The Heartless Divine: The Heartless Divine, #1

By Varsha Ravi

In this unexpected twist on mythology inspired by Sangam India, reincarnated lovers find themselves bound together, connected to their past by a centuries old tragedy that only one of them remembers.

In the ruthless martial empire of Naja, Suri is the crown's unfailing blade. But the princess dreams of a life exploring the lands beyond the borders, unshackled by blood. The king and queen offer her freedom, at a price: marriage to a king she's meant to kill, and the death of Athri, a kingdom her family once nearly destroyed.

Her only obstacle lies in the mountains above the Athrian capital of Marai, where a young prophet sees a world struck by catastrophe—a world where a girl lies dead in the temple of the fire god, and the city lies burning below.

Centuries later, Suri lives with no recollection of her past lives. Haunted by her family's deaths eighteen years ago, Suri sees the boy bleeding gold on her doormat as an opportunity to unravel the mystery of the car crash that took their lives. But not all gifts are created equal, and the boy soon proves to be more trouble than he's worth, a dangerous link back to a world of gods and wishes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Varsha Ravi
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201783891

Book preview

1

Lyne

Suri opened the door to a boy bleeding out on the pockmarked concrete, her dollar-store welcome mat crushed under him. He turned his face up—gold eyes glowing in the darkness—and shifted, struggling to find purchase on the blood-slick floor. 

She had never believed in gods, even when she probably should’ve, and yet, faced with this, she thought, Maybe this is a sign. Maybe—for once—I’m on the right track.

There was a soft sound of contempt from below, and then the boy drew himself upward, swaying. A black coat, damp with rainwater, was draped loosely over his shoulders. He was bare underneath, flashes of warm brown skin visible under the blood. It streaked him from collarbone to ankle; drops touched the edges of his jaw and danced through the ends of his hair. 

Abruptly, he stilled. The blood continued to splash against the floor, but the rhythm of the drops had become at once dissonant and hard-edged. One arm reached out for support and found it on the very edge of the stairwell. 

He glanced up, and she knew people like him were the reason why her grandmother painted runes on the outside of her shop in wood ash, the reason why she had installed three locks on Suri’s front door when she had moved out.

The boy’s irises were the color of gold coins, molten and overwarm. His face was fine-boned and lovely, though oddly austere in the way of sepia photographs. In the dead of night, he looked to Suri like a bloody shred of some unfinished fairy tale. 

Distantly, she could sense the fear and confusion she should’ve felt, the winding, plaintive urge to shut the door in his face and dial Miya. And yet, she also felt a whispering sense of truth—the kind that makes itself known only when everything else has gone to sleep. 

Suri fidgeted with her sweatshirt and thought about how to arrange her words. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re bleeding. Am I supposed to know you? Do you know what happened to my family? Finally, she managed, Are you okay?

He held her gaze with the kind of careful blankness that warned of well-hidden venom, a cottonmouth that had stretched into something human-shaped. Though she was sure there was more to him than just clear, amber-eyed disregard, it was impossible to discern the depth of what lay beyond—the identity of it. 

The boy stared, swaying again before stumbling forward and into her arms. Soft, labored breaths warmed the side of her neck as his arms hung loosely around hers. 

Blood wet her skin—there was so much of it, nearly unbearable in the awe-damp silence. 

Outside, a police siren wailed. She looked down at the form in her arms—bloody, warm, and slight. Slight in the way of a thin, sharp knife; slight in the way of a blossom in the first days of spring.

You could just leave him in the street, a voice whispered, still haunted by the empty glow of his eyes. But it was late, and he was bleeding to death, and she had not been raised to be malicious, only wary. It wasn’t as if his venom was pointed at her.

And, there was always a chance he knew something about what had happened that night—a night like this one, born of blood and death and fire. He certainly held enough impossibility in his bones for the notion to be worth considering.  

Suri heaved another sigh and retreated into the cramped apartment with him in tow. She pulled an arm free and dragged a throw blanket from the couch and toward the puddle in the hallway. Pinpricks of red shone through, turning the faded gray fabric a deep crimson. 

The boy shuddered when she laid him down on the sofa; a brief, contained spasm. He curled into himself, fists pressed into his blood-slicked chest. He had been so still when conscious. A ragged sound escaped the corner of his mouth as she pulled his hands from his skin. 

The first aid box, she thought, staring at the lukewarm blood on her hands. Then the boy exhaled brokenly, and she left to find bandages and rubbing alcohol.

Suri wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to see when she peeled off the black coat he wore. More blood. A deep, gushing cut to his abdomen—a bullet wound, perhaps. 

There was nothing.

Nothing visible, at the very least. She wiped off the blood; even through the terry cloth, she could feel the thick, blistering warmth of his skin. It was a miracle he hadn’t died from fever alone. 

The blood came away, revealing a thin, warped scar over his heart. Beneath it were the vestiges of another set of interlocking cuts, slotting together to create a star.  

Tight around the scars, locked in thick, concentric bands, were three dark circles. They looked like tattoos, each one constructed out of a different set of tangled runes. They shone under the blood, glossy and uninterrupted save for flashes of brown skin in between the rune lines. 

Still, there was no entry wound in sight. The blood had stopped coming, and for a moment, she wondered if it had ever really come from him. Nausea hollowed her. Had the young girl known she was tending to a wolf? Had she cared?

Suri shut her eyes and scolded herself. It didn’t matter whether he was a boy or a wolf or a ghost. Even if he wasn’t bleeding, he was still feverish. She brushed her hand against his forehead as she set a damp towel on it and winced from the abrupt, angry heat.

His breaths had begun to even out. The area around the faded scar was an angry orange gold; it held a soft, burnished glow where she’d expected to see the warmth of a fading bruise. 

She sat back on her heels and stared at him. The boy clearly wasn’t from here, but what defined here was still debatable. The smart choice would’ve been to go to the police and drop him on the steps like a bag of potatoes, even though she had never trusted the Lyne Police Department and probably never would. The smarter choice would’ve been to go to her grandmother, but it had been only a week since the academic year had started and Suri wasn’t sure if she wanted to be subjected to a set of disappointed lectures this early on into her newfound freedom. It certainly wasn’t life or death, not anymore. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the boy was no longer dying. 

The kitchen clock flashed a fluorescent reminder that it was nearing four. She dragged herself to her feet, wiping bloodstained hands on her pajama pants. You should’ve left him, she thought sullenly. Even if he ended up proving useful, she couldn’t help but think that he would likely be more trouble than he was worth. 

Suri tilted her head up to the ceiling and scanned the cracking plaster. If any of the gods are listening, she thought, please add this to my cosmic karma credit. 

She tossed the soiled throw in the trash and cleaned the hallway, falling asleep a little before dawn. Curled on the carpet at the foot of the sofa, she was so close to the boy that she could hear his rough, ragged breathing between nightmares. Above, the gods listened, and they mourned.

Kiran woke with a knife to his neck, held with enough pressure that it had begun to draw blood. It trembled against his skin, the edge shifting from side to side. He thought absentmindedly that whoever was holding it had very little experience with knives. 

Pain yawned through his body as feeling came back into his limbs. Thin, searing blood pooled at the crook of his throat but nowhere else—he’d been cleaned. And tied up. He snapped his wrists in their bonds once briefly, to test the integrity of them. His heart sank. He’d have to get the knife away from his throat before he could wriggle out of these. Perhaps if he were stronger, it would have been a simple matter of pressure and flame. But he wasn’t—he reckoned that was how he’d gotten restrained in the first place. 

He shifted, and felt the knife digging into his skin as his captor made a sharp sound of surprise.

Could you take off the blindfold now? he asked evenly, voice catching on the last word. 

What? It was a girl, maybe his age. Fear had cut away at her consonants and pressed her vowels up against them. 

The blindfold, he repeated, a rasp more than anything. He didn’t see why she’d taken the time to clean off all his blood if she’d meant to cut him again. 

Oh, she said. The pressure of the knife eased, the cotton falling to his collarbone. Blood began to dampen it.

Thanks, he exhaled, and flicked his eyes up. The room was dimly lit, strewn with haphazard piles of dog-eared novels and cleanly highlighted papers. To his right was a compact table and a kitchenette, neatly slid between the door and a hallway that led away into darkness. To his left lay a sliding glass door, and the city beyond. 

His captor was seated on the couch in front of him, hands folded anxiously in her lap. Dark circles ringed light brown eyes, and dried blood spattered her sweatshirt and pajama pants. They had cartoon clouds on them, bright white with curved black mouths. 

When she spoke, it took a few seconds for him to realize her words were directed toward him.

Who are you?

He drew in a long breath, but before he could respond, she’d clenched her hands into fists and added, Where are you from? Why are you here? Did you know my parents? Do you know what happened to them? Why was there so much blood?

The last word hung in the air, echoing. The questions held an imperative edge to them, him the genie, this odd, foreign world his lamp. He coughed a laugh and tilted his head down, indicating his neck. I’m not sure the past tense is necessary.

The girl scowled and grudgingly slid off the couch. Her hair was cut in a choppy, dark bob, and strands fell away from her face when she stood. In the faint lamplight, her features were barely discernible but achingly familiar. A thoughtless, painful familiarity, recognition written into every line of his heart.

I know you, he thought. But his memory was a simple blackness, and he wasn’t hopeful about what he’d find if he tried to look in. 

She bent toward him hesitantly, unknotting the blindfold and dabbing it against the shallow cut on his throat before tossing it on the table. His coat was neatly folded beside it; he saw it and felt cold with relief. Glancing down at himself, he found a loose T-shirt, with the words Splashy Splashy Water Park! lettered across it in bright blue. 

A human, taking the time to tend to him. Even if they somehow knew each other—unlikely in this lifetime, considering her questions—it was unsettling. It had been a very long time since someone had thought to take care of him. 

The girl was back on the couch, tilted forward with a trembling kind of anticipation, all fear and daring and mortal curiosity. Her kitchen knife lay abandoned beside her. It was ichor-slick, but she hadn’t seemed to notice the blood’s pallor. Shock had most likely rendered that irrelevant. 

So, she started, clearing her throat. A faint ache rolled through him, flames reigniting in his veins. Slowly, though. Too slowly for it to be natural. Who are you?

Who are you? he thought. Someone old, someone sad. His memory was a gaping chasm, negative space nudged into something that held form. He remembered what he was, but he doubted she would believe him. Kiran lifted his shoulders in a shrug. I don’t know.

She narrowed her eyes. "You don’t know?"

Kiran nodded. I don’t remember anything, besides my name. Nor how I ended up in your apartment, so I apologize if I did anything untoward.

The girl’s mouth twisted in something that resembled scorn. Were you drunk?

I don’t drink, he informed her. At least not mortal liquor. And I haven’t touched alcohol in years. You would have smelled it when you cleaned me up. It was an odd kind of lie—he had not touched alcohol in years because he had not been here in years. 

Her expression softened imperceptibly. Then you must have amnesia. She hesitated a moment, and then asked, "You don’t remember anything?"

Just my name, he said. Not much else. Why?

Nothing, she said, faintly miserable in a way that betrayed that it was, in fact, something. Despite himself, he felt a pang of remorse. She turned away, hair shadowing her face. Why me, though? Why this apartment? It’s up five flights of stairs.

If I remember, I’ll be sure to let you know, he replied. Already, details were beginning to return—dry, useless things, like his age and the color of the sky the day he’d last died. May I leave now?

She snorted in derision. "You were bleeding out in my hallway last night with what should have been a fatal fever, and now you’re saying you have amnesia. I’m taking you to the hospital to see a doctor."

What? he said, mildly alarmed. No. No need for a hospital. Wouldn’t mind getting out of the ropes, though.

She ignored him. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you to the hospital right now.

My blood is the color and consistency of champagne. I have been running a fever for the past seventeen hundred years. He opened his eyes; she was still staring at him, inexorable. He nodded at the coat. I don’t have money on me. I won’t be able to pay for it.

Family?

Kiran shook his head, and she pursed her lips.

I’ll pay for you, then.

Nausea was thick and heavy in his stomach. Some people, he thought, were just too nice. Kindness got you nowhere in life—at the end of the day, everyone ended up in the earth all the same, whether it was a knife to the front or a knife to the back. And out of all those in the world, mortal and immortal and everything in between, it was ironic that she was being kind to him. Wrong god, he wanted to tell her. Instead, he leaned back against the chair. The grain was rough against his skin where the shirt slipped down. What’s your name?

Her brows drew together. Suri.

Once again, he felt that odd clench in his heart, phantom pains that traced fault lines. Suri, I’m thankful that you didn’t just let me die in your corridor last night. I really am. And I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help. But I won’t go to the hospital—I can’t pay, and I don’t want you to. He forced a smile, but he wasn’t good at those, so he could not be entirely sure of its strength. Besides, I’m sure my memory will return soon enough. And then you would have wasted your money for nothing. 

Instead of answering, she rose. As she began to undo the knots tying his wrists together, she said, Then you can stay here. I can take the couch, and you can take the bed.

The rope fell from his fingers, and he turned around in the chair to meet her gaze. This close, she smelled like blood and citrus blossoms. Her expression was pinched in a way he recognized from people he could not remember—there was no winning this conversation. He’d just have to stay for a few days, and leave when she wasn’t around to notice.  

Kiran pointed at himself and said, Sofa.

The skin around her eyes creased in a way that belied the hard set of her mouth. Fine. It smells like blood, anyway.

Suri crossed to stand on the other side of the couch. She hung a patchwork blanket over the edge, and turned to him, patting it. You should get some rest. Give your brain time to restart.

What time is it? he asked, yawning. Sleep sounded like the best idea he’d heard since he’d been reborn—already, his limbs were leaden, his eyelids heavy. And yet, a faint sense of discomfort followed. 

Two in the afternoon, she said, switching off a lamp beside the kitchenette. Sleep well.

Kiran stayed in Suri’s apartment for two days and two nights. On the third morning, he woke up with the memories of his mortal life. And then, he left.

The boy was a ghost in the house. For the most part, he seemed content to sleep through the days, his coat draped over him on the couch. If Suri put food in front of him, he ate it—if not, he never asked. It had been two days since he’d first woken, and she still didn’t know his name. 

Two days, and she was still no closer to understanding him. 

Part of her wanted to just chalk his appearance up to coincidence—say he was just some hedonistic foreigner who’d lost himself on a trip and his memory in the process. Everything about that strange, unsettling night was explainable if she took it apart for long enough—he could’ve gotten in a fight, he could’ve been wearing contacts, he could’ve hit his head. He could’ve been a fugitive, for all of his discomfort with hospitals, but she suspected he was just a runaway. 

But, for the most part, she didn’t have time to think about him. Her grandmother had allowed her to move out on the sole condition that she continued to help out with the shop. Running errands didn’t mean she forgot about him, though—her gaze would catch on the golden statuettes of gods that the Enesmati grocery mart’s employees lined up along the edge of the counter, and her thoughts would inevitably flit back to those feverish eyes. 

Suri considered asking a couple of the shop owners for advice about the boy—he certainly looked Enesmati—but figured the information would get back to her grandmother soon enough, and then it would be an interrogation and a lecture on letting bloody strangers in after dark. 

In the afternoons, she had classes at the university. It had been her mother’s alma mater, and sometimes she would find herself tracing foreign buildings and worn footpaths, wondering if her mother had walked the same ones. Recently, though, all that warmth and pain had faded, and she found herself tuning out lecture after lecture, caught in the memory of that night. Meanwhile, Dai doodled small black blossoms on her wrist, and Aza scrawled song lyrics in the back of her notebook, both of them bickering over which twin was oldest, and who would pay for dinner. 

After classes, she either went straight home—uneventful, as the boy usually only woke up for small intervals that consisted of making the necessary preparations to go back to sleep later on—or walked over to Beanzz, the coffee shop where she worked, a small, hooded place that always smelled of potpourri and cigarette smoke. 

Suri was at Beanzzz when she started feeling the chest pains. At first, they didn’t really bother her—they were sharp, shooting pains that faded for moments at a time. She was taking a pair of cappuccinos over to a couple beside the window when the pain swelled jaggedly. She lurched to the side, managing to put down the coffee on a nearby table before forcing herself down into a seat. Agony ripped through her, taking away her capacity to breathe, to speak. She distantly registered her coworker handing off the platter to the couple staring over at her. 

Tarak knelt beside her and placed his hand over hers. Concern twisted his expression. Should I call your grandmother? The police?

She almost said yes, if only to stop the pain—to give it a reason. But something told her that neither choice would do those things, so she simply shook her head, tried to even her breathing. It’s fine. I’m fine now. I think I’ll just have to leave early.

He nodded. Yeah, of course. I’ll let Rick know what happened.

Outside, cold, icy rain had begun to come down. It could only be described as sleet in early September. Another abnormality in a week of strange terror. 

Suri hadn’t even brought a coat—the forecast had assured a clear, sunny day, and she’d had no reason to assume it would be anything otherwise—so she hunched her shoulders and set off in the direction of the sharp, dragging pain. 

By the time she found him, the pain had evened out to a faded, sleet-numb ache. Tolson Park was on the residential outskirts of Lyne, where the apartments met old shopfronts and houses built decades ago. It was a small enough park, dotted with oak trees and centered around a limp artificial lake, but the empty horizon made it look larger than life. It was damp and cold, and right now it looked decidedly pathetic. It was empty of all the usual dogwalkers and small children, empty save for a few families of ducks and the boy. 

He was crouched beside the ring of trees that surrounded the lake, leaning unsteadily against the bark of an old oak. 

When Suri finally spoke, her voice was pitched high, a little hysterical from anger. What are you doing?

The boy glanced up, unsurprised to see her. Rain streaked his cheeks like tears, tracing the curve of his faint smile. He held up his fist, revealing cupped breadcrumbs. Feeding the ducks.

She gestured wildly at the sleet, at the cold. She couldn’t fully parse her own anger, but figured it had to do with his absolute lack of it, his flippant amusement in the face of inevitable hypothermia. "You could die."

Really can’t, he said blithely, but he was more rainwater than flesh at this point, so his words didn’t hold much weight. Suri tilted her head up, partly in exasperation and partly to look away—he was holding her gaze with an odd, inscrutable intensity. 

Finally, she exhaled. "Why are you even out here? And don’t say you came to feed the ducks."

He cocked his head, the amusement dissipating from his expression. Suri, you came because of the pain. Right? When she nodded hesitantly, he tossed the handful of breadcrumbs to the side—the ducks leapt toward them—and cleanly ripped his shirt off, revealing rain-damp skin and blood leaking from cuts like broken glass. 

She knelt beside him, drawn by the strange magic of the blood. The boy simply continued to watch her, still as she lifted a hand and traced the three black marks on his skin. A single cut ringed every tattoo, dripping thin, clear, golden liquid down his chest. 

This close, he was still fever-warm, the cold sleet sliding down his skin uselessly. His voice was low and quick, nearly secretive. I meant to leave today. Don’t ask why, it’s no longer important. I’m thankful for your help, but I could not stay forever. Regardless, I started walking around in this city of yours— he nodded toward the gray skies, the metal and rain. And I only made it as far as here, the edge of this tree. Then the pain started, and the cuts began to bleed, and it did not cease nor slow, not until you got here.

She looked up at him, but there was no trace of humor in his expression. Beside them, the ducks had finished eating the breadcrumbs, and then they had gone, leaving them alone in this glittering rain-soaked world, where blood ran gold and escape was impossible without agony. 

Suri sat back on her heels. I’m taking you to see my grandmother.

Surprisingly, he didn’t immediately protest. Then his mouth twisted, a ghost of irony flickering on his face. Is she a doctor?

No, she said, pulling herself to her feet and extending a hand. She’s a seer. And she’s probably the only person in the city who knows how to get your memories back.

The boy pulled the dress shirt back on and followed Suri silently through the streets. They made an odd pair, her shivering and pulling her soggy sweater closer to her chest, and him soaked yet untouched by the cold. 

The few times she did look over, he was still studying her face, examining it with a strange intensity. As if questioning why, out of everyone in the city, they’d gotten stuck together. She couldn’t help but feel the same, and yet—a small part of her didn’t mind, still wondering if this was a sign he was connected to their deaths in some strange way.

By the time they made it to the shop, it was already nearly seven, and the sign hanging on the door had been turned around, the colorful, crooked letters of an eight-year-old spelling out CLOSED. Suri peered through the rain-streaked glass and saw a flicker of light in the corner. Halfway through the knock, a series of five rhythmic sequences she’d worked out with her grandmother when she was eleven, the door swung open. 

Rana Gayathri was old as stone, and built just as sturdily. She was a few inches shorter than Suri, with a coil of silver-gray hair tied up in a braided bun and almond-brown skin lined with age and warmth. Usually. Right now, she was glaring up at Suri, her arms folded over her embroidered tunic. Then her gaze slid sideways to the boy. He’d been catching raindrops in the palm of his hand, observing the splash and the mist of them, but at the movement, he glanced up and waved cheerily at her grandmother. Her expression darkened, and she glared at Suri again before nodding toward the shop. You’d better come in.

They followed her in, dripping on the wet hardwood as she painstakingly lit the candles that sat on every surface. After lighting the last one—a carved, black candle Suri had gotten her for her seventy-fifth birthday a few months prior—she blew out the match and left it on the table next to the shadowed, bead-strung archway that led into the back room. She then turned the full force of her disapproval on both of them, which meant she was turning it on Suri—the boy wasn’t paying attention as he sat fingering the soft, serrated leaves of a holy basil sapling beside the sleet-frosted window.

You, she said, jerking her head toward him. The boy glanced up, pointing delicately at himself. She scowled. Yes, you. Why are you around my granddaughter?

You know each other? Suri asked uneasily.

  The boy spoke before she could, gently stroking the plant. "I’d reckon she can tell what I am, judging from the runes on the walls."

What he was, as if it was something strange. As if he wasn’t human. 

Her grandmother refused to look away, but her mouth twitched in a frown. What do you go by, down here?

A crooked smile split his face. Call me Kiran.

He showed up at my door the other night, Suri cut in, spreading her hands in explanation. She suspected the two of them would either get along rather well or loathe each other, and things weren’t looking good so far. Bloody. Half-dead, burning up with fever.

"And you let him in?"

"He was dying, anda, she emphasized. I couldn’t just leave him."

You should’ve, she said, sharp with horror. She glared over at him. You should’ve told her to leave you.

I lost consciousness, he said. Also, I’ve lost my memory, so I’m unsure why I was at her door in the first place. And on top of that— he pulled the lapel of his shirt to the side, and even in the dim firelight, the three bleeding tattoos stood out in stark relief. There are these.

Her grandmother didn’t speak for a moment, and when Suri glanced back at her, her expression was set with an odd, foreign dread. Outside, sleet lashed against the windows, a thudding, arrhythmic beat. Finally, she shook her head in an exasperated kind of resignation and then jerked her head toward the back room. Come with me. Suri stepped forward, but her grandmother shook her head. Not you, him. The godling.

The boy—Kiran—raised his eyebrows, but followed her nonetheless. The beaded curtain shimmered and shook behind them, leaving Suri in the shop alone. Godling, she’d said, and he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked surprised. Suri felt a little sick to her stomach; she’d asked the gods for a sign, and they’d left one on her doorstep, gift-wrapped in ichor and foreign blood. 

They returned a good half-hour later, after Suri had gotten antsy and swept the entire place clean and reorganized the bookshelf alphabetically. She’d changed into old pajamas, and straightened the blanket around her shoulders when she saw her grandmother’s expression. She fixed Suri with a sharp glance, but she didn’t look angry. Mostly, she still looked a little discomfited, a little unsteadied. 

What is it? Suri asked. The god had wandered back to the holy basil plant. Is he okay?

Her grandmother heaved a faintly frustrated sigh, and joined her at the table where she did the majority of her readings. The tablecloth was dark blue, dotted with silvery-white constellations that shone in the firelight. "Long story short, no. You really should not have let him in, muru."

Suri bristled. He wouldn’t have been okay either way. At least he’s no longer bleeding outside of someone’s apartment. What happened to him?

Kiran turned from the plant, the shirt open on his shoulders. He pointed first to the outer circle on his skin, then to the middle one, then finally to the center ring. "Your anda recognizes them."

"Sankhili," she said distastefully. Chains, seals. It’s dark magic, bad magic. Someone must have marked him a while ago. The first one binds his memory, the second his power, the third his soul. It’s meant to tether him to you.

Suri frowned. I don’t have them, though.

She shook her head. You don’t need to. Your friend here, only with that kind of magic could they fully restrain him. Since you are human, his tether works to bind you, as well. They will fade, but it will take time. Until then, he will have to stay.

Only with that kind of magic. Not only did magic exist, it existed in slender, scarred boys who looked to be her age. She glanced back at him, disbelieving. So he’s a god? Of what?

Oh, don’t tell her, Rana, he said pleasantly, smiling over at her. Since when was he on a first name basis with her grandmother? I want to hear what she guesses. 

Cruel, she scolded, but she didn’t look too angry with him. Suri felt a little like her life was imploding around her—she had tied up a god and held him at knifepoint and now her grandmother was seconds from adopting him, and no one would tell her what he was a god of, and gods were real and magic was real, and—

Suri, her grandmother said steadily. Since he’s tethered to you, he’ll have to stay with you for the time being, no matter how much I dislike it. Is that okay with you? If it isn’t, I’m fully prepared to let you two move back into the attic back here—

Except the attic was the size of a cupboard, and Suri’s old room had been renovated into a meditation room, and no matter how much Suri’s head felt like a watermelon, this was reality. And reality meant that, practically, he had to stay with her. She drew in a long breath. No, no, it’s fine. He can stay with me. For how long?

"As long as it takes for the innermost sankhili to fully break, Kiran cut in, nearly apologetic. The rest I can do without, but that one will take the longest, I think. The bright side is that as it fades, we’ll be able to go further and further from one another without as much pain. He offered them both a grin, candlelight lining the sharp planes of his face. Don’t worry too much, Rana. I’ll play by the rules, keep an eye on her."

You’d better, she said firmly, but it was more out of habit than out of true threat. In the firelight, she looked aged beyond words, concerned in a way Suri had never seen her. 

I’ll be fine, Suri repeated, reaching out a hand and putting it over hers. She looked unconvinced, but simply sighed and looked away. 

Your friend will be working at the shop to pay for his board, she added, nodding around her. Even soul-bound, he’ll be able to help out with a few of the chores you usually do.

They worked out the logistics of the agreement for a little bit longer, and as the sun went down outside, the sleet left with it. Before they left, Suri’s grandmother reached out and picked up the holy basil sapling Kiran had been examining and handed it to him. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. 

For good luck, she explained. You seem to like it, and it seems to like you, too. Take care of it for me.

They made their way back to her apartment in the damp fluorescent night, his arms wrapped around the sapling and his shirt still inexplicably open. Still, he didn’t seem cold.  

You’re really a god, she said, but it came out like a question. 

He glanced sideways at her, golden eyes glittering in the dark. It was eerier when the sun went down, the jagged glow of them so starkly inhuman. His easy warmth in the shop had disappeared, leaving his expression utterly unreadable. Eventually, he simply said, Yes.

Like the statues in the temples, she continued, unable to stop. Like the drawings on the talismans. An Enesmati god.

He nodded, surprisingly indulgent, and her breath caught. Which one are you?

Suri had never bothered to learn her gods—even growing up with a seer, she hadn’t found it relevant. She was a born atheist, a cynic from the moment of her family’s death. The notion of gods, of immortal, kindly beings meant to guide and protect them, hadn’t ever sat well with her. But now that she was confronted with one, she tried to scrounge up what little knowledge she could recall. 

There was a goddess of the sky, and one of the earth, and one of the ocean, and beyond that she could remember nothing. Kiran didn’t look interested in answering, either, but finally, he said lightly, The hot one.

She made a rude gesture, a kneejerk reaction that she immediately regretted. What if he smote her? Did gods still smite people? 

Instead, his mouth curved in a faint smile, and he held out his free hand. I truly feel bad for inconveniencing you and your grandmother, so I will give you a hint—it does not define me, but it may lend a little bit of context.

A ball of fire sparked to life in his palm, trembling and gold. She leaned close enough that it was warm against her cheeks, unbearably bright, and watched it burn, watched it breathe. It was real, true fire, borne from oxygen and divinity. It was impossible. It should have been impossible. 

God of fire, she said, when she’d meant to say, what the hell? 

He shook his head, curling his fingers and extinguishing the flame. Close, but not quite. Fire is something I have control over, but it is not who I am. Call me cruel, but I’d still like to see you guess. 

Without the fire, without the sunlight, he seemed carved from shadow and smoke. It made a little sense that he was a god—he was beautiful and young, but he did not look youthful. There was a sense of divinity in his gaze, a faint chill. 

They turned onto another street and walked down the pavement to the front of Suri’s apartment complex. Who would want to hurt you?

Pardon?

Why would someone bind you? she asked, following him up the stairs. "The sankhili, I mean. Who would want to get rid of your power?" And why would they bind you to me?

Kiran tapped his temple. An old enemy, I’d suppose. Clearly, I can’t remember who, but they must have marked me before my last death.

Your last death? she asked, struggling to hold his gaze as she pulled her keys out of her soaked book bag. I thought gods didn’t die.

We do, same as humans, he affirmed, waiting for her to unlock the door and then ducking into the warm, dry apartment. It’s a little harder to kill us, though. And you all have a little more freedom in when and how often and whether you want to reincarnate; for us, it’s usually more about how long we have until we’re needed in the mortal world. Currently, he said, nodding down at himself, I’m probably on sick leave.

The phrasing made her smile a little, and so did the sentiment, the idea that one day her family would return and have a chance at a kinder, more peaceful life than the one they’d left. She looked away, then jerked her head toward the sliding doors. Come with me. You can put the plant out there.

So he followed her out onto the balcony, the waning moon casting the piteous garden in a milky glow. His expression was oddly grave, drawn and pale. He knelt beside the jasmine flowers and set the sapling down beside him before taking a blossom between his index finger and thumb. He held it with an odd gentleness, enraptured, before glancing up at her. As if by explanation, he said, I used to have a garden a little like this. Is this yours?

She lowered herself to the cement and sat beside him, crossing her legs. Yeah, my grandmother helped me plant it when I moved out. The jasmine is my favorite, too.

He shook his head slightly, in disbelief or dissuasion. Dropping the blossom, he took the sapling into his hands again. I used to know someone who loved jasmine.

I thought you had amnesia, she said, raising her eyebrows. 

Kiran ran the pad of his thumb against the edge of the sharp, sweet leaves. I’ve remembered my mortal life. I assume the memories of what came after pose more of a danger to whoever bound me.

You were human? she couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. He glanced up, amusement and something sharper mingling in his gaze. 

I was, for a bit, he replied, oddly remote. I’ll tell you the story, one day. For now, we should get this planted. I’m not entirely sure I remember how.

And yet, strangely, he did remember. Every single movement came to him with such swift, unwavering precision; Suri was reminded of what her grandmother had said when she had given him the plant, about it taking a liking to him. 

God of tulasi? she ventured hopefully when he’d finished and leaned back on his heels. God of plants? Planting? Agriculture?

You’re insulting several different gods right now, he said, reaching his hands up to scrub at his face. They left streaks of dark soil on his cheeks, and it made him look a little more human. After a moment, he spoke, his eyes still fluttered shut. You should sleep, Suri.

Is this because you told my grandmother you’d take care of me? she asked without heat, already beginning to straighten up. A contradictory part of her wanted to stay to spite him, but she was tired, and she had an exam the following day. 

It has nothing to do with what I told Rana, he reassured her. It’s late, and you’re tired. Wouldn’t want you to faceplant into the soil, now would we?

Suri made a rude gesture at him, and he smiled without opening his eyes. She moved to return to the apartment, then glanced back. For a single, oddly indulgent moment, she watched him trace the night sky above with closed eyes, and then she shut the screen door behind her. 

Judging from how little Kiran knew about pop culture and modern history, Suri estimated that he hadn’t been in the mortal world for a while, at least a century or two. But he picked it all up quickly enough. 

Even though he knew functionally how most of the machines in the apartment worked, that didn’t stop him from sticking his head in her room late at night and informing her he’d broken the hot box gadget