The Lives that Argue for Us by Ivana Skye

Author:Ivana Skye
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ivana Skye

Yairēn’s staying in Eden a few more days; two cross-continental flights in one week, however exhilarating, would have her on the edge of exhaustion and thus disaster. So. Graciously, Elīya, this friend-of-Lucifer’s-friend invited her to sleep on her—and Tamar’s, and another Holy named Safirah’s—couch as long as she needs.

And, well, Jibril would just kill her if she failed to check out the coffee shops in Eden.

So on this third morning here, Elīya and Tamar have invited her to their favorite local coffee shop, the one with beehives on the top. It’s in the central part of the city and so a little far from their apartment, which Yairēn can’t help but think would be less of an issue if people rode horses here more commonly, or even used skates—but Eden is a motorcycle town, and everyone knows it.

Tamar’s taking her coffee in an ibrik; Elīya, espresso with a small amount of milk. Yairēn’d decided to try one of this shop’s specials and is only now managing to try a second sip. The honey and milk combine to make something sweeter than she’d ever associate with coffee; she purses her lips.

“So that’s how I figured out almost every single book on Theurgy sucks,” Elīya’s saying, finishing up her story, and Yairēn’s about to respond when—

—Tamar falls right out of her seat.

Shit. Yairēn’s springing out of her seat but Elīya’s beaten her to it, moving in a blur to be leaning right by Tamar, asking, “Are you okay? What happened?”

And Tamar’s staring up at the ceiling or would be if she had eyes but what she has instead is—wavering, or flickering, not as if at the edge of going out, but as if in a wind and entirely likely to turn into a wider conflagration than it already is. A Holy’s fire rarely goes so far from what is burned, and yet this fire seems about to touch Tamar’s nose.

This is what it looks like when a forest fire starts, Yairēn thinks. The very moment after lightning hits.

“Tamar???” Elīya’s saying.

“Hhhhhholy,” the Holy slurs. “Holy fuuuuuuuuck.”

Now Yairēn’s crouching near her, if just because standing uselessly seemed too awkward. “What’s happening?”

Tamar’s motionless except for her smile which flickers in and out like her embedded piece of God flickers outward from her eyes. “Fffuck,” she says again. “God’s… God’s liiiike…” Slowly, she raises her hand and makes a completely incomprehensible gesture. “Yyyeah. Like that.”

“Tamar, that explains literally nothing at all and you know it,” Elīya says.

And Yairēn’s just a bystander here, useless—unless. “Should I, uh—yeah, I’m going to try to check it out myself.” And so she opens her mind to God and—

Suns bursting and fire that is fire upon itself like punching wings pulsing outward in shock just like a spark falling or a scream that rises like the flame inside the movement of everything and the everything is within nothing and now the fire, the fire flickering—

When Yairēn disconnects from the prayer and opens her eyes, she’s on the ground too, wings trailing over her legs.

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