Eli had never been to Clytemnestra’s chamber, and she fought the urge to give in to curiosity and look around — to rifle through the piles of silk and velvet and Lycra, to run her hands over the glittering diamante bottles of perfume and bubble solution. To steal an oxidized copper button or shoe buckle.
Eli moved closer to the vanity, to the great mirror that reflected back a girl with pure black eyes and knives that sparkled under the light of the lava lamp that perched on the edge of the armoire.
Gasoline and lavender. Traces of Tav. Eli closed her eyes and breathed it in. They had been here. They had stared at their reflection in this mirror as they had dressed for battle.
And then they crossed.
The door had closed behind them, but Eli could feel the seam. It was still healing, still leaking the smell of caramelized fruit and fear. Had Tav purposefully left it open for her to follow? Or was it simply that the fabric of a world with no Heart was thinning and fraying, the edges unravelling? The air felt thinner. Eli felt it would be easy to fall through the living walls and find herself in the forest, or the wastelands. The world was beginning to collapse.
But the Heart was home, if still hindered by a human-magic-machine body, still trapped in the shape of a flawed daughter. It was easy for the Heart to undo the loose and gaping stitches of the most powerful witch in the world.
All Eli had to do was let go, to release herself in every exhale, to fade into light and magic. It was a disappearing act that no one else in the galaxy could do.
The Heart slipped through the fold in the universe and followed the faint trail of smoky purple toward justice — and judgment.
Fifty-Seven
THE HEALER
Kite sat on the throne, her claws curled around alabaster arms made out of shells and pearls and gleaming fish scales.
No, it wasn’t Kite — it was Kite reflected in a warped mirror. Pupil-less eyes a little paler, with a tinge of coral; fingernails and teeth sharpened to deadly points.
But she smelled like the sea.
Tav understood, then, why it was so important to keep Eli away from her. Not just to protect the Heart — the Heart was a beast that hungered for revenge and freedom, that would drink the essence from this beautiful shell without hesitating — but because Eli was a liability.
Eli had been ready to meet an enemy, a monster, a nightmare — but not one that looked like a friend. Not one that took the shape of her lover.
The Witch Lord’s frostbitten lips twisted into a cruel smile. She was enjoying Tav’s discomfort. She must assume the dilated pupils and quickening of their carotid artery was from fear. But Tav was too shocked to be afraid.
Tav found themselves remembering Kite’s touch and shuddered with disgust and desire. The Witch Lord’s hands looked like Kite’s. Would feel like Kite’s. Would taste like Kite’s.
All those years that Eli had pressed her body against Kite’s. Was it all that different from touching the Witch Lord?
Kite’s a different person, Tav told themselves, guilt crawling up their throat. It’s not her fault.
All the pieces were falling into place: what made Kite’s relationship with her mother different from Eli’s; why so few witches had trueborn daughters, and instead cobbled them together out of orange peel and rusted hinges. Kite was not her mother’s child — she was her clone. They shared an essence. Kite was the Witch Lord’s extension and a replacement body. A second skin. A second set of eyes.
The horror of having a daughter so you could use and even steal her body rocked through Tav’s bones like an earthquake, and the taste of rotten fish filled their mouth. Aftertaste of pity. Eli’s mother had been greedy, selfish, and brutal. But a small part of her cared for her daughter. Kite had never been loved by anyone except Eli.
Movement made Tav’s eyes flick from the Witch Lord to her throne, and they realized suddenly that nothing about it was dead — fish and crabs and anemone writhed and twisted, trying to escape the magic net that bound them in service to the Witch Lord. Tav swallowed the sickness in their mouth and felt the darkness settle in their stomach like lead.
“You have been honoured with an invitation to our celebration,” said not-Kite. “Will you not drink with us?”
A figure swathed in white, eyes spinning like pinwheels behind a mask of blood-red silk, carried a thimble crafted from crystal. To the naked eye it appeared empty, but Tav could see the struggling drop of a witch’s essence, greenblack, trapped in the vial. Where was the rest of the witch whose essence had been drained to feed the elite of the world?
They struggled not to visibly react, not to pull away or flinch. They kept their eyes wide open, like their mother when she put in contacts in the morning.
“What are we celebrating?” Tav asked, accepting the crystal, trying not to stare as a thread of acid green, light and airy as cotton candy, curled over the lip of the cup.
“The unification of the City of Eyes. The return of the wayward children to their kin. We feed together, and we will never go hungry.”
As if on cue, a thousand hushed voices repeated, “We feed together, and we will never go hungry.”
Tav nodded. “We feed together, and we will never go hungry.” They raised the vial to their mouth and then stalled. “This glass is empty,” they said, raising one eyebrow. “Did one of your servants get thirsty?”
After a strained moment, like the agony before the snapping of a violin string, not-Kite laughed, a harsh sound like a ship scraping rock. The rest
