Psyche

Chapter Sixteen

One day, I almost hated August Park.

Then I woke up, and realized she wasn't the one that burned my city to the ground.

***

She slept on the couch, making little noises in her sleep, shifting, rolling around a lot. If she'd given me the chance, I would have offered to take the couch, like a gentleman should, but maybe humans don't do that . . . ? Anyway, she was laid out on the sofa before I could stop her, laid her head down, and conked out.

I shoveled food down my throat, because I knew I had to eat, and then decided to make the most of the night.

I sharpened my weapons. I dusted off the 'ole broad swords and long swords and great swords. I pulled the daggers, and the combat knives, and my dear old friend: Mr. Rampuri. I hadn't taken out my rampuri knife in awhile-it should be labeled: ONLY TAKE OUT IN TIMES OF SEVERE NEED.

After obsessively cleaning my weapons, I cleaned my shit. I went through every part of the house, burning evidence in the kitchen sink, packing my bag, a beat-up sack I had kicked around the world more times than memory could recollect.

I ended up breaking down more than cleaning, in the end, in the upstairs bathroom, drinking myself into a stupor, the bottle clinking on the tile. I shattered more than one glass.

. . . The flames rising from her roof . . .

. . . The flames licking around Iris's face . . .

. . . Her gold blood dripping on the ground as carried her away from her shattered life . . .

. . . My people's blood pooling at my feet . . .

. . . The look in a child's eyes when their family . . .

. . . Is dead to them . . .

I dug out some clove cigarettes I had pick-pocketed off a minori in Bogota, Columbia, in 1883, lighting it up with a lighter. I breathed in the smoke, my eyes tearing at the corners. I could feel the magic get cut right off.

For a Canem, magic is a gift by blood. You do not learn it. It is instinctual. After all, you can't become a Canem. You can become a vampire. You can become a werewolf, or a spirit. Hell, you can become a fey or demon. But you can't become a Canem.

So, the only way to get rid of the magic, get rid of who you are, get rid of all the pain-and the memories-is to pump you blood so full of toxins that your system shuts down. Common side effects: hallucinations, dehydration, dizziness, vomiting, loss of consciousness, and, I am hopeful-at least sometimes-one day, death.

I hope one day, I damage my body so much with this shit, and I don't wake up in the morning.

But that is a different story.

That night, I blacked out in peace, clove smoke in the air, liquor pooling on the floor.

The prime example of Canem discipline and duty.

***

I dreamed about the day I became a Servant of the Goddesses.

The Canem are the only ones able to (intelligent enough) actually see divine beings. Maybe it's because we supposedly descended from them-I don't know. I'm not old enough to recall.

Anyway, anyone who wants to can try to . . . reconnect with their ancestors . . . if their time is right. If they've trained hard enough. If they're dedicated enough. I suppose, even you could do it, if you had the heart.