The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

The humans seemed to be in a tra

nce, jaws hanging open, eyes rolled up in their heads so that the whites were all I saw. They spoke not, nor did they move so much as a muscle. They hung suspended, helpless, tormented by their own evil deeds.

“The unforgiven,” Oriax sneered.

“Unforgiven by whom?” I asked.

“By themselves, you stupid ——. They are weighed down by their own guilt. These are but a fraction; many more, millions and billions more, fill the darkness below, and have surrendered to their fates. These few have risen toward the light. And there, mini-Messenger, Mara the backstabber, Mara the one who put the gun in Samantha Early’s hand and drove her to blow her brains out, Mara, the murderer who now tortures those no worse than herself on orders from a foul and foolish goddess who struggles to keep all of this—this!—in existence.”

Oriax’s screams had not hurt me, but her words now did. They were the truth, at least part of the truth.

Did I not deserve this same fate? Had I not caused a death?

Did evil not still live within me? Why had I come here? To do good?

Daniel was right: I had come to find a way to erase Ariadne from Messenger’s thoughts so that he might be free. Free to love me.

“Here is your moment, Mara, here is your opportunity. You are now not fully human, you are a messenger’s apprentice, a creature of the gods. And this is where you choose your path.” She no longer raged; her tail no longer whipped at me. She no longer had the Oriax voice that had weakened my resolve at times, but she had the power of truth, however incomplete it might be.

“One path is the messenger’s path: horror, the terrible guilt that grows in you with each summoning of the Master of the Game, and above all, Mara, the loneliness. Or . . .”

She let it hang, and I knew I should remain silent, I knew that anything I said would help her to destroy me, but I could not stop myself from asking.

“Or . . . what?”

“Or,” she said, “you can become one of us. You can serve Malech. You can work to end this foul system, end this universe, let it start over again and hope the results are less cruel.”

I was silent then, and this time the silence worked against me. I had not rejected her offer out of hand. She knew I was listening.

“The beauty and power that I have can be yours. Yes, Mara, you could go back to Messenger no longer the awkward, lovelorn girl, but as you saw me: irresistible, beautiful beyond description. You can go to him then, and he will want you, Mara, and only you. He knows me too well, Messenger, but you? He is already half in love with you, even as unimpressive as you are. Imagine a Mara perfected! Imagine a Mara whose most casual glance can reduce any human to slavering lust.”

Did I form the picture in my head? Yes, I confess that I did.

Did I imagine Messenger seeing me exalted, powerful, impossible to resist?

Yes. Yes.

Yes.

But what I said was, “You know, Oriax, it’s the twenty-first century, and I don’t really think I want to be some comic book fan-boy’s notion of a supervixen.”

She blinked. Stared, nonplussed.

“Actually,” I said, “I was thinking of going to medical school.”

Easy to say? No. It sounded easy, I sold it that way—breezy and facile—but no, it was not easy.

Not easy. And yet, I felt my mouth stretch into a smile.

“Maybe pediatrics,” I said to Oriax’s blank red animal eyes. “Or maybe research, if I have the science chops.” I shrugged. “And I think I do.”

Then, I took a step toward her. And another.

“Everything you said is true. I am guilty, Oriax. I have done evil. But there’s only one path forward after that: to fight evil. That’s my only redemption. I didn’t know that before, didn’t know it when I decided to come here on a selfish and cruel mission to destroy Messenger’s love for Ariadne. You’ve given me a choice, and in that you forced me to think. Your effort to tempt me only reminds me that I’m not that Mara anymore. I am a servant of Isthil, and I work to keep the balance, to resist evil, to protect the good. To keep existence from blinking out.”

“You’re a fool.”

“You made your pitch. I’ve made my choice. I’m not fool enough to want to be you.”