“Nothing you shouldn’t have,” Malcolm reassured him. He released Nicholai from his grasp and took a step toward the anesthetized stranger. “Do you recognize him? Another hired attempt on your life?”
Nicholai tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. The result of days of unintended dehydration. The name Ameyar repeated in his mind, over and over, spoken from the lips of his would-be assailant. “I don’t think so,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Malcolm frowned. He shifted to face Nicholai. His expression was stern, though his voice pleaded for honesty. “Look, son, be straight with me. I know something serious is going on. I may be an old man, but I’m not senile.”
The little sleep he had received minimally helped his condition, as Nicholai called forth his memories of Panagea’s current state of affairs. The lesser gods. Mimir’s ominous message regarding Northwestern. Darjal. And now this; this strange man, donned in common threads, bearing little to no resemblance of a trained assassin, spewing names from his mouth that bore the ring of godliness. Nicholai found Malcolm’s gaze. “You are far from it, my friend. As you know, I announced to Southeastern’s journalists last night that the lesser gods are making monsters out of otherwise good people.”
“I’m not talking about the lesser gods, Nicholai.” Malcolm straightened himself, knowing, as well as any other inhabitant of Southeastern, what terrors waited to manipulate the minds of fragile men and women. Nicholai’s announcement had spread like wildfire. “I’m talking about you, specifically. You’re not yourself.”
“Yes, well,” Nicholai agreed with little fight. He did not have much in the way of energy to argue. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“I should say so.” Malcolm turned to the body on the mattress. “Does this man have anything to do with it?”
Nicholai followed the eyes of his late lover's father to the bedridden assailant. Against every tortured thought that rattled him, he emitted a short, depraved laugh. “Malcolm ... I honestly can’t tell you whether he does or does not.”
Unsatisfied with Nicholai’s answer, Malcolm clenched his jaw. “In any case, we should get him out of here and into a Nenada jail cell, before he does any more damage. I can go find a nearby footman.”
“Yes. Thanks to you, I do not think he’ll be—” Nicholai paused. He jerked his head behind him, looking out of the bedroom door. “Where’s Umbriel? Avigail?”
“Calm down, son, calm down,” Malcolm lowered his hands as if it would help deescalate Nicholai’s rising panic. “Umbriel is the one who sent me here. She seemed like she had something terribly important to do. You know, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that girl in such a state. She’s usually so composed ...”
Nicholai breathed a sigh of relief at the news of Umbriel’s safety, though the back of his mind wondered where she went off to in such a hurry. “And Avigail?”
Malcolm parted his lips to speak, but stopped, and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Nicholai, I didn’t see her when I entered.”
The Time Father bolted out of the room, throwing open the entryway to Avigail’s temporary residence. He scanned the contents, noticing immediately that what little belongings she had were gone. “Damnit—” He dashed out, and into the kitchen, though he knew before his gaze settled on its interior that she would not be there. “Damnit!”
Before he crossed into Umbriel’s room, the last place in the small homestead she might be able to conceal herself, Malcolm emerged from the bedroom. He held a note in his hands. “Nicholai.” His face looked grave as he held it out to the man.
Quick hands seized the letter and scanned it without delay. It was short and to the point. She took his money. She promised to repay him. A hurried mention of her gratitude. Nothing more. He lowered it to his side and collapsed back into the wall. “She’s gone. Revi’s going to kill me.”
“Perhaps she told Umbriel where she was going,” Malcolm said, trying to be helpful, though he doubted the validity of his own words.
“No,” Nicholai shook his head. “She would have said something in here. No mention of where she’s going. No mention of when she’ll return. Only that she will.”
Malcolm’s lips tightened. “Just focus on the last sentence, then. That she’ll return.”
Nicholai closed his eyes. His grip on the paper tightened. It creased under the pressure. “Right,” he whispered, trying to pull forth any will he had reserved inside him. “Did Umbriel at least say where she was going?”
“She did not.” Malcolm returned to his shotgun and picked it up. “But she clutched an official document in her hands. Signed and sealed in wax with the Southeastern emblem. I venture she was off to the post.”
Nicholai frowned, wondering what Umbriel would be doing with an official letter he did not recall penning. “Then I’ll meet her there. Thank you, Malcolm. You’ve ... quite literally saved my life.”
“And I would time and time again, my son. Now go. I’ll send someone to deal with this mess,” he said, referring to the body.
A quick nod came from the Time Father before he rushed out the door. His feet carried him quickly. He felt the scrutinizing stares of the residents whom he passed. The ones who once bid him hello without a second thought. They shied away now. They lived in fear after his announcement yesterday. News of the lesser gods infiltrating not only Panagea but peoples’ minds, spilled from his very mouth, with no calming follow up to accompany the announcement.
The people of Southeastern did not have the burden of living in the fear of Panagea’s crumbling state. While natural disasters withered the other divisions, these people had lain dormant, stilled by Nicholai’s dishonorable decision to stop time. They did not have to harden themselves to terror, like the people of the other seven divisions. It was new to them. Fresh. And he felt it in every hushed whisper as he walked to the post to find Umbriel.
He needed to get a hold of himself. He felt less like Nicholai, and more like Darjal, with each passing hour. That he had attacked his assailant with such violence was not who Nicholai Addihein was. He suspected, had it been actual poison in his vials instead of a sedative, he still would not have stopped himself at that moment. He would have taken another life.
The realization rattled him. But a deep, well-timed breath shoved it to the back of his already crowded conscience. He’d deal with it later. Personal problems ranked second to the issues plaguing his city. His people. His division.
Nicholai Addihein would never, not on his life, whether by the influence of lesser gods or otherwise, let the people of Southeastern down again. Not if he could help it.
Chapter Eighteen
“Your progress is slow.”
Kal closed his eyes, his fingers coming to the tips of his temples as he endured yet another one of Kazuaki’s countless pushes for results. “I’m well aware that we’re not making much progress, Captain. With all due respect, your constant reminders don’t breed a particularly conducive environment.”
Kazuaki paced the floor, his hands behind his back. They had strapped Vadim to a chair in Granite’s cabin many hours ago. Though the Northwestern Time Father occasionally tried to force his arms free from their restraints, the knots at his wrists and ankles kept him anchored in position.
The captain knew his rants offered no assistance. But his drive to expedite the time they spent fixing Vadim had peaked. To calm the unusual overflow of restlessness, Kazuaki filled his lungs with air and turned away.
“Vadim,” Kal leaned forward, gripping both arms of the chair, “your division is burning. The buildings, the factories, Northwestern’s precious exports—”
“—the people,” Granite murmured. Though he did not care much for the state of human affairs, he found Kal’s efforts to focus solely on the financial devastation rather odd.
Kal lifted his eyes to Granite. “Yes,” he added. Though his word lacked conviction, Granite witnessed care in the ambassador’s gaze. He didn’t highlight the people’s plight as an asset for recovering
Vadim’s lucidity, but Granite saw the compassion in Kal’s face. His heart bled for those lost.
Vadim, whose head hung loosely, with his chin embedded in his chest, shot up. He found Kal’s attention. He grinned. Then, he spit in his face.
Kal jerked back and closed one of his eyes. A disgusted hand raised from his side. He scraped the saliva from his skin with his middle finger and flicked it off. “And they say there are no gentlemen left,” he muttered, removing a handkerchief from his pocket to clean his hand.
Kazuaki spun on his heels and gripped the chair’s sides. He dipped it back, balancing it on two legs, as he shoved his face into Vadim’s. “I will rip those ear canals open lest you start listening!” he growled, drawing back an arm to enhance his threat.
“Captain”—Kal crossed his arms, unamused—“while I appreciate your extensive history in forcing results from your adversaries, we’re trying to condition his brain to be less violent. I hardly think throwing more fuel on the fire is going to be useful.”
Despite the low rumble of dissatisfaction that came from his throat, Kazuaki returned the chair to all four legs. He was slower to tear the face of his rage away from Vadim, but eventually, he managed it. Kazuaki glared at Kal instead. Though irritation lived in his stare, the ambassador reminded him of Bartholomew. Sensible. Levelheaded. Skills Kazuaki had yet to master in his hundreds of years of living. He said nothing, but shifted, allowing Kal the benefit of space to work further on Vadim.
The ambassador stood, looming over the Northwestern Time Father. “Picture it, Vadim. Drained treasuries. An absence of goods or services to replenish the currency that will flood past your borders and never return. No people left to pay your taxes. Your division will fail. Your failure is a reflection of you.”
Vadim glared at Kal. He scoffed, haughty as he uttered, “Northwestern burns to pave the way for more profitable endeavors. This purge is an investment.”
“This is no investment, Vadim. This is a scam. You fell for their con game, my friend. You need only open your eyes to see they took everything from you. Yes, you’ve leveled the industries, the homes—you’ve initiated your step one, but with what money will you rebuild these more ‘profitable endeavors’? Your division treasury already boasts dismal numbers; we’re coming off the worst environmental devastation in Panagea’s existence. All the divisions are tapped. I don’t know what financial gain the lesser gods promised you, but it is fictional. It does not exist, Vadim. And with your land in ruins, it never will.”
It was only a moment. A flicker. A small, infinitesimal flash of clarity. Fear. But Kal caught sight of Vadim’s returning sanity. Regardless of how short-lived, he took it as a sign of hope. “We’re reaching him,” the ambassador announced, excited.
Kazuaki glanced at Vadim, who had quickly reverted to his inattentive, manipulated state. The captain scowled, unconvinced. “One moment of stability will not help.”
Kal stared at Vadim, shrugging. “Psychological remedies take time, Captain.”
“Of which we have none.” Kazuaki suspected Nicholai edged closer to the same fate as Vadim with each passing hour. Though he trusted the Southeastern Time Father’s volition, he was already fighting off the mental advances of Darjal. Throwing the efforts of more lesser gods on top of it would eventually break any man.
The sound of footsteps summoned the captain’s attention. He smelled them before they entered the cabin. Rennington, Jernal, and Mimir arrived, reeking of smoke and death. Rennington removed his oxygen mask, a clear outline of where the device had been secured over his face, where untainted flesh met the skin sullied from ash and soot.
He tossed the mask onto a nearby table and collapsed into a chair, exhausted. Nobody had to ask. The look on his face said there were no survivors.
Vadim’s eyes narrowed when he spotted the three newcomers. “Is that my city I smell on you?” he asked.
Rennington glared. “Your city. Your people. Your failure.”
Vadim’s questioning gaze fell to the ground. His pupils darted around the floor, brows together as if trying to make sense of something.
Kal took to a knee to find the bound Time Father’s level once again. “Vadim?” he asked, hoping to penetrate Havidite’s manipulation.
The haggard man’s gaze locked onto Kal. He portrayed a certain horror. A revelation. It lived on his face for some time. Kal allowed him to come to terms with it. When he thought Vadim had suffered enough in his soberness, the ambassador opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late. Vadim reverted into influenced submission once again. The reality of his actions was simply too painful to face.
“We’re chipping away at him,” Kal said with a sigh, pushing back off the chair to face Kazuaki again. “His moments of lucidity are getting longer. I’d wager that I can break him in a few more hours, but I cannot make any promises as to how long he will remain stable.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Kazuaki grumbled, throwing his concentration to Rennington and Granite. “I’m piloting the ship to the next town over. We’re picking up the others. With any luck, Kal will have made enough progress with Vadim in that time that we can leave him somewhere safe. I need you two on lookout. If you spot any of the crew, alert me immediately.”
Granite nodded, swooping out of the room with his dog in tow. Rennington, who had just eased his tired legs into a sitting position, goaded his bones to stand once more. “You got it, Cap.”
“What about me?” Jernal’s voice was unexpected, as everyone stood in the small confines of the cabin. He was not accustomed to purposelessness; though these people weren’t his superiors by any means, Jernal’s character did not allow him to stand idly by. “What should I do?”
Kazuaki arched a brow. He expected little participation from Nordjan’s militant rat. The captain reached down, grabbed a bucket and mop, and hurled it at Jernal. “If you want to make yourself useful,” he said, “you can scrub the shit off the deck.”
Jernal caught the objects in his arms as Kazuaki left the room. He glanced down at the unwelcome, metal pail, a frown on his face. Many years had passed since his rank dictated a necessity to perform mediocre tasks. He should’ve expected that these societal rejects wouldn’t use him to his full abilities.
Mimir snickered. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease, Commander.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jernal, closed both of his glowing eyes as he smirked, and then trailed off after the captain.
Positions were assumed. Rennington dangled off the airship’s ledge, clinging to a rope for support, as his eyes scanned the ground below. The challenge of seeing small bodies through thick smog was great, but the soldier did not shy away from it. With Granite on the opposite side to increase their chances of spotting the others, Jernal relented to the captain’s demands, and begrudgingly scrubbed the deck.
Scarred hands guided the ship away from the wreckage that Penn had crashed it into previously. The sea of Havidite’s flowers was more visible from the air. Red was the perfect color. Her own garden of spilled blood.
Kazuaki was silent as the vessel crawled through the tarnished sky. He enjoyed that silence for only a moment before the irking sound of Mimir’s feet on the staircase accosted his eardrums.
“What do you want?” the captain growled without turning around.
Mimir came up beside him. “For someone who has no qualms slaying men, you certainly seem to like them an awful lot.”
Kazuaki balked at the ridiculousness of Mimir’s statement. “Have you traded your eyes away too, demon? Your insight seems based on blindness.”
“Oh, Captain, do not be ashamed.” Mimir lifted his chin and closed his eyes, delighting in the feel of the wind on his face. There were no winds in the hole that was his well. “For not unlike you, I, too, harbor both a love and a hatred for the curious little collection of bones wrapped in flesh.”
More incessant jabbering. Kazuaki remembered it from his time spent at the well years ago. He did not respond to Mimir’s ramblings. Instead, he
continued to guide the ship deeper into Northwestern territory, waiting to hear the call from Granite or Rennington.
Mimir found his stillness amusing. His shoulders shrugged around his neck until his arms settled back down at his sides. “A change. A shift. Changes happen every day, Captain. We are helpless to them. Just as you are helpless to the lesser gods now, am I right?”
A muscle in Kazuaki’s jaw twitched, but that was his only response.
The lesser god held out his hand, enjoying the feel as the wind guided his hand up and down on the current. Mimir smirked. “You’re a man of myths and legends, Captain, are you not? Have you ever heard the story of Ameyar?”
Kazuaki knew the name. Though he hoped his admission would buy him a free pass from what he was certain would be a cryptic, nonsensical story, he doubted it. Still, the captain muttered, “The God of the Underworld.”
“The God of the Underworld, indeed,” Mimir confirmed as he stared out into the sea of clouds and gray plumes. “He who lived in total darkness, beneath the land for centuries ... condemned there from the moment mankind first craved the comfort of knowing where a soul went after death.” Mimir chuckled. “People are a bit mindless that way, aren’t they, Captain? They had entire realms with which to traverse after their journey in the physical world ended ... and instead of trusting that, they built their own prisons. Imaginary walls to contain their spirits for eternity. All for the sake of temporary comfort.”
Kazuaki did not comment.
His unresponsiveness did not deter Mimir. “Ameyar came to the surface one day, as he often did when he was gathering souls for the Underworld. He was to take a young man. Barely into adulthood. Death by disease, as was common back then, you know. Ameyar approached, but the deceased’s sister hurled her body over the corpse. She wept. She begged Ameyar not to take her dear brother.” Mimir tilted his head. “Humans are enthralled by death, but continuously recoil at its necessity. Fascinating creatures.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 70