The concert ended, and the Littles walked away in ones and twos. One of them walked by with a basket of green onions and stopped near Celia, avoiding eye contact. “Your tent is over there.” He pointed. “I helped set it up.”
“Thanks.” Celia tried not to stare at the bony vertebrae that jutted out of the back of his neck.
Her tent stood apart from the others, sitting in the middle of some long grass. It was a small hoop-frame with duct tape wrapped around the crooked pole joints. One of the Littles had spray-painted onto the side of it: Celia’s Tent: KEEP OUT! Do Not Bother Her In Any Way Whatsoever. Do Not Do It!
Celia walked to it, making sure to keep her distance from every Little. She opened the tent, stepped inside, and zipped it back up. She ran her hand over the shadowed letters on the tent wall where the message had been spray-painted on the outside. She pressed her fingers against the thin material that separated her from the Littles.
Celia lay down on her back on top of the sleeping bag and felt the difference between here and her soft mattress at home. The lumpy surface of the grass pressed against her spine. Exhaustion washed through her, but she didn’t close her eyes.
The air grew darker, and the light in the tent dimmed to a grayness she could almost touch. The Littles clanged pots, talked, argued, and laughed across the warehouse floor. Celia thought about all the other times in her life when she’d been scared at night, sure that a monster was out there, trying to get her.
Her body ached with exhaustion, and it felt good to be still, but her head kept going over the different parts of her day. She thought about her name being written all over the graffiti wall, and how the girls she thought were her friends had turned on her. She remembered being carried into the underground and how desperately cold the world had gotten. Her mind seemed to think that if she reimagined what had happened over and over again, she could make it all less terrifying.
It grew darker, and the noises outside died down until the only sounds were soft snores rising up from across the warehouse.
Celia stared at the roof of the tent. She imagined Littles creeping toward her outside, with steps perfectly executed to make no noise. She imagined smoldering horns and red eyes, curled claws and jagged teeth. With just one lingering touch, she’d be ruined.
Demetri will protect me, she thought. But what if he crept toward her too? What if he led a horde of Littles to her? What if they were all about to tear her tent apart right now?
“I’m safe. I’m safe,” she whispered, then stopped and listened to the silence. Every hair on her body stood on end, and she felt sure they were about to attack. Any second now. Any moment.
Celia sat up and unzipped the door of the tent. There was no way she was going to lie there and wait for something bad to happen.
A few yellow orbs hovered in the air, shining with spelled light. Pools of glowing orange smoke lay on the ground. Otherwise the sanctuary lay in darkness.
Celia searched for any monsters about to attack, but there was only stillness, along with the wonderful smell of a warehouse full of Littles. Celia squinted at an indistinct shape ten feet away. Was that one of them? No. It was just a small shrub. Her breath slowed as seconds ticked by and nothing happened.
Celia stepped out of the tent with bare feet. The air felt cool, so she reached back inside and slung the sleeping bag across her shoulders like a long shawl. Slowly, so as not to wake any sleeping monsters, she walked through the grass, and then along the soft, carpeted paths in between the mazes of garden plots and tents. With every step and inhalation of the sweet-scented air, Celia’s night fears faded. They are Littles who don’t attack kids, she thought. At least they try not to. Before long, without knowing where her feet were taking her, Celia found herself near the center of the warehouse, at the grassy hill with the tree at the top of it. Her bare feet sank into the loamy earth and soft grass as she walked toward the tree at its middle.
A few feet away from it, she heard a sigh.
“I knew you’d come here. It keeps happening, no matter what.” Demetri spoke with a quiet voice. He leaned against the far side of the tree with his knees pulled up to his chest. He didn’t look at her but held his yo-yo string stretched between his hands and rolled the plastic part back and forth.
She smelled his apple and sunlight scent and didn’t know if she should turn around and go back to her tent.
“You might as well sit down.”
“Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to have to be rescued today.” She sat on a patch of short grass near, but not too near, him. “I didn’t want to need saving.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“But you’re mad at me?”
“I’m mad at the whole world, but not you.” He leaned against the trunk of the tree and stared out at the warehouse. “I don’t like how you and I keep meeting. It makes me think I have something to do with this doom prophecy, but I can’t imagine what.”
She nodded and looked out at the warehouse and all the little houses and gardens. “It’s really neat here. You’ve built something amazing.”
“We barely get by. We work all the time just to keep it going.”
“I guess you don’t like praise?”
He laughed, and it was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh in a happy way. She wanted to keep hearing it.
Celia ran her hands through the grass and plucked a blade out of the ground. She wound it around her finger like a ring. “Everyone here looks up to you. They love you.”
“They like the idea of me. They like the hope I offer.”
“You mean . . . it sort of sounds like you’re saying you’re lonely?”
Demetri looked away.
“It’s okay,” Celia said. “I know all about that. Ever since I came to this city, everyone has ignored me. Well, not since the earthquake, but before that . . . it felt like no one would ever see me again. Like whatever I was made of, it was all the worst things.” It felt hard to say those words out loud. But also, as soon as she said them, she felt lighter.
Demetri nodded like her words made sense. “Can I tell you something, Celia? Something I never talk about?”
Celia nodded and scooted half a foot closer.
“This place, where I tell all my kind that they can be free? It’s a lie to make them act better for as long as possible. Stories can do that, if we believe in them. I tell them they can be free of their fate, and that helps them wait longer before they steal the lives of more kids.” His words hung heavy in the air. “But we are what we are. None of us will ever be free.”
“If stories work, then maybe you should tell yourself a better one,” Celia said. “You could be wrong. The world is always changing, isn’t it?”
“It looks about the same as it ever was. When you’re small and weak, others use you.”
Celia sat with his words for a while. “Nothing stays the same forever,” she countered. “Everything changes.”
“Change is the one thing I can’t do.” He sighed. “Can I tell you another secret?”
She nodded. There was something about this grassy hill and the warehouse all around them that made Celia feel like either of them could say anything.
“Sometimes I want it to happen,” he whispered. “Sometimes I just want to get it over with. Bigs don’t feel bad about anything. The second I do something truly evil, it will change me. After that, I won’t care anymore. Sometimes not caring sounds good. It would be a relief.”
“But you won’t. Not ever,” Celia whispered.
“I will. Someday. But the longer I wait, the longer someone else gets to live a normal life. I’m not like Kristen. I’m nothing like Krawl.”
“True. Even if I am extra awesome-smelling to you.”
He groaned. “You shouldn’t joke about that kind of thing.”
“I think I need to joke about everything. I need for it all to be a little less serious or I’m going to be awake all night worrying about being the doom girl surrounded by monsters. Do you think it means I will bring doom, or that I’m doomed?”
Demetri shrugged. “Probably both?”
Celia tore up a clump of grass and threw it at him. “Thanks.”
“It’s just a word,” he said softly. “Be yourself and you’ll make the right decision.”
He sounded so sure of that.
“There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about. If we destroy Krawl, what happens?” Celia asked. “She’s the first monster, after all.”
Demetri chewed on his lip. “I have no idea. She’s the mother of us all. If we destroy her heart, maybe . . .” He shook his head. “I keep having this feeling that everything is going to end soon.” He shrugged and smiled.
Ending sounded like dying. Celia ran her hands through the grass. “Like, destroying Krawl will break the spell that made you all? What would that do to you?”
“I have no idea. I have been stuck like this”—he gestured toward his horned head—“for a very long time. Perhaps we will all disappear.” He looked out at the rows of makeshift tents and houses littered across the warehouse floor.
Or one thing ending could mean new things starting, Celia thought but didn’t say out loud. She yawned.
“If you really can’t sleep,” he added, “I can cast a spell to help.”
“No thanks. The last thing I want to be is a sleeping princess in Little land.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“But,” Celia added, “if you did make a spell, how would you do it?”
“Humans can’t make magic. You can use a spell, but never make one. Not since monsters were made.”
“I know. But tell me anyway.”
“Okay, to make a sleeping spell, or any kind of spell, I have to gather magic first. It’s everywhere. It’s in objects, or people, or even the air. You can collect it if you leave out bowls of tap water and sugar for a couple of days. You can store up magic in objects that have been prepared to hold it, or change yourself so you can hold more of it inside you. Animals lose magic as they age, but trees gain it, and rocks never change. I use magic from myself or inanimate objects only. I don’t ever steal anyone’s magic. Some monsters do, but I won’t.”
“Because . . .” Celia thought about that. “Because magic sort of sounds like life?”
“Yeah. Some people never see that, but it’s true. Once I have magic, there’s a hundred ways to make spells. They can be endlessly complicated, but you only need three elements, really. It starts with wanting something and holding the image of it in your mind. Let’s say I want this grass to grow.” He ran his hands through the short blades. “In my head, I draw a picture of grass growing. I see it as clear as if it were there before me. Then I need an object.” He took a round stone from his pocket and placed it on the grass. “Then I put the magic into the object—I do that by giving something of myself away. By making a sacrifice.” He closed his eyes and smiled. The stone glowed with a soft blue sheen.
Celia watched the look of happiness on Demetri’s face.
He opened his eyes and gestured at the grass. Without Celia noticing, it had grown a foot. Heavy stalks surrounded her and bent toward the ground.
“What’d you sacrifice?” she whispered.
“I gave it a memory I had of eating a hot dog. That’s a small one. Bigger spells call for bigger sacrifices.”
“So now you can’t remember the hot dog?”
“No, I remember, but it’s in black and white. It’s lost all meaning.”
“So, to make a spell, you imagine something happening, put it in an object, and sacrifice something,” Celia said slowly, and then thought it through again, wanting to memorize the rules. “It sounds kind of easy.”
“Not for you.” He paused, gave her a funny half smile, and took a slim black book out of his back pocket. “You want to read this?”
“What is it?”
“My favorite magic book.”
“You sure you don’t need it?” The title, The Dialectics of Magic, was embossed on the cover in silver print.
“I memorized it long ago. It was the first book I ever stole from Krawl, and the one that eventually taught me how to banish her from the city.”
“What did you sacrifice to get rid of her?” Celia asked. “It must have been a really big thing.”
“The feel of sunlight on my skin. I miss warmth, but it was worth it.”
Demetri held the book out, and Celia took it. He moved his hand away from her quickly, like she was fire.
“I wonder what big spell Krawl is making.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pointed to the looming man-statue in the corner. “Our golem will rise at noon tomorrow and lead me to her. With the golem’s magic, I’ll find her heart and destroy her.” He added more quietly, “I’ll try.”
“Then why are you awake? Shouldn’t you be sleeping before the big battle?”
“You’re here.” He sounded embarrassed. “It gnaws at me.”
Celia thought that it must not be very fun to be Demetri. “Sorry.”
“It helps to sit beneath this tree. You know what kind it is?”
Celia shook her head. She knew pine trees and palm trees, but that was about it.
“It’s an olive tree, one of the ancients. When I first made this sanctuary, I planted it. It takes a hundred and twenty years to bear fruit.”
Celia looked up at the tree’s dark branches. She didn’t see any olives on it.
“Give it sixty more years, and it will bear fruit. I plan to still be a Little and pick olives from it someday.”
“A lot might be different by then,” Celia said. “Robots, flying cars, and Littles who have learned how to never become Big.”
“Maybe. I doubt it,” Demetri said, but she heard the hint of hope in his voice.
“I’ll come back here as an old lady and we can eat olives together. Deal?”
“No. All this ends tomorrow. Then you won’t see me again,” Demetri said, and turned away from her.
Celia sat there for a while trying not to feel hurt. She knew he said it because he liked her. Because he didn’t want to destroy her. Even so, she wanted to keep being friends with him. Demetri might be strange and sad, but she liked him too. “If this ends tomorrow, mind if I stay up with you? Maybe we could talk about only good things. Maybe that could be its own kind of magic.”
Demetri nodded. “I’d love that.” He paused for a long moment. “We can’t ever be friends, but know this, Celia. You are the first person in a century and a half who has treated me like I’m something other than a monster. All the Littles look up to me. All the Bigs and hunters hate me. Thank you for seeing . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Who you really are?” Celia asked.
He nodded.
“Right back at you.”
They sat near the olive tree and spoke in whispers as all around them the Littles slept. Demetri told Celia about a ginkgo tree on Charles Street that turned the brightest yellow every fall. Celia told him about the banana splits her grandpa used to make and how he’d always put extra whipped cream on hers. They talked for hours, and in the middle of a story Celia was telling about a time she’d gone kayaking down the Columbia River, she looked over at Demetri and saw that he’d fallen asleep sitting up.
She stood and started to head back to her tent. She walked through the grass and soft dirt to the edge of the garden, and then turned to look back at Demetri. Sadness covered his sleeping face.
Whatever I decide, Celia thought, whatever the doom girl does, I’m not going to do anything that could hurt him any more than he’s already been hurt. That’s what friends did for each other.