Chapter Text
When Julian blinked his blurry eyes open the next morning, it was still early, the sun just peeking over the horizon, casting pale green not-light over the guest bedroom. Iris was asleep in his arms, her cheek nestled against his chest; he could feel Asra’s warmth against his back, the steady ocean sound of his deep-sea breath against his skin.
He watched the rare creature in his arms as her shapely shoulders rose with each inhalation, relaxed with each exhale. To him, Iris was achingly beautiful – sloping jaw, high cheekbones, expressive, strong brows framing downturned, deep blue eyes (he was a fool for a pair of dark eyes… that was how he fell for Asra, too), and that sweet, pink mouth. But in her sleep, she was ethereal, her full lips parted, her brow unburdened, her long, dark lashes floating over the softness of her cheeks, her shorn hair wildly ruffled, a halo around her brow in the waking whimper of dawn.
A jumble of emotions shook Julian as he gently pulled her closer into his embrace. She grunted quietly, her voice soft as a dew-strewn spiderweb, as she nuzzled her face into his bare chest before settling back into sleep. He ached as he remembered what Asra had told him the night before, that they had loved each other before; he had always suspected this was true, but even when Iris confirmed that they had known each other so many nights ago, he couldn’t wrap his mind around forgetting the gorgeous woman in front of him.
Now, he would give anything to have those memories back – though his body remembered her, his fingers, his tongue, his lips, his hips, he wanted to remember their conversations, her brilliant ideas, her beautiful observations, her favorite things. He wanted to worship at her feet, to die for her. Again, he felt the familiar urge to flee, the sweltering fear that flooded him instinctually, that he would hurt her and damage her, turn her away from him – it was easier for him to leave, to break his own heart. But when she hummed, wrapped her arms around him, gently thumbed the nip of his waist, pulling him even closer to her, he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from her.
“She’s enchanting, isn’t she?” A sleepy, silken baritone whispered into his ear before warm lips brushed his neck; Asra kissed down the fine knobs of Julian’s spine, one by one by one. “I still can’t believe she’s real.”
“She’s a vision.” Julian whispered. “I don’t deserve her.”
Asra hesitated his descent down Julian’s neck. “Ilya...” he whispered, his voice soft, dripping in sadness, before it simmered over with calm. “Do you still like to play games, Ilya? Be obedient? Follow orders?”
Julian’s body tensed slightly as a familiar desire flooded him at the sound of Asra’s voice; his sexless morning wood surged with heat, twitching heavily against the soft hair of Iris’s mound. He need only let his breath catch as Asra’s teeth grazed against the svelte silhouette of his shoulder, shuddering, desperate.
Asra chuckled, his soft voice echoing darkly through Julian’s body. “You’ve been with Iris...you know she’s insatiable.” He murmured. “You said last night you wanted to make her come over and over again, but can you keep up with her?”
Julian’s throat was dry now, his chest hot, his cock throbbing; he felt Asra’s cock stir against his back, and his flush deepened as his bit his lip, desire like darkness dancing through him. “What do I need to do?”
Asra swirled his tongue around Julian’s ear before whispering, “Make her come three times, and I’ll reward you. If you can’t...well...” His voice trailed off as his lips left Julian’s skin; he pulled his body away, rolling over onto his back and gently running his fingers over the seam of his tip as he watched Julian through lidded eyes. “Oh, and Ilya, honey...don’t come before she’s done.”
Asra thought Julian couldn’t redden more, but he was proven wrong as the doctor exhaled shakily through bitten lips; he didn’t break eye contact with Asra as he gently extricated his body from Iris’s. With a soft groan, she rolled on to her stomach, burying her cheek in the silk sheets. Julian, lips trembling, came to hover over her, beautiful on his hands and knees, before he dipped down to kiss her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back.
Iris loosed a sleepy, wondrous moan, and her eyes slowly fluttered open: she craned her neck back to meet one eye with Julian’s, her brow furrowed with amusement. “Good morning…?” She murmured.
“Good morning, darling.” He crooned, his kisses now dispersing down her spine, punctuated with random licks and gentle nips; a graceful hand trailed down her side, his fingertips tracing the smoothness of her back, the sweetly formed muscle, swathed in a layer of softness, before grabbing hard at her waist, eliciting a quiet grunt from her.
He dragged his teeth across her back, and Iris arched at the sensation, lifting her ass a little into the air; Julian’s hand flew down to her raised buttocks and groped as he licked down the length of her spine. Iris turned her head to the other side, and saw Asra watching with heavy eyes, gently touching himself; she turned back to meet Julian’s gaze as he brought two fingers to his mouth, wetting them before slipping them between Iris’s legs, parting the lips of her sex and touching her.
She let her head drop back down into the sheets as soft pleasure coursed through her body, spiked with shock at the sudden touch; she whimpered as Julian leaned back onto his knees, letting his other hand trail over her body before grabbing her other cheek, groping her firmly as he increased his speed so, so slowly. Iris bit her lip and lifted her hips even more, urging him on; she cried out quietly when his fingers retreated and he grasped her hips, guiding her up onto her knees, to the edge of the bed.
She was stretched in front of him now, her back long and her hips open, her knees wide, feet off the bed; he traced the sinuous curve of her back, her ass, with both hands, as he settled on his knees on the floor. With a muffled hum, a low groan, he pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses into her fullness, the plush of her seat – and then his tongue slipped over her, warm, velvety, roving, before slinking between her lips.
Iris quivered – the position was slightly uncomfortable, but the pleasure that surged through her, from the hotness of it, Julian’s sudden need, made it worth it. She cried out softly as Julian increased his speed, his strength, the pressure of his fingers against the fleshy give of her thighs, and in return he groaned softly, letting his hungry eye rove to Asra, who smiled wickedly, raising one eyebrow at him.
Iris circled her hips against Julian’s lips, making him groan again, his breath hot against her vulva. Julian let his tongue run over her slick skin to taste her blooming sex before returning to the seat of her pleasure, now running the flat of his tongue over and over against her until she cried out, bucking her hips against him, encouraging him. He obeyed, increasing his speed, and after a few minutes of this Iris whimpered loudly as the heat in her dispersed, surging to her fingertips, her toes, her ears; she gently cried out, her voice high and sweet, as she orgasmed.
While she was still reeling from her release, Julian guided her hips up until she was on her knees and elbows, his view of her back reminding him of the wasp-waist of a vielle; his erection stirred as he leaned forward over her, whispering, “Is this okay?”
“Oh gods, yes...please...” Iris moaned, her voice wanton as she leaned down onto her elbows, pushing her hips back into his; head was amazing, but after four orgasms from oral in a row, she was dying to have a cock inside her. She cast the barrier spell over him, and he leaned back, balancing on his knees, letting the otherworldly warmth wash over him. He traced his tip over her clitoris, still sensitive and electric, but the heat of his cock was delicious as he frotted against her, each time grunting a little at her wetness, her heat, before guiding himself to his mark and slowly entering her.
Iris hummed, throwing her head up and arching her back, even though Julian was going slow and gentle, his thrusts shallow as her body relaxed around him. It was only when Iris pushed her hips back on his, taking in more of his length, that he moaned, “Oh, Iris...” before hilting himself into her with one fluid, forceful movement.
Just a foot or two away, Asra was thoroughly enjoying himself, lounging on his side, his cool, dreamy gaze tracing the silhouette Iris and Julian struck together while he touched himself with full, languid strokes. Iris let their eyes lock, biting her lip gently as Julian wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her back and forth on him while he thrusted, a little more roughly, making her whine as he stroked her g-spot.
He let out something like a pained grunt at her noises, and screwed his eyes shut in concentration as he kept up his pace. It was divine to be inside of her, skin on skin, heat on heat, to have her gorgeous body sprawled out before him; already his body was inching towards his edge, and he couldn’t help but groan her name again as pleasure stirred hotly inside of him, a warning.
Iris arched her back and pushed herself up off of her elbows, weight in her palms now, changing Julian’s angle; he moaned and she cried out as he brushed harder, more directly against her g-spot. She wanted more of that.
“Ilya, harder...” She cried, looking over her shoulder at him, her mouth wide, her hair wildly haloed around her forehead, sweat starting to bead around her temples. Julian bit his lip at the sight, her contorting her body for him, her gaze heavy with lust, with need. He snapped his hips into her now, fast and hard, and Iris laughed with pleasure before letting his name fall over her lips like an ecstatic litany (how she ever said Julian in bed before, she didn’t know; Ilya was delicious, rolling easily off her tongue, perfect for stretching and savoring).
She leaned heavily on one elbow and reached back with the other hand to touch herself, to rub two fingers frantically against her wet clit as Julian kept pace, his teeth gritted and breath huffing with exertion as he tried to fight back the orgasm that swelled inside him, his fingers digging so hard into her hips that they would certainly leave welts later.
After a minute or two of this touching, of this thrusting, Iris’s voice grew even wilder, even more wanton, her movements against Julian’s hips obscene, as an orgasm boomed through her body, thunderous, voluptuous, and soul-rending. Julian had to avert his eyes from the way she threw her head back, the way her beautiful shoulders shook, her muscled back contorted, his face twisted into a grimace as his nerves screamed for release.
Iris had expected him to come with her; when she didn’t hear the tiny whines, the choked grunts, the quiet gasps that she had associated with his ecstasy, she turned her head to meet his gaze and moan, “Oh, Ilya, darling, come for me...”
Besides them, Asra chuckled darkly, his smirk absolutely evil. The groan of frustration that rose from Julian was animal, and he pulled himself out of Iris slowly, gently, so as to not trigger his orgasm. “Not yet...” He grunted, grabbing her waist roughly and flipping her onto her back; he threw her legs over his shoulders and leaned over her, raising her hips so her knees were almost to her shoulders. He planted his hands around her waist and plunged back inside her, and his voice was tremulous, panting, as he thrusted into her, even faster than before, his flush completely consuming his cheeks, his neck.
Iris gasped – in this position, he felt impossibly big, she felt impossibly tight, and she was still riding the high from her previous orgasm; the animal part of her brain clawed at the chance for more pleasure, knowing that if she worked quickly, another orgasm would follow. She shimmied her hips against his, using her knees on his shoulders for leverage, and wrapped her shaking fingers around his hips, pulling him even closer to her.
“Oh, fuck, Iris...” Julian cried. “Fuck...fuck...” He could feel the Iris’s sex growing hotter and hotter, the clenching of her muscles growing tighter and tighter, her moans growing louder and louder, and he could cry from how exquisite it was to see her this way, to give her this much pleasure. The longer he held out, the stronger, the more heavenly the pulses that rocked his core felt; he secretly blessed Asra for his challenge.
It was Asra’s voice that rose to him. “Iris is so close, Ilya...tell her how it feels...that drives her wild…”
The sound Julian made was pathetic and sweet, flush pulsing hot against his cheeks; he hadn’t accounted for this. Under him, Iris whimpered: “Il...Ilya, please…oh please...”
Julian reddened even more, but his words tumbled breathlessly from him. “Oh, Iris – ” He panted, his voice catching, hitching, with each thrust. “It feels as if – as if you were made for me – oh, you’re so soft – so warm – so gorgeous – so fucking w-wet, darling – I want to fill you up – I want to never leave your side – if you put a collar on me I would follow you like a dog – oh, fuck, f-fuck – ”
Iris moaned, surprised, as Julian grunted quietly, slowing his thrusts into soft rolls of his hips as he came; she felt his hot cum filling her, a gentle whining groan rising from his throat with each half-hearted thrust, each spurt.
Iris craned up to kiss him, to reassure him, but he bit his lip, hesitant, his eyes flitting to Asra. Iris turned to him too, and saw that he was shaking his head slightly, tsking very softly.
“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya...” Asra’s eyes glinted wickedly. “What will you do to make it up to Iris?”
Iris pinked as she saw it, the way Julian flushed, flustered, cowed, the way Asra, slinked into a sitting position, his one-sided smirk absolutely lecherous; this was a pleasure game they were playing with each other, with her as the toy, the object of their affections. Panting softly, his head still spinning, Julian pulled out of Iris with a squelch; before Iris could protest, he buried his head between her legs, lapping furiously at her, tasting his own salty, bitter seed mixed with the heat of their sex, the sweetness of her desire.
Iris keened, hot at the thought of Julian licking his own, still-hot cum from her; she hardly noticed when Asra approached Julian from behind, straddling him. Julian grunted loudly against Iris’s sex, then moaned as Asra breached carefully him with a lubricated finger. The groans that fell across the doctor’s lips were filthy, his voice leaden with need as Asra thrust gently into him, letting the muscles relax and stretch fully around his finger; when there was almost no resistance, Asra inserted another.
Julian threw his head back, his lips and chin wet and slick; he grimaced and gritted his teeth, but the little whimper that rose from him betrayed how much he was enjoying Asra’s touch. Julian’s hands shot up Iris’s body and grabbed both of her breasts hard, making her keen, before he dove back into her. She wrapped her legs over his shoulders and ran her feet over his back, changing the angle so he could play with her even more; he responded by swirling and pressing his tongue against her anus, mimicking Asra’s touches against him.
Iris giggled with delight, enjoying the variety of sensations Julian was lavishing on her; he moved back up to her clitoris pulsed his tongue against it just as Asra growled, “Ilya, honey, are you ready for your punishment?”
“Oh fuck, yes...” Julian whined quietly. She couldn’t believe how aroused she was watching them together; Asra wasn’t this dominant when it was just her and him, and Julian certainly wasn’t this submissive, but to see both of them this way – it was a rare treat, for her eyes only, and she wanted to drink it in, to savor it.
Asra reached forward and laced his fingers through Julian’s auburn waves before pulling back roughly, wrenching his mouth away from Iris; the magician leaned forward and snaked his hand under Julian’s chest to Iris’s pussy, plunging two fingers in to gently scoop out some of the frothy mixture inside her, Julian’s cum and saliva and her lubrication, the mingling of their bodies. Iris mewed and Julian moaned as Asra withdrew, and, with a fiery gaze that met Iris’s, Asra smoothed the slickness into Julian. There was a flash of purple light and heat before he guided his oil-slicked tip to the ring of muscle, grabbing hard at the firm of Julian’s ass before pushing through – torturous, slow, past the first pop, bottoming out at the second, with one fluid movement of his slender hips.
“Fuck, fucking gods!” Julian cried loudly, his face going completely red as his insides convulsed and twisted with bliss; Asra loosened his grip on Julian’s hair so he could drop back down into Iris’s sex, laving the flat of his tongue up her whole sex before flicking her clit, quickly, over and over. Asra pulled out and thrust back in slowly at first, before increasing his speed, bucking his hips against Julian’s, jostling both the doctor and Iris. His gaze and Iris’s met again, and they held each other’s eyes as Asra’s breath spun up out of him in breathless pants, his soft baritone voice drenched in pleasure, sunk deep in the velvety grip of one lover, watching his other lover, his partner, be brought to ecstasy for the third time that morning.
With a few final flicks of Julian’s skillful tongue, Iris came again, this time arching her back into him and grinding her hips against his lips wildly, giggling and mewing; he clutched at her waist and groaned, savoring her sounds, her movements, now able to focus fully on the cock stuffed inside him.
Asra bit his lip and groaned as Julian raised himself onto his elbows and popped his hips up; the doctor nearly shouted as Asra’s tip stroked and stroked against the knob of his prostrate, making his own cock twitch wildly. Iris started – she hadn’t even noticed that he had gotten hard again. With a wicked smile, she scooted herself under him, and he trembled in anticipation and let loose a choked cry as she guided his cock back into her; she planted her lips against his and their tongues swirled, the heat from his grunts pressing into her mouth as Asra continued to grind into him from behind.
She took control, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, shimmying her hips against him using her knees and legs as leverage. There was no way Julian could last long with this, Asra’s cock constantly massaging against his prostate, Iris’s gentle, pulsating warmth smoothing over his cock. With what could only be described as a howl of ecstasy, he came again inside of Iris, as she cooed his name encouragingly. She planted her feet on Asra’s chest now, and he greedily grabbed one and pulled it up to his mouth, sucking hungrily on her biggest toe. This, combined with the delicious pulses of Julian’s orgasm, he couldn’t take it any longer; with a muffled, choked-out cry, he came, too, deep inside Julian.
The sun had fully risen at this point, painting the room in glistening pale pinks and lemon yellows, the sky now streaked with blue; as the lovers disentangled themselves and fell back into the bed, Iris couldn’t help but drop a long, lingering kiss on Julian’s lips before moving over to Asra, letting their tongues dance together before settling between them, their breaths coming to them in soft, sweet pants, as their heads spun, taking in all that they had just done together.
For many minutes, they lay together silently, their heart rates leveling, Iris’s head resting on Julian’s strong arm, Asra on his stomach, his arm flung over her and Julian’s waists. His lips found her ear, dropping sweet, careless kisses on it and her neck, before he whispered, “I love you, my heart.” Iris nuzzled into his kiss as Julian shifted beside them, saying nothing, kiss the nape of Iris’s neck, right where her hair was shorn, his lips lingering.
Iris didn’t mean to doze off, but when she regained consciousness, she was in the bed alone; she shot up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She must not have slept for long, because Asra and Julian were still in the room, though now they were dressed; the light was longer, oranger, more golden, suggesting early morning but past breakfast.
Someone, Portia, perhaps, had sent up breakfast and freshly laundered clothing for all three of them. Julian and Asra were at the little breakfast table, talking quietly; Julian’s fingers were threaded through his wild waves, limbs sprawled haphazardly as he leaned back, shook his head; Asra leaned on his elbow, chin in hand, eyes downcast, glazed in thought. Vasalisa lounged at Asra’s feet as he stroked her fur, a bloody, empty plate mere inches from her muzzle. Iris shifted forward in the bed, sitting up; she was surprised to find that someone had cleaned her up in her sleep. She swung her feet onto the floor and stretched, groaning a little, catching both their gazes, shadowy, solemn.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Asra murmured, seriousness washing away for something more playful, his violet eyes coy.
“The kitchens sent up breakfast. I imagine you’re hungry.” Julian winked knowingly, his eyes twinkling, as he poured her a cup of coffee; as she stood and crossed the room to the table, her heart swelled to see him add a spoonful of honey and a lick of cream for her.
There were only two chairs at the small table, both occupied; Asra opened his arms to her, and she sank into his lap, snuggling into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her naked waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, dropping one lingering kiss against the creamy skin of her neck as she picked at what was left on his plate, toasted marble rye bread spread with mashed, salt-and-pepper avocado, soft, tangy sheep’s cheese, sliced cucumber and Gallipoli pepper, alongside an array of sliced fruit. Vasalisa, with a satisfied growl, nosed her muzzle onto Iris’s nude lap; Iris scratched her behind the ears.
“Why so dour?” She asked them quietly, as she nibbled on the corner of the toast. Asra met Julian’s gaze as he ran his thumbed absently at the corner of his mouth.
“We need to go back to the library today.” Julian said, hardly a murmur. “Asra said something about a book you two are looking for, and I...” His grave expression returned, the steely set of his brow, the slight downturn of the corners of his lips. “I need to find my cure from the dungeons, and the memories that may come with it. But I don’t remember where the dungeons are, or how to get to them.”
“Mmmmm.” Iris said, tapping her cheek with two fingers as she selected a small bundle of red grapes from the fruit. “That does complicate things, I suppose. Would Portia know?”
Julian pressed his lips together in thought. “She might; I could ask her. But knowledge of our research labs was hidden from the general public, and a lot of the palace staff as well, so it’s possible the location wasn’t passed down to her. Our best bet is the library; it was home base for all the researchers, including the doctors, so I’m sure there’s a way to the dungeons from there.”
“To the library it is, then.” Iris said, holding her hand up in front of her face to hide her chewing as she polished off her breakfast. “We should also probably check in with Nadia. I’d be surprised if the Courtiers haven’t responded to her news that we’re no longer pursuing you as a suspect in the investigation.”
“We need to tread carefully.” Asra said quietly, expression dark. “There are eyes and ears all over the palace, and the Courtiers...they’re not harmless. I would prefer not to cross paths with them until we have to.”
Iris nodded, draining the last of her coffee and swooping down to kiss Asra’s sculpted, amber cheek before standing. She was just crossing to the changing screen when the door flew open on its tracks without so much as a knock; Iris rushed to cover herself as Portia, red in the face and drenched in sweat, chest heaving, shouldered her way into the guestroom.
“Gods, Portia!” Iris clutched the clothing in her arms to her chest, ducking behind the screen, while Vasalisa let out a warning growl. Julian rushed to his sister.
“Pasha, what is it? What’s wrong?” He grasped her shoulders as she gasped, regaining her breath.
“Milady...Nadia...they took her...arrested her...”
Asra shot out of his seat, and Iris’s magic sparked in her veins; without her bidding, the fine cloth swirled around her as her magic took over, slipping the gauzy white off-the-shoulder top with flowing peasant sleeves over her shoulders, the blue and purple striped flared pants over her hips.
Julian’s knuckles tightened against Portia’s shoulders. “Što? Zašto?” He asked quietly as Iris rushed out, dressed now; Asra’s hand instinctively found the small of her back, his stance protective. He felt whatever it was that prickled at the back of Iris’s neck, like ozone in the air before the split of lightning, the terror of thunder; Iris thought of the Tower card, the one she drew just last night.
Tears were spilling down Portia’s cheeks now as she flung her arms around her brother’s shoulders. “For the Count’s murder...” She sobbed. “And they’re charging you and Asra too...I had to warn you...”
“What?” Iris exclaimed, her gaze swinging wildly from Julian to Asra to Portia. “On what grounds?”
Portia laughed now, darkly. “They don’t need grounds. They’ve always done whatever they want.” With a gasp, she pulled herself together. “You have to get out of here before….”
Pounding, jarring, insistent, on the slatted door; a bored, chilly voice rose up from behind the painted wood. “Open up, by the power vested in me as the Consul of the Vesuvian Aristocrata.” Iris steeled; they were too late.
Portia gritted her teeth, and pulled her keys from her bosom before forcing them into Iris’s hands. Iris’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she quickly met Portia’s gaze; the guard would take her keys away. Thinking quickly, Iris transfigured the keyring into a necklace, a choker with several dangling key-shaped charms, which she tied quickly around her neck.
Asra cast a ward around the five of them, tightening his grip on Iris’s waist, as Julian pulled Portia away from the door; it burst into splinters, the wooden shards bouncing like confetti off the ward as guards swarmed the room. They were fearsome, eyes darkened with kohl and armed with short kilij sabers, all flanking Valerius, dressed in his full Consulate regalia, a large shamshir sheathed across his narrow hips. Iris was a little shocked that he wasn’t balancing a full wineglass between his pallid fingers.
Her magic arced through her body, crackling visibly from her fingertips; besides her, Asra was sparkling, too, his aura radiating of him, smoky and ominous. Julian shoved a protesting Portia behind him as he drew the long knife, secreted in the folds of his surplice shirt, brandishing it in front of him easily. At their feet, Vasalisa growled, her hackles raised as she stood protectively in front of the four humans, her muscles tensed, ready to spring.
“Now, now,” Valerius crooned. “There’s no need for any of that. In fact, it will make this much worse for all of you.”
“What is the meaning of this, Valerius?” Iris said quietly, her voice choked with scorn. None of them dropped their protections.
The consul’s lip curled. “Silence, whore. This has nothing to do with you.” His gaze swung to Asra, and to Julian. “And everything to do with the men you’re fucking...or should I say, cucking?”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Julian jeered, his lips twisting up into a sneer. At his side, Asra laughed darkly.
“Valerius, you never were one for appreciating irony. At least Iris isn’t sleeping with married men.” Asra’s brow twisted up playfully, and Iris let her smile stretch into one of derision as she laughed darkly, the puzzle pieces falling together.
“Ooo, that’s juicy...fucking your way to the top, hmm, Valerius?” She taunted him.
“Silence!” He roared, his face red. “Ilya Nikolyavitch Devorak and Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar, you are under arrest for collusion in the death of Count Lucio. Your trial will take place at noon tomorrow. You will both be charged with the Countess Nadia Aditi Satrinava. Take them away!”
The guards descended; Asra and Julian shot quick glances at each other – without saying a word, both dropped their hands, Julian sheathing his knife while Asra gave Iris a reassuring squeeze on her back, dropping down the ward. She sneered, but let her hands fall to her sides; Vasalisa’s gentle growl died in her throat, replaced with a soft, defeated whine.
“There’s no need. We’ll come willingly.” Asra said quietly, and the guards hesitated; Iris saw sweet Bludmila and Ludovico, the drunk, amongst them.
Valerius tsked. “Unfortunately, the chains are necessary. Especially with yours and the doctor’s reputations for being...slippery.”
Iris’s stomach clenched as the iron fetters were placed around Asra’s and Julian’s wrists, though gently, by Bludmila, his gaze approaching something like apology. Lips trembling, she threw her arms around Julian’s shoulders and kissed him, before burying her face in his shoulder.
“The library.” He whispered into her ear. “Find the book, the dungeon. But please, Iris…be careful down there. Cover your nose – your mouth – and don’t touch anything if you can help it. If anything happened to you...”
She nodded furiously against his neck as his voice trailed off; she understood. He kissed the sweet skin behind her ear, the muscles of his neck and shoulders rippling gently against her. Hesitantly, she unloosed her grip from him, and turned to Asra, crying fully now. He shushed her gently, his voice like the sound of the sea, as she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him close, kissing him.
“All will be well.” He said quietly to her. “I believe in you. Find the book in the library, and look for rituals involving any kind of astral projection, or swapping bodies.”
“Which book is it? What is it called?” She asked urgently, as a guard firmly grasped Asra’s shoulders, pulling them roughly away from each other.
“Look for the mark of the bargain.” He said, a little louder, gripping her wrist once as he was wrenched away. At their side, Portia wailed in frustration as Julian was pulled out of her arms, stumbling a little on his long legs. Without ceremony, they were whisked out of the room, both of them glancing back at Iris over their shoulders. Asra’s eyes were calm, but sorrowful; Julian couldn’t keep dread from contorting his sharp features as they were escorted away in chains.
Valerius, his expression smug, turned to Portia now. “The keys, if you will, handmaid.”
Portia shrugged dramatically. “What keys?”
Valerius’s angular face twisted into a disgusted sneer and his hand rose; with a flash of pearl-scattered light, Iris wrapped her fingers around his wrist, her strength shattering.
“If you try to touch her again, I’ll break your wrist, you disgusting coward.” Iris growled, Vasalisa snapping her jaws at Valerius with a ferocious bark. The remaining guards lurched forward, but Iris let go of his wrist with a flourish.
He snorted loudly, angry, embarrassed; he turned back to Portia, sneering wildly. “I’ll ask you again – where are the keys?”
“I submitted them to the keymaster after the Countess was arrested, as is protocol.” Portia said firmly, though she couldn’t keep her shoulders from shaking.
The Consul’s eyes darted to and fro over their faces, before heaving a frustrated sigh. “Very well then.” He turned to Iris, his gaze icy, imperious. “I hope that you have prepared your arguments, little witch. It shall be you who will represent the Countess and your…friends, at court tomorrow.”
Iris scowled. “That doesn’t give me much time, does it?”
Valerius chuckled darkly. “I’ve heard you’re very resourceful.” He turned on his heel and left the room, the remaining guards filing behind him silently.
When the mangled door slid shut on its track, Iris realized she was shaking, her hands trembling, tears rushing back to her eyes. She sank to her knees with a painful thud.
“Fuck that righteous asshole! I hope the next time he cums his dick flies off!” Portia hissed. Iris tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe her tears away, before wrapping her arms around Portia, who was, despite her ire, sobbing beside her. They held each other for several minutes, overwhelmed by what just happened, their bodies trembling with fear; Vasalisa nosed her way into their laps, whining softly, compassionately. It was Portia who finally pulled back, with a dramatic sniff.
“We don’t...we don’t have time to wallow. We have to work fast.” She said, dotting her face with a handkerchief she pulled from her bosom, her voice wavering. “I just don’t know where to start.”
“I do.” Iris said firmly, sitting back on her heels. “We have enough evidence to prove, at the very least, that Julian is innocent...” She reached for Vasalisa now, stroking the wolf’s face. “We need Muriel for the trial. Can you find him and bring him back here?” Vasalisa whined, but rubbed her face against Iris’s hand, before her husky voice reached the magician’s ears.
I’ll find him.
“Thank you.” Iris whispered, dropping a kiss onto her familiar’s nose. With a loving lick of Iris’s face, Vasalisa took off, darting gracefully out of the room; Iris felt another deep ache in her heart, the same as when Julian and Asra were torn away from her, but she didn’t have time to sit with the pain now.
“The library.” Iris said quietly. “What we need is in the library.”
Portia’s eyes twinkled. “Perfect. My keys, please.”
Iris took the choker off from her neck, and let the magic fall away, revealing the implausibly heavy key ring. Without a word, Portia stood and grabbed Iris’s hand; Iris grabbed her satchel and swung it onto her back as they rushed through the mangled door, stealing furtive glances up and down the hallway, ensuring their path was clear. Portia rushed headlong into the wall before them; Iris made to jerk away, to protect herself from impact, but they passed as easily through the stone as if it was water. They found themselves in the back of the cavernous library.
Iris shook her head, disbelieving, while Portia smirked besides her. “It’s called a specter key. As long as you hold it, you can pass through certain portals, like a ghost.” She showed her the key on the ring, spun of the palest platinum, almost ethereally thin. “Another Prakran invention. They are quite clever machinists, those Prakrans. It shows – the emperor and empress doors to this library were designed by Nadia herself.”
Iris started. “That’s amazing. They’re marvelous.”
Portia flushed a little, with pride. “It’s not very well-known, the Countess’s aptitude with machina and locks. But she designed many of these passageways, and many of the engineering marvels in this palace. Clocks, revolving stairwells, secret passageways, doors…”
Iris smiled, but placed her hand on Portia’s elbow. “Let’s talk about this later, Portia.”
“Oh, right...right.” Portia snapped back to reality. “What do we need in the library?”
Iris pressed her lips together. “Two things...we need to locate a book and a way to the dungeons.” Her wide eyes flitted to Portia’s. “Do you know anything of a secret passageway to the dungeons from here?”
Portia shook her head quickly, her hands folded in front of her. “I don’t know of any way to the dungeons. I know of them...but the passageways themselves are lost to all of the palace staff. None of us were privy to the space where the doctors worked during the plague.” She swallowed. “That was on the Quaestor’s orders.”
“Fuck.” Iris hissed, burying her knuckles in her lips. “Then...then I should look for the door. And you should look for the spellbook.” She looked around, wildly, for paper, her eyes falling on the notepad on Asra’s old desk; she grabbed it, and a soft graphite-tipped pencil; slowly, carefully, she drew the mark of the bargain, the circle, the nestled sigil-points, the long, star-ended tails pointing north and south. She handed the drawing to Portia.
“This is the mark of a bargain struck with the Arcana. Asra said to look for it.” Iris bit her lip. “It might be on the cover, on the spine, somewhere. I don’t know. Start with the spellbooks, or any research books gathered during the plague, if they’re sorted that way. Anything that may relate to the Arcana.” Iris sighed with frustration. “I don’t even know if it’s here, but...we have to try.”
Portia took the drawing from Iris, her brows furrowed. “Nadia’s sent me to gather books from here before, so I’m familiar with the library. But...never with a description like this.” She squinted at the drawing now. “Not to mention...this is not a great drawing...”
Iris rolled her eyes, but she knew it was true; her lines were unsteady and crooked, the circles lopsided. She was reminded of the many times Asra had tried to teach her to draw, to see and to balance, but she had no patience for it. “I know, I’m not Julian or Asra. But it’s the best I can do.”
Portia shrugged. “Circle back here in an hour?” Iris nodded, and Portia rushed off, disappearing between the towering bookshelves.
Iris was alone now; she felt the painful tug at her heart as the distance between her and Vasalisa increased, though she could see her familiar in her mind’s eye, now racing through the forest, the frost crackling under her paws, her heart racing with exhilaration. Iris ached as she remembered all the times Asra left Faust with her. Did it get easier as time wore on? She thought of every time she had been apart from Asra, from Julian...it probably never got easier, she realized leaving a piece of your heart behind, even if it was with someone you trusted to care for it.
From the satchel at her back, there was a stirring, and Faust poked her lavender head out from under the leather flap, fixing her unblinking red eyes on Iris as her tongue flitted over the young magician’s skin. Iris let out a grateful cry as the familiar curled her body around Iris’s shoulders – she pulled the snake down into her arms, where she burrowed her muscular little body into the magician’s blouse, practically humming with an ambivalent alchemy of comfort and apprehension.
“Faust...” Iris whispered. “Can you reach Asra? Is he okay? Is he with Julian?”
Faust’s little eyes went dark for a moment, but as soon as she returned, a sorrow surged through Iris’s body.
Damp...dark...alone…
Iris grimaced, her heart tightening in her chest; they were already in the dungeons, and it sounded as if they had been separated. She wanted to cry, but she clutched the familiar closer to her body instead. “Tell Asra I love him.” She whispered to Faust, who responded immediately.
Knows…feels. Loves.
With a sigh, ducking down to plant a soft kiss between the snake’s eyes, Iris faced the glorious stained-glass window, the desks dotted underneath it. She found the two in the nook, framed under another small stained-glass window; they were still largely undisturbed, save for the scars in the dust from where Iris herself had removed things.
She sat in Julian’s desk chair for the first time, seeing what he saw when he was working, the tall stacks of books, unreturned, some still laying flat on their spines, the landscape-sprawl of notebooks and papers. She could feel the echoes of his warmth in the seat of the chair underneath her, the soft pulsing of his tender presence in the worn wood. Iris took a deep breath, and centered herself, before placing her hands on the smoothed edge of the desk, her fingers finding dust, tracing the edges of his loose notes, scrawled scrollwork. She sighed as she let what lingered of him wash over her, intelligent and gentle, passionate, warm…
Something tugged at her, and, without opening her eyes, she let the compulsion pull a hand forward, onto a whorling knot in the wood near the top of the desk, under the shelf that groaned with books; her fingers traced it, and it rolled under her touch before sliding away, revealing a secret hiding place. Out tumbled a key, a large one, heavy in Iris’s palm. Her eyes flew open, and her heart fluttered with excitement, coursed with anxiety; it was large, oily and black, with a jeweled red eye set into the key’s base, the sclera of garnet, the iris and pupil of glittering onyx, just like that of a plague victim.
Wrinkling her nose in concentration, she reached into her satchel, into the secret pocket where she had stowed Lucio’s trophies. She had given the spider key to Muriel (she felt she no longer had a use for it), but she still had the necklace, the ring, the brooch and…
Her fingers wrapped around the tiny key at the bottom of the pocket. It was just like the heavy key in her other palm, but half the size: same metal, same garnet, same thrumming uncertainty. Both keys pulsed gently in Iris’s hands; the larger key whispered to her, urgently. She closed her fingers around it and focused, the warmth surging forward from it overwhelming her as she fell backwards into a memory.
Even in the deadly still of the library, it was noisy. From the barely cracked windows, Iris could hear the lilt of stupid arpeggios from the fragrant, just-spring garden; the raucous hubbub from the First Flowers party Lucio insisted on was mere meters from her as she curled, shaking, in the tiny nook in her secret corner of the library.
But she sat in Julian’s desk now, her face buried in her arms, the gentle, lingering scent of him soothing her as her heart pounded in her fingertips, her toes, in every screaming nerve as she shook; at least here, no one could see her, no one could hear her, not even Julian. She tried, she tried, to take the deep breaths that had been instilled in her since she’d had her first panic attack, her heart exploding in her chest like a solar flare; but still, she couldn’t calm herself, her tears still coming, still coming, over and over again as her heart refused to settle.
A rustle of something, so soft, so gentle, that Iris barely heard it; still, she startled, wheeling around in the hard-backed chair, her mascara beading dark against her long lashes, trailing black on her cheeks as she tried to smear them away. She was certain it was a porter, searching for her in a panic as her call-time approached, but she was surprised to find a fantastical figure, a resplendent middle-aged woman swathed in sky-black gauze, a wide, immensely flounced collar around her shoulders, nipping in at her waist. Her hair, black at the roots, white-blonde at the tips, swirled around the nape of her neck in ornate, looping braids, her crown ringed in black orchids, only belied her cold eyes, lined with age.
For a moment, their eyes met, wide, wild, startled; then, the Consul’s dusk-dark eyes hardened. “What are you doing here, fool?” She hissed, voice low and silky with practice, with persuasion. Iris straightened, surreptitiously adjusting the low neckline of her plunging dress, the massive white agate that sat against her collarbone, the silk rosettes that ringed it.
“This is my mentor’s desk; I’m composing myself before my performance.” Iris’s voice was low, and even. “I could ask you the same question.”
The Consul did not hide her displeasure, the rise of her thick, dark brow, the strange, tense coil of her small body. “I do not have to explain myself to you.” Her voice was haughty, even if the deep furrow of her brows betrayed her. “But I am in need of a record.”
Iris chuckled softly, just once, before standing. “You’re a terrible liar for a lawyer, Consul.” She murmured, her amused smirk insufferable. “The party’s in full swing; I’m not sure how you slipped out of Lucy’s sights. What’s so pressing you couldn’t send an aide?” Iris was very familiar with the aides that scurried, scrambled, through the library in the daylight hours, frantic with frenzied purpose. The lady Consul was not one to keep waiting.
She scowled now. “You are far too familiar for one of your station, fool.” The Consul hissed. “I will not tolerate insubordination.”
Iris raised an eyebrow now. “You’re rather testy tonight, aren’t you?” She murmured, almost to herself. “Perhaps I should sing of the way that you enchant Lucy? How you tie him to his bed with silks and make him beg for release, mark him with your lips?” She mused, her sweet voice acid. “I’ve seen the bruises on his neck. He wears them with pride. He loves the way you use him for your gain.” Iris’s smile was wicked now. “What a scandal it would cause. I wonder how long it would take for your husband to hear of it, halfway across the world running his trade empire. I wonder what Nero would think. He’s here tonight, isn’t he? He could hear firsthand what kind of woman Consul Valerius really is.”
The sound that the Consul made was violent, a steady, threatening hiss as she approached Iris with the fluidity of a cobra. “You wouldn’t dare, witch.”
“Oh.” Iris giggled. “I would, Treasa. It would be so, so easy.”
The Consul’s sneer was dangerous, venomous, as she regarded Iris; then, with a frustrated sigh, she threw up her hands in surrender. “If you insist on knowing, perhaps you can help me. Where are the dungeons?”
Iris blanched, surprised. “The dungeons, Consul?”
The expression the Consul wore was strange – her black-painted lips set in a thin line, her brows pinched, the surreptitious smoothing of her collar. “I have...concerns about the Quaestor’s methods, and the lack of progress with the cure. I wish to examine the research laboratories for my own purposes. But they will not grant me access, and Lucio and the other members of the Chamber are of no help. Nadia knows nothing.” Her eyes flew up to Iris’s now. “But you...you know where it is. Surely Devorak has brought you down with him.”
Iris could feel the sharp boil in her stomach again, the tightness in her chest. “You want to visit the dungeons, Consul?” She whispered, her voice small. “On your own? You’re third in line for the seat. Doctors die every day down there. Juli...Doctor Devorak won’t even let us down there. His apprentices.”
The Consul’s eyes flashed. “Do not parrot the Quaestor’s insipid arguments back to me. If you know of how to get to the dungeons, show me. That is an order. Or are you going to cry again?” Her thin lips lifted into the tiniest smirk, and Iris smarted; she had forgotten, for a moment, about her eyes, red, puffy, her stained cheeks.
She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttered closed, urging her heartbeat to slow. “I do not take orders from you, Consul.” Iris whispered, but still, she turned; her small fingers found the hidden knot in the wood, turning it deftly, revealing the heavy key.
With a rustle of her snow-white silks, Iris crossed the library, the Consul trailing behind her in her billowing black gauze; an unassuming bookshelf on the far wall, a practiced motion so quick that Iris almost missed it – a tug on the spines of three books in quick succession, one red, one of leather, one black with illegible gold lettering. The bookshelf swung open on a bolt in its middle, revealing a rough shale hallway, drafty and rancid-smelling.
Iris’s eyes were deadly serious as she turned to the shocked Consul, passing the heavy key into her palm. “This opens the gate to the elevator. Pull the lever, then open the eye. Wear a mask and leather gloves from the anteroom.” Her appraising gaze slid over the Consul’s dress. “And one of the coats. Touch nothing. Promise me.”
The Consul chuckled. “I never thought you one to be so concerned for my safety, witch.”
“I’m serious, Treasa.” Iris hissed. “I’ll not have your blood on my hands. But...” She paused, choosing her words very carefully. “If anyone can stop Valdemar, it’s you. This madness has to end.”
The Consul’s eyes flashed. “That doesn’t bode well. What’s down there?”
“Hell.” She whispered, eyes hard. “The gates of hell.” She couldn’t suppress a shudder. “They...they tried to stop it. Julian. The other doctors. They’re not to blame, Consul. Please remember that.”
“I will.” The Consul’s voice was grave now, her gaze pensive as she paused. “Thank you, Iris.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Iris retorted darkly. “Thank me when you come back without the plague.”
The Consul snorted once, haughtily, as she slipped between the shelves. “Oh, and Iris...break a leg tonight. That folk song remains one of my favorites. My regards to you and the doctor.” And she faded into the darkness, humming.
“We’ve all traded lovers and woke up alone, and we clapped for the king though our fingers were cold...”
The bookshelf slammed shut behind her.
The cold misted over Iris as she returned, prickling the skin of her arms; the key weighed heavily, ominously in her palm. She stood, and crossed to the bookshelf from the memory, and located the three books on the shelf, right at her eye level, and pulled them out by their spines – red, worn leather, black with gold. Each book caught in her hand right before she was able to remove them, held in place by some magical tether...
There was a creaking groan of wood as Iris sprung back; after a moment of protest, the bookshelf swung around, revealing a dark, dank hallway. The stench that rose to Iris’s nostrils made her want to retch; it was the smell of death, masked over many times with bleach, with bitter medicinal herbs, with bleak, unending hopelessness.
Remembering Julian’s warning, Iris magicked a scarf from the ether and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, muffling the smell only a little. With a tremble, Faust poking her head out from the neckline of her blouse, she crossed the threshold and cast an orb of orange light just as the bookshelf swung shut behind her.
The darkness was oppressive, thick and unctuous; Iris had to bolster her light for it to not sputter out. The narrow, stone-lined hallway soon gave way to a set of winding, uneven stairs that took Iris down, down, down until they spilled into a cavernous hall. The scene that painted itself in front of Iris as she cast her gentle light around made her heart stop; Faust let out a soft hiss, sensing the tension in Iris’s chest.
It was a small, mechanical elevator, only large enough for one or two to fit in the cage, its ornate wrought-iron doors oily and black with grime and rust, the metal twisted into sinister, clawing spirals. It was clear to Iris that it hadn’t been used in years, probably not since the plague had dissipated. But what shook Iris was the ominous light that flooded the elevator from above, a glowing, jewel-like red that pulsated and skittered across the jagged stonework beyond the iron bars.
As Iris approached, she saw the gate was locked; a large keyhole was set into a small plaque on the lift’s gate, ominous, looping script bearing a grim inscription: This goes beyond me, beyond you. We are just happy to serve.
Anxiety snaked long fingers down Iris’s back, and she was unable to suppress the shudder that shook her. This was all so achingly familiar; whispers of memories swirled in the back of her mind, which she quieted for now. She did not need her intuition or her clairvoyance to tell her that what was at the bottom of this elevator was sinister and horrifying; she remembered the feeling of standing in front of this horrible gate before, the dread that filled her, the panic.
The larger of the two keys hummed in her hand; she held it up, and the garnet eye glimmered, sullen, in the low light of her orb. With a look of grim determination, she touched the plaque; the magic that radiated from it was dark, menacing.
Iris squared her shoulders, and let the key slip into the lock; she barely had to turn it, the teeth chittering against the pins as the mechanism sprang open. With an earsplitting shriek of rusted metal, the elevator door creaked and slid away on its rollers.
Heart pounding, she stepped into the elevator; against the farthest wall was a lever, which Iris pressed down, the weight of her shoulder, her back, without hesitation. Another unearthly shriek of rusted metal, and the inner doors swung shut, the cage shuddering as it lowered itself on an intricate tangle of pulleys and groaning chains as the red light receded above her like a helpless, dying eye closing.
After what felt like a lurching eternity in that dark shaft, the lift settled at another pair of gates that swung open with another soul-rending creak. This hallway was earthen, supported with stone buttresses, fragrant roots splicing the packed dirt ceiling. The floor was uneven, but the hallway wasn’t long; in front of Iris loomed a metal door, the same twisted, spiraling claws, and one enormous, oblong object, the matte metal gleaming dully in the low light. There was no doorhandle, but Iris’s hands knew what to do; she let her fingertips trace the shape, lift the metal sheath; underneath was a garnet eye with an obsidian pupil, ringed with a gray moonstone iris that reminded her, achingly, of Julian’s plagued eye.
With no ceremony, the door swung open, leading her into the macabre dressing room. Her gaze swung around, wild knowledge arcing through her, as she crossed the room and found a hook with a doctor’s cloak, white but stained with smears of ink and blood, small leather gloves, and a beaked plague mask, stuff with now-stale lavender, sage, and camphor.
She shrugged the cloak over her shoulders, Faust squirming to see over it as she wrapped the fastenings around her torso; the cool, waxy cloth felt familiar over her skin, and it fit her perfectly. She pulled the mask over her nose and mouth, again, formed as if for her features only; the herbs helped immensely to block the fetid, rancid smell that now burned Iris’s eyes. The pit in her stomach tightened. She pulled on the gloves and pushed through the final metal door.
What Iris found there made her want to vomit; she expected the dungeons to be gruesome, but not this gruesome. There were rows and rows of wooden and metal tables, all bolted to the scrubbed stone floor, each crossed over and over with worn leather restraints, metal fetters on heavy chains at the table’s corners. In the center was a raised, circular wooden stage that held another two tables; the floor of the operating theatre was practically stained red, the wood soaked over and over with blood that even the strongest bleach could not scour.
One wall was covered in shelves of neatly labeled jars of poultices, creams, and tinctures, along with tools and bowls and towels, freshly laundered cloaks. On the opposite wall was a row of wooden doors, with bars set across the small windows at eye height; repurposed cells, used to hold the living while they waited for vivisection. Or Death.
She approached the row of doors, cautiously, Faust’s head bobbing under her chin; she gently ran her hands over the worn wood of one that called to her, then pulled back as if burned. Julian’s energy, his aura, warm and red and impassioned, surged through her. She peered through the bars, spying a small cot, hardly enough room for a single body, a miniscule desk with one long drawer, a simple chair, and a few shelves, lined with jars of long-dead leeches. The feeling that flooded over Iris confused her; it was oddly peaceful, familiar, his own tiny oasis in the midst of chaos, of horror, but it was also imbued with the frantic energy of the very sick, the delirious, the desperate.
Without even trying the door’s handle, Iris pulled the second, smaller key out of her pocket and inserted it to the keyhole; this one took no more coaxing then the first, gliding smoothly in and easily turning against the pins, the lock clicking open triumphantly. Iris’s hands shook slightly as she palmed the door open.
The first thing Iris noticed about the room was that the air was not nearly as wretched-smelling, definitely stale and dusty, but somehow almost pleasant; her eyes fell on a small vase on the desk, filled with cedar shavings, rosemary, and dried altansarnai rose petals, all still faintly fragrant. The desk was lined with books, some now moldering in the damp, and scattered with papers that were absolutely covered in notes and drawings; at one point, the inkwell was knocked over, soaking through one leaf of paper completely, a pocket of oblivion.
Iris cast out her magic, desperate for anything that could help her. If Julian were with her, something, anything in this room could trigger his memories. She might be able to access those memories, too, but she had to work harder for it, and she had to work fast.
Her magic pooled in two spots, shimmering like miasma before her; the first drew her to the far wall, where a faint chalk outline could be seen, stretching taller than herself, probably as tall as Julian. The details had long faded with dust and neglect, but Iris would recognize the shape anywhere – the mark of the bargain.
Iris’s brows furrowed as she traced the outline carefully with the tips of her fingers; there was a very faint pulse of magic left there, but not enough for Iris to sniff out its source. She knew that Julian had been locked in this cell while he was sick; in his delirium, had he tried to summon one of the Arcana? Her gut twisted, and a choked cry rose up in her dry throat; she couldn’t imagine his fear, his desperation, as he clung to his last thread of life while just outside of the walls that confined him, more and more were dying each day.
She turned now to the second place her magic pulled her, a haphazard pile of books on the floor. At the top of the towering pile was a thick and heavy tome laying on its spine, the pages furiously annotated, stained with ink, dogeared. Iris picked it up, flipping it over to read the title; her heart iced over. The charcoal-gray cover was emblazoned with a silver mark of the bargain, filling the entire leatherbound cover; coiled in the mark, miniscule script read The Arcana: Rituals, Summons, and Covenants.
She flipped feverishly through the pages, sinking to her knees on the damp, uneven floor. Julian’s familiar sloping script covered the margins, sections underlined, sketches on the flyleaves, the blank spaces between chapters. As she flipped, Iris could make out reoccurring words and phrases – fever dream, portent, raven, delirious – as well as notes on his own condition, temperatures and vitals, self-prescribed alms and treatments.
At her chin, Faust bobbed. Asra book?
Iris stared down at the book, pausing her flipping, the pieces slotting together. “Do you recognize this book, Faust?” She asked quietly, bringing it closer to the familiar. The snake flickered her tongue out, smelling it curiously.
Asra book, smells like tall friend.
“Of course.” Iris said quietly; she could feel the gentle thrum of Asra’s magic in the book now, almost completely masked by Julian’s wild, delirious energy. She flipped faster, until the reached a page where a leaf of sketching paper had been inserted facedown. Gently, Iris flipped the sketch over, and gasped in shock.
The sketch was unlike anything she had ever seen of Julian’s – what were normally soft lines, delicate, observant shadows, were now frenetic slashes of ink, repeated over and over so they seemed to vibrate and jitter on the page, making Iris almost dizzy. In some places, he had pressed so hard with his pen-nib that he had sliced through the delicate paper. But even in his delirium, Julian’s skill was impressive, and the likeness he struck was unmistakable: a raven-headed man, winged arms flung downward as he was suspended from his ankle, his ribs and stomach bowing as he hanged, one eye glittering as his face struck an ominous profile.
Iris reached for her own deck and summoned the Hanged Man card to her hand – a bat suspended in sleep, his wings wrapped around his body protectively, his red eyes watchful – but the card refused to speak for her, offering no guidance...no. Waiting for her to find the answer on her own. Waiting for her to address that which she had been ignoring.
Had Julian seen the Hanged Man in a dream? Had he used the last of his strength to summon the Arcana to him? If he was close to Death...it was possible, even without a lick of magic in his bones. Especially if, like Asra had said before, he had a connection with the Hanged Man, like Asra’s to the Magician, or Nadia’s to the High Priestess..
She removed the drawing and continued to flip through the pages, her eyes scanning the text furiously now, until she came to the final chapter; the Fool. There were not many rituals to thumb through, the Fool being particularly nebulous and unreachable, even more so than the Hanged Man, or Death, but when she reached the final ritual of the book – the longest, the most complicated – her heart stopped cold.
Borrowing the Fool’s Body: Cure the Sick, Heal the Crippled, and Resurrect the Dead.
In her ear, Iris heard the soft rustling of feathers: of gentle, all-knowing laughter.