The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 34

Mei ganeth, mei cathona. Mei ganeth, mei cathona,” Cassandra chanted into the stale air of her stone viewing chamber.

The group gathered around her—Cael gripping her left forearm, Xenia gripping her right, and Tristan behind her, his warm hand resting on her neck—lit by the green glow from the vial Xenia held against Cassandra’s tattoo.

Cassandra’s muscles stiffened, and a tremor ran through the group as…

…Opheron lifted the lid off the barrel, shaking his hair out of his eyes before chucking the lid aside and peering over the rim.

“What is this?” he muttered in a croaking, slithery voice. He bent into the barrel to pluck up a linen-wrapped parcel, then popped his fangs and bit through the twine.

His rasping laughter echoed off the brick walls as the diamond necklace glittered in the beam from the streetlamp.

He’d been spying on the Brittle Lady earlier when she’d emerged from the barrel. And based on the furtive glance she’d aimed inside before leaving, he knew she left something behind.

A sharp gasp cut the silence, and he turned to replace a pale, fat man sniveling at the entrance to the dark alley.

“What are you—,” the Broker choked out, cut off as Opheron rushed to curl his hand around the man’s neck.

“Where is the other half of the formula?” he hissed.

“I don’t—I don’t have it,” the man blubbered. “She wouldn’t sell it to me.”

“Who wouldn’t sell it to you?”

“That bitch of a Sister—the old cunt with the gray pigtails.”

Opheron clucked his tongue and darted it out, sniffing the pathetic man. His fear tasted like rotten mushrooms, sickly-sweet and loamy. Delectable.

“Why?” Opheron asked.

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Then it seems we have no further use for you.”

The old man’s screams pierced his ears as…

…the memory faded away, and Xenia pulled the vial from Cassandra’s wrist.

“Fuck, that was intense,” Tristan said. “The mind of a Deathstalker, especially one as deranged as Opheron, is not a pleasant place to be.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now, Birdman,” Cassandra teased. “There are four more of these.” Tristan chuckled and squeezed her neck.

“So Opheron did know about the formula. And was working through the Broker to obtain it. But for who? Pagonis?” Cael asked.

“Sounds like they have at least part of the formula. But did Cora give it to them, or did they obtain it from a different source? Sister Kouris, perhaps? Maybe they forced it out of her,” Xenia mused. “I bet the other half was written on that missing page from Trophonios’s manuscript. Did Cora take it? And if so, why did she decide not to sell it if she’d gone to all the trouble to steal it in the first place?”

“Four more to go, people. There are answers waiting if you’d stop yapping,” Cassandra scolded as she held the next shining green vial towards Xenia.

She said the words as Xenia uncorked the vial, then pressed the opening to Cassandra’s tattoo. She slowly began…

…walking down a black marble corridor, the triangular beams of lit sconces severing the darkness. The click of his boots echoed as he turned the corner into a short hallway lined with heavy metal doors.

He smiled at the banging, the cell’s captive pleading for release. Something bloodthirsty stirred inside of him, along with a pang of disappointment that the thick door masked the scent of the desperation no doubt accumulating within.

He continued to the end of the hall, rapping twice at an ebony door before a hissing, slithery voice called out. “Come in.”

He entered a bare, closet-sized office. Nothing adorned the walls, not a single token or decoration—a temporary space. Another Deathstalker sat behind the desk, his serpent’s eyes glowing yellow, and his long black hair pooling on the surface. The scar bisecting his lips shone silver against his pale skin.

“Sit,” the seated Deathstalker said. “Have you retrieved it yet?”

Opheron didn’t need to ask; he knew Alexei referred to the other half of the formula. “We did not. The Broker has disappointed us.”

“Fool. You should’ve known better than to trust that bumbling oaf. Our master will not be pleased.”

“We made sure he paid for his incompetence. And we know who has it. We will retrieve it imminently.”

“You’d better, Opheron. The implantation won’t work on Fae minds—only human ones—if we don’t get the other half of that formula.”

He bristled at Alexei’s rebuke. As peers in this operation, both answering to the same master, Alexei had no right to act as if he were above him. After all, they were working toward a common goal.

The dissolution of the Windrider Empire and their ridiculous Accords.

A chance for the Fae to resume their dominion over the humans. To breed them, hunt them. Feed upon fresh emotions rather than consume Delirium, that paltry substitute. How Opheron ached for it.

“We did replace something just as valuable.” He pulled the diamond necklace from his pocket and spread it across the desk.

Alexei’s hissing laugh snaked around the small room.

“The Broker was of some use after all,” Opheron said. “And so was the young human female who stole it.”

“Our master will want to speak with her.”

“Indeed.”

“Find her. And get the other half of that formula, Opheron. It’s all we need to move forward.”

He nodded sharply, then turned away to open the door…

…and the stone chamber reclaimed Cassandra’s vision.

She shivered and turned to Tristan. “The scarred Deathstalker, Alexei. He’s the one who attacked me in the alley last night, after I…after I killed his sister.”

“Fair assumption that they’re both working for Pagonis?” Cael interjected.

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting back and forth as if doing calculations in his mind. “When do we think this memory occurred?”

“It could be any day between last Saturday and yesterday,” Cassandra answered. “Why?”

“When I saw Pagonis with the Vicereine and Maksym at the Secretariat yesterday afternoon, he still claimed to be missing the necklace,” Tristan muttered. “So either he’s lying, or Opheron and Alexei are working for someone else.”

“Did you hear what he said about the other half of the formula? They need it to implant memories into Fae minds,” Cassandra said.

“I don’t even know how to process the news about their plan.” Tristan dragged a hand down his face, gripping his jaw. “The dissolution of the Empire? How?”

“Sounds like they intend to dose Fae with implanted memories through Delirium,” Cael reasoned. “That’s why they need the necklace, for the Thalassium. How else would they access such a large amount? Buying it would raise suspicions, and the seam along the Dordenne is heavily guarded by the Empire.”

“Even if you’re right, where would they get a memory realistic enough to fool the entire Fae populace?” Cassandra asked.

“The Artisan,” Tristan and Cael said in unison.

“Who?” Xenia asked.

“She’s practically a magician,” Cael said. “She’s a former Shrouded Sister from the Temple in Meridon in the southern colonies. She’s centuries old. Abandoned the order after she met and fell in love with a female Windrider who turned her Fae.” Tristan glanced towards Cassandra.

Cassandra’s head swam, and Xenia looked like she was about to fall out of her chair. “A human can be turned Fae?” she whispered.

“It’s illegal, punishable by banishment and often death. We’re forbidden to speak of it in the colonies,” Tristan explained. “The Empire doesn’t want humans to know of the possibility, for obvious reasons.”

“And yet you two share the knowledge with us so casually?” Cassandra gaped.

“We don’t follow all the Empire’s rules,” Tristan answered, brushing her arm with his wing. “And we trust that you won’t share the information outside this room.”

“There must be very few of them if I haven’t read about it,” Xenia said.

“Only a handful in the millennia that Fae and humans have existed together,” Cael responded, rolling his neck and rubbing at his shoulder. “The Artisan’s Windrider mate was from an influential family who convinced the previous Emperor to take pity on her. She’s banished from the continent for life. The Artisan and her mate have lived together in Meridon since the Turning.”

“How is it accomplished?” Cassandra asked, nonchalantly rubbing her hands over her skirt. Tristan’s intense gaze burned into her, his inner conflict apparent even in the dim light of the chamber.

“I think it’s best if we don’t divulge that,” Cael cut in before Tristan could open his mouth to answer.

“How do you know of her, of the Artisan?” Xenia asked.

“There was a case about a hundred years back,” Cael said. “A mortal serial killer served tainted Delirium to his human victims before slaughtering them. The elixir scrambled their memories. One of his intended victims escaped, and the Artisan pieced her memories back together so we could identify and catch the bastard.”

“So she was only reconstructing existing memories, not creating new ones?” Cassandra pondered.

“That’s the extent of her powers. Her ability to pull and view memories was enhanced by the magic she gained when she became Fae. She can’t create memories, but she can manipulate existing ones, craft an entirely new narrative,” Cael said. “Perhaps that’s what Opheron’s master intends. To implant a manipulated memory that would somehow spark a rebellion among the Fae.”

“Why would the Artisan be willing to help them do something like that?” Xenia asked.

“Do you think she has any loyalty towards the Emperor or his father? After they punished and banished her lover?” Tristan snarled, too aggressive an answer for Xenia’s innocent question. Cassandra puzzled at his outburst, tucked the information away for later.

“No, I suppose not,” Xenia answered sheepishly, wringing her hands.

Cassandra turned to Cael. “Can you contact the Artisan? Find out who’s been commissioning reconstructed memories?”

“I’ll clear it with the Vicereine and fly down today,” Cael nodded.

Cassandra signaled to Xenia to queue up the next memory.

The third and fourth memories were useless, defensive blocks from Opheron’s unconscious mind. The third showed twenty minutes of the Deathstalker’s disgusting thoughts about the women he passed as he strolled through Dienses Square. And the fourth revealed a disturbing scene of him and Bitsy involving whips and chains and lots of groveling…on his part.

“Kinky,” Tristan winked at Cassandra, who blushed so hard her face almost melted off. Xenia didn’t look much better. “Given the size of him, I can see why he’d get off on being shamed. Baby carrot was an apt description, Daredevil.”

Cael chuckled, running his hand through his ash-brown waves.

In the final memory…

…Opheron peered around a column to spy on the lone, kneeling figure praying before an altar of candles in the small chapel. The flames cast quivering shadows onto the wooden pews and red brick walls.

Two long, gray pigtails drooped outside the figure’s knees.

His sources were correct. The Sister had been hiding in the Church of the Forgotten. Too bad her midnight vigil was about to end.

He slipped away from the column and crept up the center aisle, careful to keep each footfall silent and not alert the Sister to his presence.

The Sister didn’t stir until Opheron was upon her. The old woman’s mouth twisted in horror as she spun around and tried to run. She wasn’t fast enough.

His hand closed around the Sister’s throat. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” the Sister choked out, playing dumb.

“Where is the other half of the formula? You had an arrangement with the Broker that you did not fulfill. Why?”

The Sister’s eyes darted towards the statue of Nemosyna behind the altar. The Goddess of Memory was seated, draped in flowing fabric with a beatific expression on her ghostly marble face.

“He was not worthy of receiving it. The Chronicler herself sent me a sign.”

“We have other, unpleasant ways of retrieving it.”

“I would sooner die than give it to you.”

He laughed, a rasping hiss. “Good answer.” He popped his fangs and raked them down the Sister’s cheek, licking at the blood that seeped from the shallow gashes. He let go of her throat, and the old woman crashed to the floor in an unconscious pile.

He hauled the Sister over his shoulder, and the woman’s ragged breathing echoed throughout the grave-silent chapel. The Sister was not dead… yet.

He knew where to take her to get the information his master sought. The extraction tool was banging against that metal door in the black marble hallway.

He strode out of the church and into the night…

…as the final memory trickled out of Cassandra’s mind, and Xenia recorked the vial with worry dampening her bright green eyes.

“We need to replace that hallway,” Xenia said, her face pale and her mouth tight.

“Time to take that trip to the Serpent’s Den.” Tristan folded his wing around Cassandra.

Her body seized in panic. The Serpent’s Den. She’d never forget the name of the pleasure house where her father had been killed, the night her and her mother’s lives had been irrevocably changed. She sucked in a subtle breath, trying to calm her rising anxiety.

“We shouldn’t waste a minute,” Tristan said. “Cass and I will go as soon as they open tonight to talk to that courtesan. Let’s regroup when we get back. Cael, think you’ll have returned from Meridon by then?”

“Probably,” Cael nodded. “But we should get someone to cover the watch.”

“I’ll ask Hella,” Tristan said, then addressed the Sisters. “She’s a fellow Vestian, one of our best.” He answered Cassandra’s unasked question. “And just a good friend.”

“None of my business,” Cassandra shrugged. Tristan squeezed her shoulder, smirking.

“I’ll head to the library after my shift,” Xenia offered. “I haven’t found any mentions or images of that hallway, but it doesn’t hurt to keep looking.”

“Do you want to come to Meridon with me?” Cael asked quietly.

Xenia’s eyes widened at the offer and she frowned. “I… I wish I could, but I don’t think the abbess would allow it.”

“Sure, I get it,” Cael stammered. “It’ll be faster if I fly alone anyway. See you all later.” He cleared his throat, and Xenia’s fretful eyes tracked his mad dash from the room.

Xenia exhaled a propulsive breath and shook her head. “My shift’s about to start. I’d better get going.” She ran from the room almost as fast as Cael had, her swift footsteps whispering across the stone floor.

Cassandra turned to Tristan, who’d taken Cael’s abandoned seat next to her. “Wow,” she said. “What is going on between those two?”

“Letha only knows,” Tristan answered. “Cael doesn’t talk to me about it. He prefers to bottle everything up and suffer in silence. Been that way for as long as I’ve known him.”

“Which is how long?”

“Almost a hundred and fifty years.”

“I can’t even fathom knowing someone for that many years.”

Pain rippled across Tristan’s face, and Cassandra guessed their thoughts had just traveled the same path. She was mortal. He was Fae. Any relationship between them, even if it never progressed beyond friendship, was destined to end tragically, her mortal lifespan a mere blip in his centuries-long existence.

She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, eager to change the subject.

“Do you want to hear something interesting?” she cooed, scooting closer.

“From your lips? Absolutely.” The spark returned to his eyes, his handsome features illuminated in the dim room, as if the light itself wanted to caress him.

“Mother Superior can’t scent what we did last night.”

“Fascinating.” He gripped her hand, intertwining their fingers.

Cassandra glanced down at their clasped hands, unable to look him in the eye as she continued, barely able to get the words out. “I was thinking…since it’s safe…that you might want to…help me discover more.”

Tristan sucked in a sharp breath. “Please elaborate on more. Immediately.”

She chuckled and dared a peek at him. His eyes were molten and he was sitting on his other hand. As if he didn’t trust himself to free it.

“What we did in that alley was…overwhelming. In the best way. And based on my secret memory collection, I know there are other pleasures to be had that wouldn’t get me kicked out of the order. I just…” she hesitated.

“High Gods, if you don’t finish your thought, I’m going to explode.”

She huffed a laugh, but his patience had worn thin. He tugged her into his lap, resting his forehead on her shoulder, and ran his wing down her back in soothing strokes. “You don’t have to be embarrassed around me, Cassandra. There’s nothing you could say that would make me think any less of you.”

She closed her eyes, relishing his proximity, and pushed through her nerves. “I understand if you don’t want to, or if you’re not interested. But…when Alexei attacked me last night, I thought I was going to die.” He kissed her shoulder. “Mortal life is so fragile. I don’t have time for regret. Like you said, I should do at least some of what I want, right?” She braced herself as she came to the heart of her request. “I want to explore what pleasures this body is capable of.

And I want to do it with you, Tristan.”