Page 60 of Each Their Own Devil

His eyes darted to Violet, who had said nothing this entire time. Her face was mostly in shadow, but even so, he didn’t think he’d be able to read her expression if he tried. He didn’t like that she was here, but he had to trust that if Violet summoned the Authorities to the Hiding Place, then she and the Messenger would be in as much danger as the rest of them.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but the person who interrupted was his wife. Her eyes had been half-open the whole time, but now they widened. “Nic. It’s okay.”

“Where are you?” Nicolas asked. He tried to keep his voice steady in front of the Messenger, but he could barely stop his fingers from twitching around the hilt of his blade.

“I’m not sure.”

“Tell us what you see, Wrath.”

“I don’t see anything. There’s nothing left to see or taste or smell or touch. It’s so fucking quiet. I don’t think this is where the First is. I think… I think this is the Avaddon.”

The Messenger leaned forward, her winged mask rotating more quickly than usual. “Aleja, take a deep breath. You are not nowhere. You are sitting in a room in the Hiding Place’s palace—which is garishly decorated, by the way—surrounded by the other Dark Saints and the Knowing One.”

Nicolas couldn’t keep his gaze from shooting to the Messenger, now that her attention was turned to Aleja. All of their previous conversations—often held with blades pointed at each other’s throats—had been carried out in the context of war, and it was still jarring to hear her voice soften.

The Messenger truly believed that his wife was the key to their salvation.

Nicolas felt as if a blade had been rammed through his throat. He’d been a fool. He’d refused to believe the truth, all the while telling himself he was being rational because the alternative meant that he couldn’t protect his wife or any of the people he loved for that matter—most of whom were gathered in this room.

“Help her, Messenger,” he said.

“What do you think I’m trying to do? Aleja, are you still with me?” the Messenger snapped back.

“Yes, both of us are here. Me and the me that was.”

The frown that tugged at his mouth was almost painful. She had confessed to the voice inside her mind weeks ago, though he had always suspected that a small piece of Aleja remembered her former life in ways she could not express—even to herself. Aleja had claimed the voice had stopped entirely after her final Trial.

The Messenger spoke before he could. “What does this other you say?”

“I don’t know. I can’t understand,” Aleja replied, screwing her eyes shut.

“That’s impossible,” the Messenger told her. “Right now, you should be able to understand anything you put your mind to.”

“I know,” Aleja whispered, though it didn’t seem to be an answer to the Messenger. “But what do you want me to do? There is nowhere else to go from here.”

“Who is Al talking to?” Amicia asked quietly. It was the first thing she had spoken in front of the Messenger. During the last war, Amicia’s followers had been decimated. She had always attracted the lovers—the pacifists. Many had refused to fight. Those who had, Aleja had urged to return to their strongholds in the mountains. Some had listened, but for those who didn’t, the Lady of Wrath had done all she could to ensure they were sent to safer borders, less active territory. The Dark Saint of Lust had never forgotten it.

“She’s talking to herself,” Nicolas said, his voice low. “Her past self. Or, at least, the version of herself that her subconscious came up with during her centuries away from the Hiding Place.”

“Then please fetch the other fig out of her satchel. I know she left the First Tree with more than one,” the Messenger barked.

Aleja’s backpack was crumpled in the corner. The one she had carried from the human realm had fallen apart after a few weeks in the Hiding Place, and she had yanked this one from a pile in one of the many rooms filled with the detritus of the last war.

Nicolas had never considered a world where she would have her memories back. He didn’t need to. The Aleja that sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him was just as much his wife as she had ever been. They would make new memories. They would create new inside jokes, nicknames, and words only they understood—a million little gestures and glances that wouldbecome a new language of their own. Just like last time. It would be like falling in love again and again and again.

“No,” Nicolas said, finding the word did not pain him.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” the Messenger snapped, this time turning her mask to him. The feathers trembled at the edges.

“She did not agree to eat the second fig, and none of us will feed it to her.”

“What are you saying, Knowing One?” Orla asked from the opposite corner, where she and Merit had both leaned forward to watch. “If our lives will be saved by giving her the fig, then give your wife the damn fig. I promise she will forgive you.”

“I might actually agree with that,” Taddeas added quietly. “And it’s not just because I want her to take over as High General. A fully trained Dark Saint will be more than useful. I don’t know how many more times I can?—”

“No,” came a shaky voice from the shadows. Violet’s freckles were pale pink against her skin. “If Aleja told you not to do it, then don’t do it. The Authorities are afraid of her.”

“That is all the more reason—” Orla began.

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