Nadja Lima

Levihra

Novel extract

The crowded halls of the Nightingale reeked of smoke, sweat, and piss; Ladon could barely breathe.

The muffled sounds of the singing girls bled through the bathroom walls, melding with his classmates’ laughter. Ladon silently cursed Hunter Emery for dragging him into the toilets rather than helping him sneak away, as he’d asked. 

The silver flask glinted against the harsh overhead lights as they passed it around. Dasmund Holloway had bragged he’d smuggled a potion inside the nightclub as if the flask contained precious contraband and not a mix of liquor and some cheap sedative.

At least that had been Ladon’s assumption— none of the boys asked what was in it, drinking unquestioningly at Dasmund’s behest.

Emery swigged the drink with a grimace and Dasmund clapped him on the back. Ladon averted his eyes.

‘Attaboy!’, Dasmund cheered, his copper hair turning auburn under the bright lights. His smile soured as he faced Ladon. ‘Are you drinking, Blanchet? Or must you insist on spoiling our fun?’

Admittedly, Ladon hadn’t been the most engaged during their celebratory dinner. He’d quietly pushed his food around while his classmates commemorated the end of their Second Chain studies and the beginning of their Third. Ladon had primarily focused on downing as much alcohol as possible without incurring the wrath of his professors.

He knew he should be happy. Nearly half his graduating class had been awarded a seat on the Lubrum Destry Practicum. They’d spent the evening gorging on Mizantian lamb and similarly imported wines— all paid for by the Ognita Academy to celebrate their achievement.

Over the next half-decade, most of the inebriated boys standing before him would take up positions in the Lubrum Basilica. As Destres, they would be tasked with inventing, adjudicating, and interpreting. Perhaps, one day, even governing. Destry would provide them with a sizeable income and plenty of prestige, and Ladon was even more fortunate. Out of the thirty young men joining the Practicum in search of their Third Chain of Knowledge, eight would sit in the second row of High Council meetings, soaking up their elder’s wisdom. Starting tomorrow, they would serve the High Destre and the Heads of the Three Orders as Dius, their chosen assistants for the year.

These promising, future rulers of the Blessed Levihrian Empire had only stuck around their old professors for the short while it took them to scarf down their meals, before fleeing to the tucked-away watering hole that was The Nightingale. Dasmund had chosen the place and his brutes followed in tow, a mother-hen and her ducklings. Ladon had only come for the promise of further intoxication.

Presented with the “potion”, Ladon smiled and shrugged despite his sweaty, shaking palms. It wasn’t a drink he craved.

‘I didn’t know my mood affected you so deeply, Holloway. I’m touched.’ Holding his glare, Ladon gulped the concoction. It was thick as syrup and tear-jerkingly bitter.

Dasmund laughed as Ladon coughed. ‘What’s the matter, not used to a real drink?’

‘You call this swill a real drink? Times must still be tough,’ replied Ladon, voice thick as his throat burned.

One of the boys covered up a snicker with a cough of his own. Dasmund stepped closer to Ladon, squaring his shoulders.

Emery was quick to step in. ‘To be fair, I could use something sweeter. Round of honey wine on me?’

The promise of free booze dispelled the tension— or maybe they still knew better than to touch a Blanchet. Dasmund bumped into Ladon on his way out.

Emery’s easy smile went out like a light once the door shut. ‘Are you insane?’

‘Save it—’

‘No, Holloway’s right. You’ve been a drag the whole night. What’s wrong with you, Blanchet? You got in, for Salvius’ sake!’

Emery hadn’t made the Practicum list. He’d been assigned desk duty for the Vate Order instead. His face had contorted with disappointment when the Destre read out their assignments, but he’d regained his composure soon thereafter, returning from a short break with a grin and clapping schoolmates on the back.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ said Ladon.

Emery’s chuckle was a dry, humourless thing. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t. I worked like a dog for four years and all I got to show for it was admin for half-witted guards. I’m sure my mother will be very proud.’

Ladon knew his mother would eat him alive under similar circumstances, but Mrs Emery was a much simpler creature. Besides, whatever Destry held in store for him would surely fall short of glorious. ‘Want to switch?’

 Emery’s brown eyes darkened, an emotion Ladon couldn’t quite place, but it was gone as quick as it came. Smiling, he said, ‘Come have a drink. We’re not so bad. Just shut up around Holloway and maybe we’ll survive the night, yeah?’

Ladon acquiesced with a shrug, but the moment Emery became distracted by the pretty waitresses in the lounge, Ladon ducked behind him and bolted for the stairs. 

He often wondered why the brunet tried so hard to integrate him with the other boys. Emery was charming, funny, and well-liked; their classmates would rather suffocate on their own mirapis than call Ladon anything so complimentary. Emery wasn’t dumb, so he must’ve been aware his efforts were futile. As Ladon descended to the lower floor, he wondered, not for the first time, how much bearing Mrs Emery’s desire to join his mother’s tea club had on her son’s unwelcome, insistent friendship.

The first level was comprised of stage-facing booths, each lit golden by small chandeliers, with enough space between them for the sparkly-clad servers to pour drinks. The floor Ladon descended to was a cramped pandemonium of dancing patrons, glowing crimson red from the overhead lights. Low, reverberating drum sounds replaced the high-pitched tones of the singer, swirling into his ears and rattling his bones.

Ladon ordered two shots of rum, the heat of which failed to soothe his restlessness, so he waded through the dense crowd to dance away his urges. Dasmund’s cold, green gaze lingered at the forefront of his mind. After so many years, Dasmund’s scorn still liquified his self-esteem, turned his knees to jelly. Every time he breathed the same hair as the freckled ginger, he was reminded of his own weakness, his failure.

The dancing did little to alleviate his disquiet. All he could see behind his closed eyelids was Dasmund’s sneer. He was about to give up his efforts for the sake of procuring yet another beverage when a girl shouldered into his side and spilt her glass against his shirt. The expletive he yelled after her lost itself amongst the drumbeat.

Blind, incandescent rage washed over Ladon; rage for the careless girl, for Dasmund, for his father, for himself. He knew it was disproportionate to the offense but could do nothing to stave it off. It had afflicted him his whole life, this rage— ever since he was a boy, fuming in his bedroom after rows with his father, his arms bitten raw.

He’d learned early that pain subsided the hot pinpricks of these moods, overtaking his crawling skin; he’d learned recently that Nova drops soothed them fully.

Instead of the main staircase, from which he was separated by a sweltering pit of dancers, he found a backdoor leading to narrow, winding steps. The trek upwards was long and the drinks had left him unsteady. The wooden stairs floated under his feet like lulling waves. Despite it being mid-winter, he wished suddenly that he was swimming in the little lake on the grounds of his family estate.

The loud drums left his ears between one step and the next, the golden light of the upper level enveloping him. He shuddered at the sudden visibility, eyes flicking to the boys’ booth in the back. They seemed too preoccupied with the vocalist to pay him any mind.

Once outside, he headed for the nearest hideaway. Ladon found himself lurching forward as half his dinner and drinks splattered against the concrete of an empty alley. He wanted to blame the alcohol, but he’d spent the afternoon shaking. The week of celebrations had temporarily awarded him his parent’s attention, so he’d been unable to take Nova.

Ladon palmed his breast pocket for the vial. He ran the edge of his nail against the indentations in the glass before unscrewing the cap, soothed by the clinking sound it emitted. Two amber-coloured Nova drops trickled down the pipette and hit the underside of his tongue, the thick sweetness mixing with his saliva. Ladon’s shoulders sagged with gratitude.

His head grew heavy. Tranquillity befell him as his limbs tingled pleasantly, easing the knots on his spine. A comforting warmth, akin to the effects of alcohol, would usually follow suit, but the girl’s drink had soaked through his shirt and worsened the chill of the night. The hard concrete dug into his bones as he leaned back, pulling his knees against his chest. He swallowed another drop.

Ladon hadn’t meant to do this in public, preferring to medicate within the safety of his locked bedroom, but he couldn’t stand the agitation. His classmates were no strangers to Nova, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t looking to pass judgment; they were looking for a dagger to sink in. He could crumble Dust into his eyes and claim to Commune with the Salvius or pack a pipe with Mibetta root without offending anyone’s sensibilities. Yet, Nova and its anodyne, hallucinogenic properties remained a step too far.

Regardless of how nonsensical he found the double standard, the idea of being caught was paralysing— Father’s drunkenness was already enough of a stain on the family name. He refused to embarrass Grandfather further.

Guilt gnawed at him as he imagined the downward set of Mastin Blanchet’s frown, the disappointed look in his eyes if he were ever to know about his grandson’s many degeneracies. The patriarch of the Blanchet family had donned that same expression often throughout Ladon’s childhood, watching his only son incoherently stumble his way through social affairs.

A stinging pain broke through the memory, flashing through his temples. Ladon pressed his fingers down on the bridge of his nose and curled in on himself, confused at the sudden ache.

A wave of heat struck his face. It licked at his cold body as he lowered his hands. Billows of dark smoke clouded the sky, weaving around the trees looming over him and filling his lungs. The empty road behind the club had become a field, covered in daylight and bright orange from the blaze overtaking the husk of a wooden hut.

Coughs racked through his chest as he crawled from the flames, fingers digging into the grass. He swivelled his head as he clamoured up, staggering backwards. The nightclub had disappeared, along with the curb he’d sat on. The muffled voices of drunk patrons were gone, replaced by his panting breaths and the crackling of the fire. It spread swiftly, consuming the space between the hut and himself as it sped towards a faraway windmill. A dog yelped in the distance.

‘Help!’ A high-pitched scream. A girl. She sounded young.

He began walking toward the sound, but the conflagration rose higher, wholly consuming the hut. It collapsed with a loud crack, flaming splinters soaring past him.

The screams grew louder. He couldn’t see anyone through the smoke.

‘Where are you?’ he attempted to call out, breathing in soot. All he received in return were more bloodcurdling pleas.

His legs were ready to give out. Watering eyes stuck on the blazing embers, Ladon opened his mouth to yell for the girl once more. The sound died in his throat as the light faded out of the sky.

Ladon hit his shoe against the curb. The street was restored, down to his sour-smelling puddle of sick. He froze, gaze stuck on the vomit. For a while, the only movement he allowed himself was the rapid rise and fall of his chest, blinking rapidly as he stared up at the night sky. He still smelled smoke, still felt the heat lapping at his cheeks.

Half convinced the world would move if he did, Ladon slowly lowered himself onto the edge of the curb, legs shaking. When nothing shifted in his line of sight, he laid his palms flat against the gravel, trying to control his breathing.

Where had he gone?

His hand felt heavy with the weight of the vial. He’d had recurring nightmares for a few weeks last year when he’d been unlucky enough to purchase a bad supply. Nothing as visceral as this. Could he have fallen asleep on the side of the curb? Could he have sleepwalked?

It felt as if a hand squeezed his heart, matching its hammering pace. Each breath shot a sharp pain up his ribs. Nova would soothe it, but the orange flames danced behind his eyelids. Ladon could hear his blood pumping in his ears, rushing through far too quickly. The girl’s screams echoed within his skull. Salvius, I can’t breathe.

Cursing, he unscrewed the cap and swallowed another drop, willing his lungs to expand.

A shrill argument erupted between two teenagers crossing the street and startled him out of his stupor. Hastily shoving the vial into his trouser pocket, he forced himself to return inside, filled with sudden shame. He would cast the illusion out of his mind. He was not insane. He had fallen asleep