Amara turned to her, eyes bright, and Kacey understood, in its absence, the weight of Amara’s servitude. How long had Amara worked for the bride-heart? What had she seen, and lost?
Who was she, and what would Kacey learn about her?
“You will do what you want,” Amara said.
Kacey reached for the hand that had saved her. Kacey’s pulse quieted, murmuring in her throat, as she gazed back at Amara, at the sky, the green hills of the valley, a world in which what she wanted mattered.
If You Give an Asura a Cookie
byAKSHAYA RAMAN
WHEN I WAS SEVEN,I learned from my paati that there were only two ways to break a curse: a willing sacrifice or the benevolence of the gods.
At the time, I had no idea whatsacrificeorbenevolencemeant, so of course my mom came home from work to find me googlinghow to perform a human sacrificewhile my grandmother was too engrossed in her Tamil soap opera to be paying attention to me—or my five-year-old sister throwing fistfuls of Horlicks powder at a terrified cat, which was mostly odd because we didn’t, in fact, have a cat.
After she’d freaked out for two days—apparently the time required to process that information and also find the rightful owner of said cat—Amma had come into my room to ask just what had prompted my unexpectedly macabre search.
She’d sat next to me, tucking me under the covers of my Ms.Marvel comforter and smoothing down my hair, eyes full of concern. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I never forgot the look of shock—and sadness—when I told her that I didn’t want to be an asura anymore. That I thought I was ugly in the demonic form I took at night. That I just wanted to be a normal girl who didn’t have to hide who she was, who could invite friends over for sleepovers and go on vacations with other families.
“Being an asura isn’t a curse, Rupa,” she’d said then, as she’s said so many times since. “It’s a special power. The gods chose our family to be their protectors. To be their soldiers on earth, fighting the forces of darkness.”
“You meandemotedto soldiers on earth,” I’d said, using another word I’d learned from Paati. “We were gods once too.”
Until our power and knowledge had threatened the other gods and they’d sent us to the mortal realm to do their bidding. Only they hadn’t bothered to call in two thousand years. We weren’t spending our nights battling monsters like our very, very distant ancestors. We were spending them trying to blend in to human society. And turning into a terrifying monster every nightreallyputs a wrench in that.
Amma had pursed her lips. “Your grandmother talks too much.” But she didn’t deny it. “I know it’s hard for you to believe now, but this isn’t a bad thing. You’ll see one day.”
I’d never believed her.
But that changed the night I methim.
NOW
“Rupa! Let’s go!” Amma shouts up the stairs. “We’re going to be late!”
“I packed you snacks,” Paati adds in Tamil. “Your favorite! Raw entrails!”
I can’t stifle my laugh as I fiddle with the clasp of a pair of gold earrings. It’s not a new joke—or even a good one, since it relies on untrue stereotypes about asuras—but my grandmother’s comment has its desired effect.
My mom shushes her angrily. “Our neighbors can hear you,” she snaps. “We’re going to get deported.”
“We are all US citizens,” my grandmother responds in perfect English. “Let them try.”
I ignore their bickering and glance at myself in the mirror, double-checking my eyeliner and twirling a strand of hair around my fingers to curl it. It seems ridiculous to put in this kind of effort for a speech and debate tournament, of all things—and even more ridiculous to try to impress a guy whose identity I don’t even know—but I couldn’t help myself.
The phone on my vanity glows with a text.Are you on your way yet? ETA?
It’s from Sagar, the insufferable type-A control freak captain of our debate team. Well... maybe he’s just like that with me. I’m not exactly known for my punctuality.
Oh sorry! I just got a new phone. Who is this again?
His response is immediate.That’s not funny, Rupa. You better be here in ten or the bus will leave without you.
It’s too easy and far too fun to rile him up, but I don’tactuallywant to miss the bus, so I tuck my phone into my small crossbody bag, grab my backpack, and make my way downstairs. My sister, Sahana, is already in the foyer, her long brown hair up in an elegant topknot. She’s tiny for a sixteen-year-old—a full head shorter than me—and demure-looking, but I know that she’s just waiting to unleash her barely contained extrovert energy on some poor, unsuspecting soul.
Sahana looks up—then does a double take, an impish smile crossing her face. She runs her eyes over my carefully put-together outfit, lingering pointedly on the hem of my flirting-with-inappropriate-length dress. “Cute outfit, Roops,” she says.
Of course, this draws my mother’s attention to it as well. She frowns. “Isn’t that a little short, Rupa?”
