Page 52 of These Godly Lies
“They are,” he admits, sobering. “The closest is in Kolkata to the east, but I’m not sure if it’s worth trusting. Not when Marcia knows we’re somewhere in the country.”
Anna thinks of how quickly they had to leave the temple—how they barely escaped on the train. It wouldn’t be a stretch for her to suspect they’re desperate enough to risk it. “And the next closest?”
“We’re going to Mumbai.”
Where they are going isn’t what she asked, and Anna is far too old and knows him far too well to believe the deflection wasn’t purposeful. Brows rising, she pins him with her stare. “Is your gold in Mumbai?”
He reaches for her, fingertips trailing the inside of her arm before curling around her palm and tracing her heart line. “The ocean is.”
Anna frowns, shifting her hand until their fingers lace. “You have gold in the ocean?”
“Yes,” he murmurs, bringing her hand to his lips and placing a kiss to her knuckle. “Though likely not in the way you’re thinking.” His gaze lifts, snaring her in a stare as searching as it is gentle. “I ask that you permit me to withhold the rest of the details. Not for the sake of secrecy, but rather to let you experience it for yourself. Some things are better when approached without expectations.”
Anna tries to smother her smile but fails tremendously. “I’m a little old for surprises, don’t you think?”
“Never,” he answers, and in that sighing breath is a reverence that attests to the truth in which he holds it. He nods toward her other hand, the one still wrapped in his crude bandages. “Let me see.”
She offers her hand without protest. As he unwraps the cloth, she’s unsurprised to see the skin has already healed over—the base of the amputation shiny with scar tissue.
Khiran runs his thumb over the stump so gently, if she closed her eyes she might think she imagined his touch. His eyes are dark with grief. “Does it still hurt?”
“No,” she answers, relieved that it’s the truth. “The pain stopped before our train did.”
He nods, gaze turning thoughtful. “You heal faster than I do.”
“Your wound was considerably more serious,” she reminds him, her own eyes drifting toward the side he’s been favoring. “If you were human—”
He doesn’t let her finish the thought. “I’m not.” He places a gentle kiss to her scarred flesh, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “Neither are you.”
It feels like an echo of his old assurances—that fear is for mortals and not for them. In this, it still rings true. Death isn’t something they need to concern themselves with. Silently, they agree not to think of the ways in which it feels like a lie.
They don’t leave the room until dusk. Which, if Anna is being honest with herself, provides a small amount of relief. She was determined not to let her condition prevent her from going out (especially after Khiran’s assurances) but it still feels immensely easier when she knows the low light will help shield her from stares. She thinks of her conversation with Jiro in the garden she’s homesick for—how she tried to capture in words the difficulties that come with being different. Of beingother.
The world has come a long way from where she started. A few hundred years ago, she wouldn’t have risked leaving the privacy of their room without the pale patches of her skin carefully hidden. Maybe, she thinks, there will also come a day where she won’t have to fear the stares or the disgust. For tonight, she will trust the night to mask her differences.
Khiran seems more relaxed than when they arrived. Annasuspects the four hour nap has helped his body heal enough to make the pain more manageable. He’s certainly moving more like himself—less guarded as they weave their way through the crowded streets. It helps, she thinks, that everyone seems to be going in the same direction.
A bonfire has already been lit, the flames high and as bright as the smiles of the people dancing around it. The beating of drums fill her ears, a lively pulse, as they find a seat at the edge of the festivities. Anna watches the flames grow higher as they feed it, her throat tightening with a pang of grief.
“They light the fires to drive out the evil spirits,” Khiran explains, the reflection of the flames casting shadows in his eyes. Anna wonders if he’s thinking of Eira, too, then wants to shake herself. Of course he is. How could either of them think of anyone else when the fires burn this brightly? “And to celebrate the burning of the demoness Holika.”
“You did promise me the story,” she reminds him, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“There are different versions, different customs even, for this particular one.”
“Mm,” she hums. “Tell me your favorite then.”
The short, few seconds of hesitation make her think the one he tells her is easily his preferred version. “Once, there was an evil king who coveted power above all else. He was gifted immortality. No man nor animal could hope to kill him. Arrogant, he forced his people to worship him like a god.”
Anna scoffs. “Sounds familiar.”
Khiran’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Prahlad, his son, refused and continued to worship Vishnu. His father was furious, of course, and bid his daughter to trick him. His daughter, Holika, being impervious to fire, tricked her brother to join her on a pyre as it was lit. But in a twist of fate, Prahlad emerged from the flames unscathed and Holika was reduced to ashes.”
“And the king who believed himself to be a god?”
His eyes gleam, wicked and violent with fantasies he’ll never share out loud. “Slayed.”
Anna tips her chin to the sky, eyes tracing the familiar shapes of the constellations hiding there. “I hope our story has a similar ending.”
