return. She turned to Tav.
“Do you need me to —”
“I don’t think so,” Tav cut her off. They had started to understand that Eli’s magic was a limited resource. And unlike most powers, they weren’t sure that Eli’s would regenerate. They would save her magic until they really needed it. “You’re here, I’m here, and so is part of the Hedge-Witch. It should open for us without you having to use the Heart.”
“Okay.” Relief frayed the edges of the word.
“Ready?”
“Never.”
Eli and Tav smashed all the plants at once. The flowerpots shattered on the rock, shards of pottery covering the ground. Dirt on their ankles and knees.
A silence, a breath, and then a shoot of bluegreen uncurled from a crack in the stone beneath their feet. From the shrapnel of pottery emerged a small forest of vines and leaves, reaching upward.
Trying to get home.
“Hold on to me,” said Tav. Eli gripped their arm. Together they watched the enchanted succulents breach the sky, tearing through cloud and atmosphere and the laws of physics.
Tav brought their mouth to Eli’s ear. When they spoke, they were rewarded with the assassin’s shiver at the feeling of their breath on her body. “You know, the Hedge-Witch was right.” Mischief danced in their eyes. “You really have changed.”
“Oh, fuck —”
The doorway cut her off.
Forty-Three
THE HEIR
The world trembled. Kite felt the earth shaking in excitement, felt it shiver and quake and laugh. Felt the lungs of the world strain for breath, gasping for air. Felt the blood of the world, every drop of water, begin to boil.
Kite could feel it in the small of her back, in the cycle of magic that slipped through the fine hairs of her arms and along the curve of her calves.
The smell of burnt sugar, and warmth like honey flowing over her body, flowing into her very essence. The bluegreen lights that twinkled under her skin brightened.
Her hair started growing, lapping up sustenance like a plant photosynthesizing.
Excitement surged through Kite.
Eli was back, and she was in danger.
Kite had to find her. Her hair whipped around her neck and Kite’s eyes danced with light as she sought out the Warlord at the centre of the war party.
Clytemnestra had felt it, too. She was wearing only one shoe and a helmet forged of candle wax and barbed wire. She didn’t even try to stop a tiny child from running off with her other shoe. Her gaze met Kite’s.
“She’s here,” said Kite. “Take me to her.”
“Who?” Clytemnestra began combing her hair with a plastic fork. Her hair flowed, long and golden and thick, brushing the floor.
“The whole world has to know the Heart has returned. We’ve all felt it. The Coven will be coming for us.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Clytemnestra rolled her eyes and stuck her grubby hands in pockets filled with sweets, Barbie doll shoes, empty wrappers, and crayon stubs. “They already have.”
A flash of gold. The signature scent of overripe plums and sugared dates. Kite caught the card that Clytemnestra tossed from the bottom of her pocket.
Dread twisted in her liver like a worm on a hook. The Beast whimpered and pressed against Kite’s legs.
