The Devil Makes Three Page 12

  Eliot didn’t say anything about the fact he was now wearing the contents of her stomach. Keeping a hand on her elbow, he swept her phone from the ground and steered her back towards the stairs. Tess’s stomach still twisted, and her head was ringing and terrible. There was that humming, or buzzing, or whispering, and it just sounded like it was getting louder and louder, echoing in her head.

  “Let’s get you cleaned off,” Eliot said. She felt Eliot’s hand and little else. She barely saw the steps under her feet and then she was on her knees halfway up with no idea when she’d fallen.

  “Tess,” Eliot said, and his voice sounded urgent now. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

  She wanted to lay her head down on the stone and go to sleep. It was so cool on her overheated skin. The seven steps were too far. She could stay here for as long as she wanted, Eliot Birch and his insistence be damned. The dark wasn’t so scary now that she was a part of it.

  “Tess,” Eliot begged. “Please.”

  She closed her eyes. It wasn’t so bad.

  The ground vanished from underneath her, and she was close to the smell of her own vomit again as her head rested on Eliot’s chest. Everything swayed with the gait of his walk. She looked up, watching the curve of his chin.

  The devil carried her out of the stacks, his heartbeat pounding against her cheek.

  No—not the devil. It was Eliot. Eliot, living and human.

  He tucked her phone away somewhere, cutting off the light, until they broke through the barrier into the special collections cage and her eyelids were veiny red with the fluorescents.

  “Fuck,” Eliot hissed, and the fear in his voice made her open her eyes. At first, she was confused—had he spilled something on himself, before she threw up on him?—but then she recognized the scent permeating his clothes and her skin. She didn’t get the full effect of the vision until Eliot set her down against the wall and knelt before her.

  The front of his sweater was soaked black. Her clothing had black specks all over it, and when she lifted her hands, they were stained too.

  “Open your mouth,” Eliot demanded. Tess did as she was told, but she could only imagine what he saw: black-stained teeth, dark-streaked tongue. Because even though it was impossible, Tess recognized the liquid that stained Eliot and her—the very same liquid that had somehow come from her body.

  Ink.

  twenty

  Eliot

  ELIOT CARRIED TESS HALFWAY UP FROM THE STACKS AND dragged her the rest. There was a memory replaying over and over in his brain, one of his mother, weak from treatment, unable to get inside after a rainstorm. Tess felt too frail in his arms.

  But she hadn’t protested. Pale, covered in a sheen of sweat, she’d allowed him to drag her. Hadn’t even questioned it when he set her in his desk chair and turned away to perform a short spell meant to ease stomachaches.

  He wished he knew something stronger. Something that could reveal the truth of the ink, something that could explain what had just happened.

  Eliot nicked his thumb, spilling a drop of blood into the chalk circle on his desk. He lit a candle and set it over the blood. A quick chalk marking, a bit of smoke. A few words, hushed so Tess couldn’t hear him.

  He glanced over his shoulder as the magic started to shimmer in his working. It was impossible to tell if she was conscious, but with her ragged breathing, at least he could hear that she wasn’t dead.

  The thought of it almost stopped the words on the tip of his tongue. Eliot cleared his throat, turned back to the working, and tried to focus once more.

  His mind wandered anyways. Eliot was never good with people his own age. Even Henri, Eliot’s closest friend at Falk, knew nearly nothing about him.

  Eliot had always felt behind, just out of the circle of friendship with another person, just on the fringe of commonality. But with Tess … It was as if he wasn’t trying to fit in or empathize with her.

  She didn’t pretend. She didn’t pander or try to please him, really. In fact, she seemed to do anything possible to ensure that he didn’t get his way.

  Tess Matheson didn’t take shit from him, or anyone else.

  He admired her for that. Too much, probably.

  In London, his mother had made him watch a new version of Cyrano de Bergerac that one of her artsy friends had managed to get her a recording of. There was one monologue that caught him, that hurt him: Cyrano could write to Roxane all of his waking thoughts, wax poetic about her virtues and faults, but he’d burn up the letters and declarations before letting her see a word of them. He couldn’t face that level of vulnerability or exposure; couldn’t risk it.

  Eliot had never understood wanting like that. In his mind, affection was a nebulous thing. Desire was not his currency; only knowledge mattered.

  He stole another glimpse at her. He was unsettled; he was horrified to think she could’ve been truly hurt by tonight’s explorations.

  The final words of the working passed through his lips, and resolve formed with their departure. Half agony, half hope. That was the line, wasn’t it?

  When it was done, he heard her sigh behind him.

  No more time for thought or conjecture. Eliot blew out the candle and turned around. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked.

  Tess blinked, looking up at him. Her eyes looked unfocused, pupils dilated. “I didn’t mean to throw up on you.”

  Eliot fought a smile. He put the candle back on the windowsill, scrubbed out the chalk and blood with his palm. “No one ever does.”

  Too many words, too many thoughts, no words at all. Nothing more came out of his mouth. She shifted, sleepy and dazed, blond hair shimmering in the faint light of the remaining candle he’d left burning.

  When he was overwhelmed like this, there were only quotes and lines, graced upon during his reading and filed away—between the shadow and the soul, sun dismantled. There were words he could say to her, his own or someone else’s, but he could not cross that empty space between them. Not now, with her frail and weak, with the shimmer of magic clinging to the air between them.

  Her eyes flicked to him. “You should blow that candle out.”

  Eliot smiled faintly and nodded. He blew out the flame, letting the words and lines scatter with the dying of the light.

  twenty one

  Tess

  ELIOT WOULDN‘T LET HER WALK HOME. AFTER ALL, IT wasn’t every day that one vomited ink onto another person, and he wanted to take every precaution. Or he needed another favor from her. Tess couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Okay,” Eliot said, starting the car. “I don’t think I need to ask you this, but I’m assuming you haven’t been eating pens lately or anything.”

  “No,” Tess said. Part of her wanted to flip down the mirror and look at her face, but she knew she’d look like a nightmare. She had no doubt her mouth and chin were stained with dark ink, and it would be a miracle if she got into the dorm and past Anna without a discussion.

  “That’s what I thought,” Eliot said. The streetlight flipped to yellow and he didn’t even try to make it through the intersection, which was annoying. Actually, it was annoying just to be in the car. Her dorm was not a far walk, and she doubted that his was, either. It was a frivolous waste of gas to drive around like this. “You’re sure this is ink?” Eliot asked.

  “It’s ink. I know it when I see it.” She was too defensive, but whatever. For what it was worth, she did feel bad about puking on him. “We shouldn’t have taken that book out of the tunnel in the first place.”

  Eliot snorted. “That’s hardly the point.”

  Maybe, but it felt like the point. Tess couldn’t deny that her recent purge felt like the result of the book. Her stomach turned at the memory of its wet heat in her arms.

  Even worse, being in the car with Eliot and seeing him in this half-flickering darkness was like calling the devil and summoning him out of her dreams. She was no longer certain she could separate the two.

  But if the book was
gone, the devil should be too.

  “Here’s the deal,” Tess said, exhausted of the entire adventure. “We found the book. It was creepy, and we shouldn’t have taken it out of the basement in the first place. But it’s back now. It’s back in its tomb. So we should forget about this whole thing and move on. Okay?”

  The light turned green. She stared straight ahead, focused on that green light. The car didn’t move until the person behind Eliot beeped at him, and then they lurched into the intersection.

  Eliot didn’t say anything.

  “Turn right here,” Tess said, even though she would’ve been far more comfortable if they’d remained in silence. Eliot turned right.

  “And again here.”

  No answer. No words. It was as if Eliot felt his silence was response enough, as if he was already cutting the imaginary ties of the grimoire that was the only connection they shared.

  Tess’s block came into view. She didn’t want to say anything. Maybe if they kept driving, she wouldn’t have to speak another word for the rest of eternity, or until they ran out of gas.

  “This is me,” Tess said.

  Eliot pulled over. They sat for a moment in silence, listening to the too-soft drivel of the radio. Tess reached for the gearshift and put the car in park for him.

  “May I walk you up?” Eliot asked.

  “I don’t think you should.”

  The glow of the dash made him look like a demon from a children’s story book, all angles and edges. She forced herself to look away from him. “When you say that we should forget,” Eliot said, “do you mean that you don’t want to speak anymore?”

  “I’m not going to ignore you, if that’s what you mean.”

  Eliot took a deep breath. “I don’t want this to be the end.”

  For a brief moment, he was Eliot and the devil melded as one and she was certain, if she watched him long enough, he would look over at her with eyes black and empty.

  The book is gone and so is the devil.

  “Well, I don’t want …” She searched for a word, but settled for waving her hand vaguely towards the outside. “This to continue.”

  He sighed. “No, not the book—not that. I fancy you, Tess. And I’d like to … keep seeing you.”

  Seeing her? Though their time together did tend to be heart racing and illicit, it wasn’t for romantic reasons. She had no feelings for him other than general annoyance.

  At least, that’s what she told herself. Frequently.

  Another glimpse at him, then away; quick so he wouldn’t see, so he wouldn’t know how often her gaze found him. He had his eyes trained straight forward at the bumper of the car parked on the street in front of them. License plate: STK8789. Silvery gray. Dented on the left, below the taillight.

  Eliot Birch was soaked in ink she’d vomited onto his sweater.

  And he liked her.

  And he was absolutely insufferable.

  And yet. The catch of her breath in the stacks. The awareness of his hands gripping hers. Tess forced it out, forced it away.

  It wouldn’t be hard to knock that dent out, Tess thought. The scratch through the middle would remain, but the bumper would be smooth again.

  Whether she liked it or not, Eliot Birch was a Falk boy through and through.

  “That wasn’t a question,” Tess said.

  She heard Eliot’s sharp intake of breath, but she couldn’t look at him. To look was to reveal everything. “May I take you to dinner?” Eliot asked, softer this time, less certain, if that was possible.

  Eliot was someone who, if she gave him the ability, had the power to hurt her. He was the son of someone she reviled, too charming to be trustworthy, knowledgeable in things that scared her. The idea of falling for Eliot scared her.

  What did she want? Everything. Nothing. All of it, all at once.

  Eliot Birch, with his perfect tie tucked into his once-perfect sweater, sitting in his perfect car, was everything she’d come to hate about Falk. The book did not change that. Nothing, Tess thought, could change that.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tess said. She unbuckled her seatbelt.

  A silence. She rubbed her chin, trying to wish away some of the pigment. “Right,” Eliot said. “Of course.”

  “I should get going,” Tess said.

  The car door squeaked a little when she pushed it open. Her stomach was settled now, but full of some other sort of tension: butterflies, maybe, or regret. Tess darted up the stairs to her dorm. Anna was nowhere to be found, which was good for the ruin that was her face, but bad for the ruin that was her heart.

  On a whim, Tess looked out the window, down at the street. Eliot hadn’t left. The headlights of his car shone against the silver of the one in front.

  Tess closed her eyes. All over again, in her mind, she turned and felt him catch her. Again and again, this: his hands on her arms. The sudden, close smell of waxy vanilla, clean pages, a tinge of sweat. Looking up and seeing him staring back at her.

  When she opened her eyes, the car was gone.

  twenty two

  IN THE STACKS, ANGER DRIPPED FROM THE PAGES OF BOOKS and seeped up from the floor. Your ink coalesced in the corner of the third floor, running down aisles and up stairs and over metal shelves until you came together into the hands and eyes and hips and hair. You, not-Eliot, stood tall in the darkness. There was no need for light. You knew where you were going.

  You stretched out your hands, watching the ink shift underneath your skin. This form would only last so long. What you needed was a body. Flesh and blood, bones and gristle, and a fresh, beating heart.

  You were a boy once; you remember your body, you remember your flesh, you remember how it felt to—

  You remembered nothing. You were not that anymore.

  There was only one body you could occupy without destroying it entirely: that of she who had released you. Tess. The human girl.

  Others would disintegrate under your touch, fall prey to that horrible mortal decay that claimed all, in the end. You could use them, but not forever.

  But the girl’s body—that would be enough for you. She had called you. The touch of your hand would not stop her fragile heart. Instead, together you would be something powerful. Something immortal.

  You smiled, the sharp edges of your teeth catching your lips, blood-colored ink trickling down over your chin. Freedom beckoned.

  twenty three

  Tess

  TESS BRUSHED HER TEETH UNTIL HER SPIT WAS NO LONGER black. In the shower, she scrubbed every bit of her body twice, then a third time after washing her hair. Dressed in shorts and a soft crewneck of her father’s, she applied a face mask.

  She did not think of Eliot.

  She did not think of tunnels.

  She did not think of books.

  When she wanted to, Tess was very good about tiptoeing around the edge of a subject and skirting away when her mind got too close. Refusing to think about Eliot was like refusing to think about the cost of Boston Conservatory and how much she wanted to go there or how the fields smelled at home right around July when everything was blooming.

  Tess brushed her teeth again for good measure, turning around and around, trying to hum her way through a concerto around her toothbrush. Except when she spun, she caught the edge of something in the mirror. She spat out the toothpaste and faced her reflection head-on.

  Something was dribbling from her nose in her reflection. Dark, brackish blood. Tess pressed a hand to her nose and pulled it back, but her fingers came away clean. Her eyes flicked back to her reflection.

  Blood poured from her nose, from her eyes, from her ears. The skin of her reflection flaked away, leaving just a skull behind.

  Shit shit shit, Tess thought. She pressed a hand to the mirror.

  The devil stood behind her. His mouth cracked into a grin.

  She whirled, breath catching in her chest. There was no one there, no one behind her. She was alone in the bathroom, just as she had been before.


  Maybe Anna was right. Maybe she was overworked and hallucinating. Tess sat on the lip of the bathtub, pressing her palms against her eyes. It was going to be fine. It was common for stressed-out people to break. She didn’t know how to be less stressed—or how to stop seeing things like that—but maybe if she relaxed for the night, things would be okay.

  She could put on a podcast, wait for her face mask to dry, and not think. Not puzzle through the day or the week. She intended to do just that, except … except. When she stood, there was a handprint on the mirror, smudged in something dark.

  Tess got up to take a closer look, anxiety prickling down her spine. Fingerprints and lines of the palm, all defined against the glass, that were certainly not there moments ago.

  Tess lifted her hand. The fingerprint was much too big to be something she’d left behind.

  The devil was not gone.

  Her phone rang, briefly terrifying her—not alone not alone you are not alone here—but she hastily wiped the print away and went to find her phone.

  It could be Nat. And it was.

  Tess put the call straight to speakerphone. “Hey, kid,” she said. Her throat still felt a little rough, and her voice was gravelly. She hoped Nat didn’t notice.

  “Tessy,” Nat said. “Did you talk to Mom about coming home for the Fourth?”

  Well, this wouldn’t be the relaxing conversation she’d hoped for. “I didn’t,” she hedged, mostly because she herself could not bear the thought of it. And that wasn’t including what Nat’s reaction to everything would be. After all, Nat wouldn’t be ready for the shock of it: most of their furniture sold, except for the girls’ rooms, which had been left untouched. The pile of bills on the dining room table, unpaid.

  No, they would not be going home for the Fourth of July. And no, Tess wasn’t sure how to tell Nat that.

  But her sister had to find out eventually.

  “Bus tickets are expensive,” Tess finished, hoping this was enough. Nat wasn’t oblivious; she knew a bit about the family’s money troubles, even though no one had gone out of their way to explain things to her.