Page 52 of Florescentia

“I suppose I can’t always call you Beast,” I teased, drawing another card.

“Tell me about this one.” He slid the card back to me. “What does it mean?”

“Well, it is the constellation of Ruina, our coldest season,” I explained, taking the card from him to reshuffle it. “The patron is the eagle with six wings, and a crown growing tight around his neck, and a third eye.”

“But why? What do they say about it?”

“A predator bird with six wings is about how fast the season could kill you. It is the season of unforgiving,” I explained. “Back before modern inventions, it was the most feared time of the year. Unpredictable, hungry, and just the air could freeze you swiftly.”

“Is it considered bad?” he asked. “Unlucky, even?”

“No, not necessarily.” I continued to shuffle the cards. “They’re not good or bad. It’s certainly feared, though. Those born in the Ruina months are said to be great leaders, symbolized by the crown, but to a point where, if not careful, it ruins them. The third eye represents their insight that makes them see all sides, their ability of foresight. Sometimes they get in trouble because they can’t always make others see it too.”

“Do you pray to this star?”

“I do not pray to any stars.” The deck slapped against the table, finalizing my mixing.

The host brought us tea and the daily selections of bites.

I swore the beast—well, Altair—lit up at the sight.

“I thought you could try something that has a bit more flavor,” I said. “Eat.”

He picked up an almond petit four with little stars painted on the sweet. At first he just held it. Not inspecting it, but staring.

“You know they’re for eating, right?” I laughed, picking up one for myself. I held it to my lips, then slowly bit into it. Exaggerating the chew.

“I was eating,” he said, then bit the corner. He seemed to move it around his mouth before finally swallowing. He shivered, a couple of black shadows springing from his back, like mixed assortments of appendages. A mantis wing, it looked like, before it disappeared. He seemed to have a hard time maintaining his shape with all the stimuli.

“Is it good?” I asked.

He nodded, then took another from the tray before putting the whole thing in his mouth. It appeared he liked the experience of eating more than the flavor, considering I hadn’t seen him chew even once.

It was amusing to watch. It was like he had never physically eaten in his life. Considering his actual food was less tangible, that made sense with my theory.

In the meantime, I pulled another card for myself.

The next pull was Cathal, the scavenger.

Deception.

His golden eye stared at me with a ruffled muzzle, the arrow a silver glint across the card and through the mouth. Something was coming to test me . . . but I feared it might be the man in front of me.

Chapter Fifteen

The Nova

I wish I could say that organizing the library had made it easier to find what I needed, but not even a flawless categorization could give me answers to questions I didn’t even know to ask.

Every book had said the same thing. Any mention of my ability to commune with the shadows and reach into the Otherside was treated as some archaic folktale that had yet to be replicated, except for a few descriptions of secondhand accounts hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago. None of them noted whether some of these rituals or visits to the Otherside had been successful.

I slouched in my chair, the faint glow of the biolamp dancing in my face. I placed my clenched jaw in my hands, watching the small particles spin and race around the glass. My elbow rested on a softer book . . . my father’s journal.

I brushed my hands over it, clearing any worn leather pieces pilling the edges; even the tie around it was in a fragile state. The leather needed rehydrating—a good oiling would do the trick—but not much could be done for the integrity of the leather tie.

One part of me did not want to intrude, despite my father nearly thrusting this at me in the first place. There was some level of privacy I felt I was invading.

The other part of me missed my father. The way he had been. It was strange now, knowing what life used to be like. He was smart, quick with his sources as well as his jokes. A man who loved to read, to savor slow moments. The one who’d come from a small town with the only woman he’d ever loved. The one who thanked the stars every day for his cup of coffee, the bugs on the sidewalk, even for his misfortunes. He believed that all things were gifts—some rewards just came later. He never held a grudge; he did not believe in a natural evil, or even a natural good.