“Did all these people know Neko?” she asked.
“Yeah. Most of them were treated by him at one time or another.” Desya leaned in, cutting his voice to a murmur. “It must be weird not remembering anyone.”
“Well, since I don’t remember them, not really.” She checked the wall television. “Has anyone else been found?”
“Not yet.” He adjusted the hearth’s pothook, raising the bubbling stew higher above the coals. “Chief Reznik’s been holed up in the Golden Circle since the city square strategizing.”
“He hasn’t been searching?”
“No, but it’s only gonna be a matter of days. Our orders right now are just to do extra Tag checks.”
She brushed her thumb across the Tag in her wrist, then stared blankly at the plates of rice balls and pickled vegetables stacked around the hearth. “Dez, I have something to talk to you about. Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, wait for me in the genkan, Sno. I need to put away the damn seaweed.” He set down his Sake and rose. “Hey! Drop the beer, Nereus, or I’ll make you lick the rice off the rugs.”
As Desya scooped up a chubby boy with spiky blond hair and seaweed lodged up his nose, Snofrid retreated into the genkan. She prowled the tatami mats, each moment dragging by in ever-increasing expectation. As she sat on a bench built into the wall, Desya arrived.
“Okay, this is better,” he said, shutting the genkan panel. “I can’t hear myself burp in there.”
“I’m sure Neko would’ve liked it.”
“Yeah, right. If we had his body, it’d get up and walk out.” Desya slid onto the bench beside her. “Okay…what’s going on, Sno?”
“I have a question and I hope you’ll answer it truthfully, Dez.” She looked him in the eye, fidgeting with her sleeves. “You told me that Ryuki raised us because no one else would. Was the reason no one wanted me because I’m…because I’m half Japanese?”
Desya dipped his gaze to the floor. “What makes you say that?”
“I have Asian eyes, Dez.”
He hunched, setting his elbows on his knees, looking smaller. “I would’ve told you. I only waited because I didn’t want to dump too much on you at once.”
His words echoed in Snofrid’s mind like a ball bouncing off walls. She struggled to draw a redemptive thought from this truth. Nothing. Realizations crackled all around her, pumping her with skittish panic. That she was a vagrant no longer mattered. No amount of shame was worse than what Desya had confessed. She was a halfbreed.
“I’m…I’m related to Ryuki?” she choked.
“He was your uncle. His sister, Lorna, was your mother.”
Her hopes toppled like a leveled building. The opinion of her past self that she’d been able to gather over the past few days felt violently wrenched inside out. “Desya, that means—”
“It means beastcrap,” he cut in. “Your Inborn family abandoned you. Ryuki never did. That’s the only thing that matters.”
She pushed herself to believe him. It would make her situation far easier. But each time she managed to soothe her anxiety, Hessia’s vicious tone wheeled back into her mind, along with her dooming words: She should be punished for coming into our presence as an abomination.
“Only a few people know what you are, Sno,” Desya added quickly. “Just me, Lycidius, Jazara, and Neko knew, too. All the other Inborns in Hollowstone think you’re a human, but none of them give us any flak for living with you because you pose as a Trojan Mortal. And even if they knew what you were, none of them are Halfbreed Hunters.”
He was wrong. Hessia was a Halfbreed Hunter. And she’d probably try to kill Snofrid the instant the Covenant’s hourglass ran dry.
“You don’t have to take my word for it,” Desya said, putting a gentle hand on her. “We have a Mania Mirror, Sno.”
She forgot Hessia’s face in a flash. “How? I thought…I mean, Neko was murdered.”
“He got it before the quarantine. Lycidius is staking-out on his house right now. It’s still being searched, but he’s gonna bring it over in the morning.” Desya rubbed her back soothingly. “It’s gonna be all right, Snofrid. By tomorrow you’ll know everything.”
Snofrid wanted to know everything now. She needed to understand how she’d existed safely in a world that detested both sides of her. The humans would never accept her Inborn side and the Inborns had already condemned her human side. She felt like a patched up doll, stitched together with slapdash pieces that were either too large or too small, and mismatched in color or shape. But instead of pacing furrows into her bedroom floor, she accepted Desya’s offer of a tour of the War Lobby.
As they marched down the icy sidewalk, she was too preoccupied to be bothered by the cold. The Venethereal had ended less than an hour ago, and since then, she’d assumed a dark outlook—partly from Desya’s admission that she was a halfbreed, but mostly due to a sudden wave of sadness over Neko’s murder. The total comprehension that he was dead had cut a ragged wound in her heart. It began after she’d viewed a broadcast stating that his remains had been stolen. The human authorities had identified him as one of the Crowning Five and made a gruesome display of his body. After axing him up and nailing his limbs above each bluecoat precinct, someone had somehow managed, unseen, to swipe them all.
Jazara’s misery did little to cheer her up. As soon as Desya had begun his farewell speech to Neko, she’d burst into tears. Snofrid had done her best to console her, but her comforts felt hollow. She didn’t want to lie to the girl, or fill her with false hope, especially because her sympathy for Jazara had amplified. Being a halfbreed allowed her to experience the humiliation and ostracism firsthand. She wouldn’t wish the lifestyle upon anyone—not even her worst enemy.
The War Lobby turned out to be an ideal getaway. It was a survival supply shop, but housed a lovely Japanese teahouse and a charming rock garden. Desya had previously mentioned that she’d designed the place, which explained why she liked it so much.
Bamboo shoots and pink orchids grew in seas of pebbles packed in wooden cribs along the bay windows. Behind the register, a stone fireplace was set in the glass wall that strategically revealed the teeming street outside. Rows of handcrafted shelves framed the right and left sides of the shop, leaving a spacious aisle down the center. Tea tins, urns of roots, berries and plants, a wide variety of autonomous robots, and tactical and survival gear were arranged on the shelves.
“Who’s this?” Snofrid asked. She pushed a finger into the cage of a white rat on the register counter.
“Right, that’s Quibble,” Desya reminded, his mouth twitching into a grin. “You found her in a dumpster. Her food’s under the counter, but I fed her this morning, so don’t worry about it.”
“She looks pregnant.”
“Nope, you just feed her a lot. Okay Sno, jump in if you have a question,” he started, waving his beret at the shelves. “All the prices are labeled, so you shouldn’t have a problem. If people ask about the products, use the register computer. All the info is there.”
“Can you remind me of the password?”
“Cid-23-Sno-16.”
She entered the password, thinking she really had been close with Lycidius.
Desya pointed at the register. “Just a couple safety tips. There’s a machine pistol behind the counter. It’s loaded, so just make sure to switch off the safety.”
“I see it.” She spotted the gun propped up inside an alcove under the counter.
“Also…” He tapped his boot against a titanium door beside the teahouse. “This is a panic room. If crap hits the fan, hole up in here until we come get you. Cid and I will both get a phone alert if it’s accessed.”
“Have I ever had to use it before?”
“Not yet. And hopefully you never have to.”
Nodding, she sat in the armchair behind the desk. “All right, I can take it from here. Thanks, Dez.”
“Yep.” He strode toward the door, then turned around and continued backwards. “Oh, by the w
ay, if you have any questions, call Cid. I’m doing programming today and can’t have my phone.”
“I will.”
After Desya had left, Snofrid opened up shop. If there was one thing she was good at, it was blocking out her surroundings—a trait she shared with Lycidius. The day zipped by while she distracted herself with schoolwork, watching the news, and doing anything that would take her mind off the Mania Mirror.
She was still brimming with energy by the time the clock struck six. After watering the plants, she closed the doors and jogged all the way home. The kitchen felt barren compared to how it had been that morning. Jazara stood between her suitcases, her head drooping as Desya lugged her polka-dot bicycle down the ladder.
“Hey, Sno,” Desya called, setting the bicycle on the floor. “How was the shop?”
“Busy. We sold that ugly barrel.” She left her coat on the rack. “Are you taking Jazara home?”
“The orphanage isn’t my home,” Jazara protested, clapping her hands on her hips. “This is my home.”
Desya pinched the girl’s nose and she bit her lip, fighting, before breaking into a giggle.
“That was cheap,” she accused.
“Everything’s cheap when you lose.” He nodded at Snofrid. “Yeah, we’re gonna head out now. Her housemother will have a conniption fit if she’s back later than 7:00.”
Snofrid gave Jazara a weak smile as they hauled the luggage into the genkan. She’d miss her; the girl was her only friend. “I’ll see you Friday.” She gave her a quick hug. “Stay safe and thanks again.”
Jazara winked.
Once the door had closed, Snofrid climbed to her room. She had the thought to pass the time with a movie, but tossed out the idea when she recalled her promise to read the Demented Book. This was a derogatory title for a book that had gone mad as a result of the information it contained.
Her mouth formed an ‘o’ shape as she fished it from her satchel. The title read: Spectrals Imported: A Short History of Mystery by Poppy Van Todder. Oak leaves and bindweed adorned the book cover and intertwined around an orbicular lock.
After bolting the door, she sat on her bed, and said to the book, “I’m not scared of you. I’m also not stupid, so I won’t look in the fake appendix.” She pressed her Halo to the lock, until she heard a click.
“Let’s test your courage, then,” a sultry male voice suggested. “Choose your section.”
She dropped the book and scooted back on the mattress. She’d never known Demented Books to speak calmly, only scream their demands, which meant this one might have an agenda.
“Section 23,” she told the book’s Scholar.
The pages turned, flipping faster and faster until cool wind fanned her face. Then the book flattened with a thump.
She peered into a moonlit chamber on the right-hand page. A broad-shouldered man reclined in an antique wingchair with one leg hooked idly over the armrest. He managed to look refined in his burnished steel mask even though cage bars lined the eyepieces and the mouth was molded to imitate grinning skull teeth. In one hand, he held a brass goblet; smoke rose from a silver hookah in his other hand, screening his black silk robes in violet clouds. Adorning his shoulders were epaulettes fashioned from onyx gemstones. Tribal chest tattoos spread in an exquisite array across his collarbones—probably trux illusions like Hadrian’s key—and strips were shaved above his ears, leaving a wide swathe of black hair plunging to his chest.
“Welcome,” he announced, clicking his skull teeth open and closed. “I’m feeling tolerant this evening, so I’ll try not to confuse you.”
“Are you Poppy Van Todder?”
“That’s for you to decide.” He inhaled from the hookah bit and blew a column of purple smoke her way. “You have four questions left. Choose them well.”
“I know. You’re not my first Demented…” Her words scattered with a cough. The purple smoke swam into her nose, stinging her eyes and leaving the air reeking of skull blossom, a hypnotizing herb that left victims oblivious to the nature of their actions, yet still fully conscious. Fortunately, neither the man nor the skull blossom were real. The man was simply a projection of the book’s author, there to guide her through the book.
“If I’m not your first Demented Scholar, then I’ll expect you to be clever,” he finished for her. “That is, if you’re not telling me lies.”
“I might be, but you’d feel comfortable, then. Demented Scholar is just another name for liar.”
“That’s a fool’s generalization. I enhance some truths with falsehood. Being able to discern between the two will depend upon your cleverness.”
She gave him credit for one thing: he was the most astute scholar she’d ever met. “All right, let’s play the game, then.”
“Lovely.” He balanced the hookah bit on his knee, delighted. “I have six historical facts to please you. But I need the little bookworm’s permission to begin.”
“You can start,” she said.
“Fact One from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: Spectrals appeared on Armador in the year, 3092. Lord Theodolfus Luvon, currently deceased, confirmed these spirits had reason, as well as the ability to raise magic. In response, Spectrals were formally recognized as the fifth Inborn species, despite most Inborns viewing them as abominations.”
“Where did Spectrals come from?” she asked.
“Their origin is unknown.”
Snofrid’s mind ballooned with distrust. “I’m not believing that, Scholar. I think someone does know their origin. A thing can’t create itself.”
“When you discover the answer to that question, come find me.”
She made a ‘psh’ sound. “For all I know, you really do know their origin and would only want me to come and find you because it would give you a chance to bury me.”
He laughed deeply. “That could be true. But I’m not in the mood to verify.”
“Of course you’re not. Go on, then.”
“Fact Two from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: The Law of Spectral Possession states that Spectrals are prohibited from possessing all Inborn species except for Hematics.” His skull teeth cracked open, showing a grinning mouth. “This Law doesn’t apply to Hematics because it’s impossible for a Spectral to possess a Hematic.”
“Why is it impossible?”
“The answer is unknown. Two questions left.”
She deliberated a moment, and then lifted her brows. “Oh, I see. You’re leaving out details on purpose. Thanks, Scholar. I won’t ask about the mysteries again.”
He clucked his tongue. “What a pity. Perhaps you’re not so daring after all.” He swiped up his hookah bit and continued. “Side Note to Fact Two: On Armador, it was lawful for Spectrals to possess beasts. But beast bodies are inherently weak. For this reason, after the crossing, Spectrals eventually took to possessing humans.”
“I know about this,” she said. “You can keep going.”
Disappointed, he rotated on the cushion and rested his boots against the chair’s headboard. “Fact Three from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: The ability to raise magic is limited to Spectrals and Necromancers. A Spectral can’t destroy anything with its magic.” He tipped his head backward, eyeing her from an angle. “One exception: a Spectral can destroy things if it possesses a Necromancer body. To do this is a violation of the law of Spectral Possession.”
She tapped the side of the book, curious why Spectrals had no power to destroy anything with their magic. I’ll save it until the end, she decided. “Go on, please.”
The Scholar chewed something in his mouth, clearly growing irritated. “Fact Four from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: If a Spectral conquers more than half of a host’s mind, it will become permanently imprisoned inside that host.” He propped up a red-gloved finger. “Nevertheless…in order to acquire the power to master an Element, most Spectrals choose to fully conquer the host’s mind. To do so permanently prevents it from being able to abandon its host.”
She scoffed. “That’s
an idiot’s price.”
“It is for some,” he granted, and swirled his goblet. “Does the little bookworm want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
“No questions?”
“No. I know you want me to waste them.”
“Waste?” He broke into a wide grin, flashing a brass barbell in his tongue. “Curiosity is never a waste. It’s a tender weakness…and the most rewarding to exploit.”
She suddenly pitied him. He’d probably never sustained a full conversation with anyone. No wonder he was mad. He was entombed in a book, with only his knowledge for company. “I have no questions. Go on, please.”
He sipped from his goblet, swishing the liquid around in his mouth. “Fact Five from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: Possessing a host is necessary for Spectrals to raise magic and use the five senses. There’s a side note to this: Both inside and outside a host, Spectrals are weakened by heat and strengthened by cold.”
“Just like Hematics are strengthened by heat,” she mused. “That’s interesting.”
“It’s a fact, nothing more.” Setting down his goblet, he propped his arms behind his head and sighed. “The Final Fact from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: There are only two known ways Spectrals can die.”
Snofrid waited with accumulating anticipation while seconds ticked by. Then, eyes narrowed, she caught onto his game. “Alright, Scholar. What are they?”
“Are you sure you want to ask this?” he tested.
“I just did.”
“So certain…where does so much certainty come from, I wonder?”
“It comes from me wanting to know how Spectrals can die.”
He crouched on the chair, as if this were his serious pose. “Then be certain of this…Spectrals will die if they remain outside a host for longer than forty-eight hours. And Spectrals will die if the host they’re possessing dies while they are possessing it.” He stuck up a white-gloved finger. “One question left. Choose your last question carefully.”
“I need a minute.” Concentrating, she mulled through asking him to explain why Spectrals couldn’t destroy anything with their magic. Of the bunch it seemed the best question, only, she had a strong sense he’d tell her the cause was unknown.
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