Page 61 of Inkpot Gods

“I swear, I had no idea you were anything other than a football player who’d answered the ad Raven posted about looking for roommates,” says Lilianne, half-desperately. “I was just relieved that you weren’t transphobic. I didn’t know you were … whatever it is you are. I swear, I wasn’t trying to hurt you or complicate your life. I needed an apartment. That’s all.”

“I am a football player,” says David. “It’s just that I’m also Máni, the Norse god of the moon. And I’m part of this little debrief because I was here already, telling everyone about the alchemist in my house, and how concerned I was that you might do something if we didn’t find a way to prevent it. Looks like I was running slightly later than I needed to be on that one, huh?”

After Artemis and Kelpie, Lilianne can’t exactly bring herself to ask what these people have against alchemists. Mouth dry, she can only nod, and say quietly, “I wasn’t planning on doing anything bad to anyone. I wasn’t planning on doing anything to anyone at all.”

“Yet,” says Erin.

Lilianne’s head snaps around, eyes going wide and bewildered.

The other woman shrugs. “You weren’t planning on doing anything to anyone. Alchemy, it has a way of … escalating, shall we say. You start out and it’s just vials of mercury and moonlight, but it doesn’t take long before you start thinking how the blood of a living Lunar would probably combine the properties of those two things without the need for any messy compounding. You start to think that if you go and catch a falling star, you might be entitled to more than just a few idly granted wishes. And finally, you start to think other people are just preservation systems for lab supplies. It’s a slippery slope, and I’ve never known an alchemist who didn’t slide down it to one degree or another. You can’t devote yourself to learning things man was not meant to know and then be surprised when knowing those things impacts who you are as a person.”

“Have you known many alchemists?” asks Lilianne. “Maybe you just knew rotten ones. Ones who were always going to go bad. Ones who didn’t have the privilege of being raised by my mama. She’d slap the evil inclinations out of anybody.”

Erin looks, briefly, amused. “I’ve known a lot of alchemists in my day, yes,” she says. “They made me, after all. And I lived in their custody until my owner decided I needed to be socialized like a real girl and sent me off to live with some of the ‘less important’ alchemists. The ones who worked independently, the way you do. I didn’t really see much difference, beyond resource levels. So yes, we took David seriously when he came to us saying there was an alchemist in his house and he was getting worried about what that alchemist might do. I admit, nothing we’ve seen so far makes me think that he was wrong.”

Lilianne blinks, sitting up a little straighter. “They made you?”

“Yes.”

“But—Roger and Dodger are Reed’s cuckoos. The Doctrine is only two parts.”

“The Doctrine should have been four,” says Erin. “But that’s neither here nor there, and it’s a philosophical argument as much as an alchemical one. No, I’m not part of the Doctrine, and thank the stars for that, because if I had these assholes in my head all the time, I think I’d blow it off.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Erin was built to embody Order,” says Dodger, tone implying that she’s trying to be helpful. “She is the living spirit of keeping things organized and functional.”

“And my penance is being trapped in a house with all these chaotic freaks,” says Erin.

“But what about—” Lilianne begins.

Seeing the expression which sweeps over Erin’s face, she stops, clamping her lips shut and feeling suddenly as if the best thing she could do would be to disappear, to sink into the earth and never be seen again.

“My brother’s name was Darren,” says Erin stiffly. “He embodied Chaos, and the alchemists—the ones you idolize enough to emulate—killed him. Now, since Order and Chaos never learned to incarnate on their own, and I’m still here, no new Chaos has appeared. The first test of the artificial embodiments has come down firmly on the side of ‘not gonna happen.’”

“Don’t say that too loudly,” says Roger.

“Oh, we’re pretty sure it’s going to happen for them,” says Erin. “Your successors are primed and waiting. When you die, they’ll flytrap that Doctrine right down their gullets, same way you did. But Darren and I were constructed, refined, and didn’t have any understudies waiting in the wings. Someone would have to build a new Chaos if I was going to be balanced out again.” She cuts her attention sharply over to Lilianne. “Don’t offer. That isn’t the way to endear yourself to me.”

“Erin,” says Smita, chidingly.

“Well, it’s not,” says Erin. “We were never meant to exist. I’m glad I do: I feel like I’ve paid the universe back for the violence of my creation. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m part of an invasive species, something that wasn’t meant to be here in the first place. I’m an irritant in reality’s skin. The scar tissue I form may be protective for the flesh beneath me, but that doesn’t make it a good girl.”

“We’d be dead without you,” says Roger.

“I know, and that’s half of why I say I’ve paid the universe back. The other half is Smita.” Erin shrugs. “We find our victories where we can.”

Lilianne feels like she’s drowning, washed away in a tide of contradictions and complications, all so complex that she wants some sort of guidebook or explainer for these people, who they are to each other, who they intend to be to her.

Roger turns his attention back on her, and the drowning feeling gets worse. The weight of his attention is heavier than anything she’s ever felt before. It could crush her if she let it, smashing her flat under the pressure of it all.

“And you’ve already guessed who we are,” he says. “Reed’s cuckoos. His masterpiece. Lucky us.” He lifts his coffee mug to his mouth, taking a long drink.

“Lucky everyone,” says Dodger. “It could have been a lot worse than us.”

“Could have been a lot better, too, but this is what we have to work with,” says Erin. She glares at Lilianne. “Eat your oatmeal, alchemist.”

Lilianne finally picks up the spoon, taking her first bites of beige goop. It’s … surprisingly good, flavored with maple syrup and what taste like fresh peaches given a quick simmer in some sort of butter-and-brown-sugar mixture. She keeps eating, trying to make the somewhat terrifying embodiment of Order happy. To make all of them happy, really. Somehow her search for the lost lab has turned into breakfast with the scariest assortment of people she can possibly imagine.