Page 64

I wake up in Sitri’s bed, morning light splashing across the room. Birds chirp outside serenely. My dress has been removed and I’m sporting Sitri’s black fluffy robe instead.

A herb-like smell fills the room and I hear Sitri rustling about in the other room. My heart leaps with excitement. He’s still here. He’s almost never here when I wake up. I’m halfway to the bedroom door when I notice how bare the walls look. The memories slip over my eyes and engulf me, some of them more lucid than others. I freeze, drawing in one breath after another. The mess of the previous night has been cleared away, the fissures in the walls sealed, but the walls are bare. As if the wall decor wasn’t worth salvaging.

I…don’t know what to do. I’ll let Sitri decide. It was his aunt. I stumble out of the bedroom and linger in the doorway.

Sitri looks up from where he’s chopping stems at the table. He immediately sets the knife down and brushes his hands clean. “Hey,” he says softly, eyes scanning me warily. He’s not sure what to expect from me. I don’t know what to expect of me anymore.

His eyes are heavily bagged and bloodshot. There’s a collection of vials at the end of the table of whatever it is he’s been brewing. He picks one up, walks over, and holds it out. “I would like for you to take this…if you don’t mind.”

I narrow my eyes at the honey-colored liquid. One of his brows inches up with my skepticism. “It’s something to help you stay calm.”

I extend a single nod, take the vial, and toss it back. My throat is sore and stiff, and I grimace.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I say, almost inaudibly. I’m not fine but I feel the effects of the potion immediately. There's nothing like the euphoria from the potion last night. There’s no buzz, but that deep sorrow loosens. Like everything is tolerable, and the dull pulse of the dāemon slips into the background. Sated. Blank.

“Fine? You don’t have any…pain?”

I swallow the thickness in my throat. “No.”

“As in none? With your…um, demon?”

“No more than usual.” My cheeks heat. It feels surreal to be discussing this most shameful thing I’ve kept hidden for so many years.

“Right.” His brow furrows as he continues staring at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. I creep forward and sit at the edge of the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest.

He settles on the opposite end. “Are you…ready to talk? Or we can wait awhile if you’d rather just—“ He breaks off uncertainly, checking my face for clues.

“What will you do with me?”

“I’m going to train you.”

Train me? Now, without emotions clouding my view, my brain analyzes the fuzzy memories, the things he said the night before. “I’m not a Magi.”

He heaves a sigh. “Okay, let’s unravel that a little because I know all of this is quite a lot.”

“I’m not a Magi,” I say stubbornly. He opens his mouth and closes it. Opens it again. He’s wearing only his short black braies and my eyes flicker over his bare chest of their own volition, remembering what the skin felt like under my hands. But after everything that’s happened, that will likely…never happen again. I turn my head toward the opposite wall. He should really wear more clothes.

“What makes you so certain you’re not?”

“I wasn’t born like this, Sitri. The dāemon hit me and attached to my soul. I felt it,” I say, idly running a hand over my chest.

“I have a theory about that.”

Slowly, I turn my gaze back to him.

“Theurgynate. The fact any magic came out of you in that place is a testament to how powerful you are. You must’ve grown somewhat of a tolerance to it. But that was likely years in the making. I think when you fell…that was you. Your magic. The first time your magic finally revealed itself after years of being… poisoned ,” he says distastefully.

My brows furrow.

“I think your hair and the mark on your chest is evidence of how living behind the Wall for all these years as a Magi has affected you.” He scratches at his nose. “I wouldn’t have thought that would be possible. Which is why I was so certain that…” He trails off, biting at the side of his lip. “You said it’s gotten worse, yes? Since when?”

I give him a blank look.

“Since you came here?”

I nod reluctantly.

“Because you are finally free of the theurgynate, Pan.”

I shake my head. “The dāemon doesn’t respond to my will. I can’t control it.”

“It does. It reacts to your emotions, does it not? Especially when your emotions are heightened?”

“It has a knack for timing,” I retort, but I know it's a feeble argument. It does worsen with my emotions. He snorts softly. “I can’t control it,” I repeat dejectedly.

“I’m going to teach you.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a Magi, Sitri. I’m…a nought.”

He rises swiftly, slides one knee to the couch to lean over me, and I shrink back.

“I felt you, Pandora. Your magic. You are powerful,” he says eyes growing wide. “I am a Magi.” He taps a finger against his chest. “Do you think I don’t know what a Magi feels like? What magic feels like?”

“You didn’t know…this whole time.”

“I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “I was blind. I should’ve known when Div took you as his master. He attaches himself to power. You are power . Why do you think the henbane called us to each other? How do you think you brewed the leaf of moly? Because you are a Magi, Pandora.”

The words start to crack through my defenses, and my lips part. But some still stand strong. “Sitri…the dāemon isn’t me though.” I feel a flush working up my face, and I dip my head. “It has its own will. I can feel it. It feels…angry. Like it wants to destroy things.”

He chuckles. He chuckles? I draw my head back up as he slides his knee off the couch and paces a few steps back. “I’m starting to understand why you didn’t tell me about this.” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“First off, it’s not a demon or whatever the fuck has been drilled into your head to make you believe something is wrong with you.” His voice softens. “So stop calling it that. Magic is a…need, Pan. Like,” he lifts a palm, eyes gliding over the room. “Hunger or…sex. It needs release, and you’ve spent twenty-three years denying yourself of that. You are understandably frustrated.”

“Sitri…”

“Pandora…” he imitates. He flashes me a wide grin, tongue skirting the bottom of those two crooked teeth. Isn’t he mad at me? How can he look at me like that after what I’ve done? Even the potion isn’t enough to keep my chest from squeezing. I look away. He retreats back to the table to continue working through whatever concoction he’s brewing. When I peek back up at him, his face has gone somber.

I pull myself to my feet and begin pacing the chambers. “How?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, scrutinizing me again. “You are very strong.”

“Syra isn’t like me,” I argue. “She’s my twin. If I was a Magi wouldn’t she be too?”

He shakes his head, stuffing his hands through his hair. “I don’t know, pet. I just know that you are.”

“I’m…a Magi? I whisper, trailing a hand over my bottom lip.

“Undeniably.”

I continue pacing, pulling strands of hair into my hands and tugging them to my chin, feeling like my entire world has been flipped on its head. I don’t know…anything. “That doesn’t make any sense! What does this even mean?”

“It means…I have to teach you how to control it, and you can’t expose yourself.”

“You don’t want people to know?”

“No one can know,” he says gravely.

“You want me to keep pretending to be a nought?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, sorry, but they wouldn’t understand. I didn’t understand…and I’m your ally here. And you must remain my punishment, remember?”

“My ally ?” I repeat. The word feels even more bitter than punishment. Is that what we are—allies?

“Yes, I’m your ally,” he murmurs.

He busies himself back in his brewing, removing the cauldron of honeyed liquid from the flames. “I’m making you a couple of things that will help. Nepenthe if your magic becomes too difficult to tolerate, and valeriana is a sedative in case you…really need it. But I really don’t want you taking nepenthe regularly during the day because we need to start training in the evenings. It’s important you learn as quickly as possible.”

My face pales. So I don’t kill anyone else.

“Anyhow, I really need to get going…” he says, looking up at the clock.

“You’re leaving?” Of course, he’s leaving. He always leaves, but today? Now? It feels absurd. I’m going to spend my day alone? After…everything?

“Still trying to catch up with the last…interference.”

When he was wounded….just a few days ago. It feels like…ages ago with everything that’s happened.

“I’m leaving this out in case you really need it, but do try not to take it in the evenings because it does dull your magic, and we need that to train. We’ll start tonight.”

I just nod.

I don’t notice the knives have been removed until some time after Sitri leaves. Every single one. Must’ve slipped the one he’d been using in his cloak. Not just the knives. Half of the vials on the shelf are missing, too. Anything remotely dangerous.

Maybe there should be happiness in this new revelation. I’m not possessed. I do not have a dāemon attached to my soul. I’ve been a Magi this whole time. I’m not a nought. But I don’t find any relief. Not in the way it’s been discovered. It doesn’t actually change anything for me…especially since Sitri doesn’t want anyone to know. When the potion wears off…I just feel hollow. Sitri doesn’t return in time for dinner.

“Ready to do this?” he asks when he finally strides in late that night before he’s even called out a greeting.

He unclasps his cloak from around his neck and settles himself on the coffee table directly in front of me. I straighten reluctantly, depositing the book I wasn’t really reading onto the couch beside me. I narrow my eyes. “What are we going to do?”

He leans back on his palms, brow furrowing. “I need you to harness your magic. Exert some control over it.”

“I can’t control the dāemon, Sitri.”

“Stop calling it that,” he snaps.

I cross my arms across my chest. “Does it really matter what I call it?”

“Yes, it matters. You need to re-frame this in your mind. You are not possessed. There’s nothing wrong with you. It is you . Your magic, and you’re going to learn to control it. I’m going to help you. Do you feel it right now?”

“I always feel it.” At least almost always.

“Where is it?”

“It’s everywhere. It moves.”

His brow furrows even further. “It’s always moving? Just as it was last night?” I nod. “Where is it now?”

“It moves, Sitri,” I say, throwing up my hands. “It’s everywhere.”

“Tell me where it’s moving.”

I scrutinize his face, his enlarged pupils. “You look…fucked up.”

“Focus, pet.”

“You got rid of the knives. You told me you wouldn’t do that.”

“Things change. Tell me where your magic is.”

I slap my head to the back of the couch with another ragged breath, letting my eyelids drift shut as I focus on the dāemon roving inside of me. Its movements have grown more erratic in just the last minute. It quickens even further when I try to focus on it. Lifting a single finger, I track it through me so Sitri can see how it’s moving. “Neck, left ankle, shoulder, right calf, scalp…” I do this for a few minutes, but he remains silent, and I break off. When I open my eyes, he’s frowning at me. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing… it’s just peculiar.”

“Yours isn’t like this?”

“No, my magic remains pretty well dormant until I call upon it. Sometimes, it demands release, but that’s more like an itch.” His frown deepens. “It’s like your magic has broken away from you somehow. Was it always like that?”

I bite at the inside of my lip, trudging through long-forgotten memories I’d rather leave in the past. Waking up after the fall, I felt…different. But the dāemon wasn’t as it is now. Not always moving, only surfacing here and then. The first time, it broke something. And the first time something broke in front of other people. “I think…it got worse,” I admit.

He nods slowly. “Can you try to hold it still?”

“I can’t,” I say firmly.

“Can you try?”

“There’s no point.”

“I’m just asking for you to try.”

Try Pandora. You hold it. You hold it. You hold it. Syra’s words echoing in my head are bittersweet. I miss her. But it reminds me too much of when the Priest and the Grand Prioress were trying to rid me of the dāemon.

I collapse back on the sofa and close my eyes in concentration. I track it up my arm to my hip and back down to my hand. My fingers twitch slightly as I make my move, pouncing my will around it like a cat after a mouse. It slips past me, lancing down my collarbone to my knee. My forehead wrinkles as I try again and again, only succeeding in ratcheting up the intensity.

I center all of my attention on it, and for a moment, I coax it into lingering in my chest. Satisfaction spears me when it stills. It begins to throb, each beat more painful than the last, and I let it go. “I can’t,” I say finally. “I held it for a moment—“

“Good,” he barks.

“But it hurts .” When I open my eyes, he’s studying me, but he doesn’t really see me . He slicks his tongue against his teeth, reaches forward, and settles a hand on my knee. “I want to help you.”

I stare at his hand. Only a casual touch, but my skin turns warm and tingly. My mind ventures to places I’ve been purposely avoiding. All the ways his hands clutched and caressed and stroked my body. Blood blooms across my cheeks, and then I finally translate the meaning of those words. I bolt off the couch and away from him.

“No, Sitri!” I pace backward toward the bedroom, my face paling. “I could kill you!”

He has the audacity to roll his eyes. “You’re not going to kill me, pet.”

“How can you say that? When I very nearly did.”

“You didn’t, and you won’t. If you were, you would’ve already done it. I’m going to be careful. I know what to expect this time. I’ll block whatever your magic throws at me.”

“No, Sitri, absolutely not.” My throat tightens. “I’m not putting you in danger like that.”

He twists on the coffee table, propping himself up with his elbows resting on his knees. “Pandora, do you want to remain like this forever?”

The dāemon pangs inside of me. “Of course not. I never wanted to be like this. But I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, trailing off into a whisper.

“You should,” he mutters.

“Why would I want to hurt you?”

“I will block you,” he says firmly. “We’re never going to sort this out if we don’t try anything. You’re not going to hurt me. Just try Pandora. That’s all I’m asking is for you to fucking try .”

I nervously settle back on the couch in front of him.

“I want to try to help you hold onto it.”

“It’ll probably come out.”

“That’s what we want. Can you try to hold it here?” he asks, gesturing to his own chest.

I nod, and he settles his hand back on my thigh. “Ready?” I nod, and the sensation of his magic travels up my leg. It doesn’t feel anything like the sharp pangs of the dāemon. It’s soft and gentle, like a warm glow.

“Your magic feels different than mine.” I lean back into the couch, my eyelids drifting closed as I track the dāemon through my body. It flies through my limbs. As soon as I feel it sear across my chest, I stamp it down. “Okay,” I breathe, voice strained.

His magic travels up my abdomen to the space around my chest, circling slowly. He encloses it around the dāemon, and the sensation of our magic almost touching in my chest feels oddly intense. Vulnerable. I grit my teeth as the dāemon gnaws at me, growing more painful the longer it’s forced into stillness. Sitri’s magic cradles it and prevents it from escaping. I groan as the dāemon burns a hole through my sternum and surges out of me. My body jerks forward with the momentum, and my eyes flash open in alarm.

My heart skips. Sitri lifts a hand as if he’s plucking it from the air. He creates a barrier between him and the dāemon. The couch and the coffee table are pushed apart, wood noisily scraping against wood, and my hair is whipped back from my face with the force.

I breathe heavily, rubbing a hand over my aching chest as the dāemon lashes.

“Good!” Sitri barks eyes wide. “Fuck, you are so strong. I still…don’t understand. Where did you come from?” he mutters before shaking the bleary-eyed expression from his face and eagerly clapping his hands against his thighs. “Let’s do that again.”

I groan internally. Each time, the force displaces the couch and coffee table further apart, and Sitri drags the couch forward so we can do it all over again. And again. And again. Each results in exactly the same outcome. An hour later, my head is pounding. It feels like someone has ripped my chest open and lit it on fire.

“Again,” Sitri demands.

I collapse on the couch, rubbing a hand over my aching chest. “I can’t do anymore,” I say, blinking back tears.

I can tell he’s slightly disappointed, but he retreats. He comes back shortly holding two vials.

“How much?” I ask.

He cocks his head. “Start with a little. If you need more, take more.”

The first one is that honeyed liquid that tastes vaguely of peppermint but the next one is so bitter my jaw quivers.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” he declares.