The Hunchback

by Regine Abel

  She raised a dubious eyebrow, and my cheeks heated, realizing I still hadn’t answered her initial question. Thankfully, Esmeralda let me off the hook on that one.

  “Have you considered seeking medical attention? There are treatments for kyphosis—I mean, hunched backs—like special braces or even surgery.”

  The timid way she asked the question, clearly trying not to hurt my feelings, deeply touched me. I wasn’t used to anyone worrying about my sensibilities. Frollo wasn’t cruel per se, merely indifferent, which made it all the harder for me to understand why he’d put himself at such high risk for so many years to provide me with shelter and succor. The only other people in the temple aware of my nature were his two personal guards, Ulrich and Garreth. I’d never conversed with them, but they’d barked a couple of orders at me in the past. This made me all the hungrier for pleasant conversation with her.

  “It is not possible,” I said, shaking my head. “We had tried a brace when I was a child. It nearly killed me. Frollo… I mean Praetor Frollo had procured a handheld scanner to see what was wrong with my hump. The experts he brought the readings to all had the same verdict. The explanation he gave me had been too complex for my young mind at the time. But it came down to the need for surgery to fix it. A major surgery, which couldn’t be performed by one or two highly trusted people in some backwoods shack. Since then, he has been alleviating my pains, and even built a laboratory on the third floor of the spire to further his medical knowledge and better assist me.”

  The stunned then impressed look on her face highly displeased me. Although Frollo deserved my gratitude for the lengths he’d gone to for me, I didn’t want to sing his praises to Esmeralda, and further push her into his arms.

  “I had no idea Frollo was so devoted to your care,” she said pensively. “It is an unexpected but very nice side of him I never would have foreseen.” Her gaze roamed over the house before settling on me again. “Tell me about this place.”

  Too happy for the conversation to steer away from Frollo’s virtues, I happily gave her a tour of the house, bigger than my loft at the top of the spire. Even without the breathtaking view of Paris of my previous place, I still had large windows in every room, using reflective glass so that a passerby could not peek inside or catch a glimpse of me—not that anyone ever came to this area.

  My greatest pride, however, was showing her my armory with a collection of lances, spears, staves, and bows. Although self-taught, I’d always had an innate talent for the craft. The look of wonder on her face touched me more than any word she could have said.

  “This one is similar to the lightning staves the guards were holding upon my arrival,” Esmeralda exclaimed.

  I puffed out my chest further. “It is, because I made their staves based on that template. I make most of the ceremonial weapons for the Praetor.”

  “That’s amazing!” she said with awe. “You are incredibly talented.”

  In my enthusiasm at her positive response, I launched into a detailed description of each weapon, their meaning, inspiration, material, and technique used. I’d never had anyone but my imps to speak with of my passion, and the flood gates were now wide open. I eventually realized I was babbling and abruptly shut up, feeling mortified.

  Far from looking bored or annoyed, Esmeralda chuckled, her beautiful emerald eyes sparkling with mirth.

  “It is wonderful to see someone feeling such passion about things they do,” she said in a sympathetic voice. “Listening to you reminds me of how I feel when I dance or Chant. Don’t you dare be embarrassed about loving what you do. Your enthusiasm is contagious. Thank you for giving me this window into your world.”

  More embarrassed than ever, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. “Thank you for being such a great listener,” I replied, lamely.

  She smiled and performed a little curtsey. “I should probably get going,” Esmeralda said. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome considering you never officially gave me permission to stay,” she added teasingly.

  I mumbled something lame about it having been no bother, my chest tightening at the thought I might never see her again, or at least, not like this. For a little while, I’d almost forgotten about the hostile world outside that I’d never belong to. It had only been her and me, and the pesky imps.

  Moving out of her way, I schooled my features not to show how crestfallen I felt at her imminent departure, and let her exit the armory—the only mostly furnished room in my cabin. The guards would bring the rest of my belongings either tomorrow or the day after.

  Feeling like a lost puppy, I escorted her in silence to the hidden path through the hedges. She stopped, turned to look at me, and smiled at Victus who had just landed on my shoulder.

  “It was lovely meeting you…?”

  The look she gave me implied a question. I blinked, not knowing what she wanted.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, too,” I said in a hesitant voice.

  Esmeralda’s smile broadened, and she looked at me as if I’d said something cute. “I was hoping you’d tell me your name, since you already know mine.”

  “Oh! Right. Kwazeem. My name is Kwazeem,” I said, feeling more idiotic than ever—if not borderline rude. But then, no one had ever cared to know my name. This socializing thing was proving quite challenging. “Apologies.”

  “No need to apologize,” she said in a gentle voice. “Kwazeem is a lovely name; unusual, but lovely,” Mera added while giving me an assessing look. “Would it be okay for me to occasionally visit you again in the future?”

  YES!

  I barely managed not to shout out the word as my chest filled with so much joy I feared it would burst. Yet, the suddenly shy and uncertain look on her face, and the adorable pink creeping on her cheeks made me think it had been a bold request on her part, which only got me even more excited.

  But Frollo will banish you.

  I shouldn’t. I knew better. But Esmeralda was mine. Every cell in my body screamed as much. Whatever the consequences, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—miss a chance. The connection between us was undeniable, and she felt it, too.

  “My home is your home,” I said, carefully. “But remember that the Praetor will be furious if he finds out that you do.”

  A strange expression crossed her features, before they took on an air of determination. “Leave the Praetor to me,” Esmeralda said in a severe tone. “I am not his property, and you are not his slave. He cannot dictate who I can be friends with. So, I will see you soon, Kwazeem.”

  Holding back the stupid grin that wanted to plaster itself on my face, I nodded and replied, “See you soon, Mera.”

  She beamed at me hearing me say her nickname, then turned around and left. Long after Esmeralda had vanished from view, I stood at the edge of the hidden pathway with that stupid grin.

  Chapter 6

  Esmeralda

  Waking up this morning and finding out there would be no Chakra ceremonies this week was the best news Frollo could have given me. There was no way I could have focused on dozens of people more interested in gawking at the new Vestal in town than in aligning the energy of their Chakras. And I wouldn’t even mention the most beautiful forbidden fruit I’d ever laid eyes on.

  Kwazeem was pure perfection.

  I didn’t hate the Fallen. The Fifth Circle—the dark moon on which I grew up—had no quarrel with those that inhabited it. They kept to their lands and even traded with us. Truth be told, I’d always found them rather attractive the few times I’d managed to get a glimpse of them. Then again, considering the unappealing other choices in Obscura, anything else could only be better. But I genuinely loved Kwazeem’s bluish-grey skin, shiny scales my fingers had itched to touch, and those lovely horns on his forehead. However, it was his gorgeous, silver eyes that had fascinated me the most… Well, okay, after his plump lips that I’d been dying to kiss.

  But meeting him in the flesh had raised even more questions than before. If he was to be believed—and I h
ad no reason to doubt Kwazeem’s words—Frollo was taking a huge risk granting him asylum on the temple’s grounds and within the walls of Paris. I didn’t know the Praetor well enough, yet my every instinct told me that he wasn’t one to put himself in jeopardy out of altruism towards those in need. He was fiercely ambitious and had effectively reached the highest administrative rank possible in Eden before reaching the age of forty. Why put all of that on the line for a Fallen hybrid?

  There had to be something in it for him. But what?

  And then why did their energy feel so similar? The signature was almost identical, a phenomenon I’d only ever witnessed in twins.

  Could they be siblings?

  The thought gave me pause. They were both stunningly gorgeous. And although they didn’t look alike, their faces both had angelic features, and their heights matched that of an Elohim offspring. Is that what it was? Had Frollo’s mother committed an indiscretion with a Fallen and asked her firstborn to look after his youngest sibling? Vestals all had some degree of divine blood, and a recessive gene could have manifested in both her offspring.

  My mind latched on to that theory, turning it in every angle to see if it held water.

  But why had I felt such an unbridled, animal desire for Frollo yesterday morning, but only a fiercely possessive attraction towards Kwazeem? My body’s reaction to the Praetor had felt like a betrayal. With his ‘gardener,’ it had felt just right, although underwhelming in its intensity.

  That, too, confused me.

  It was like between the day of my arrival in Paris and the following morning, they had swapped their powers. Because there was no question Frollo’s power hadn’t been particularly remarkable that first day, whereas Kwazeem had elevated mine like never before. And now this?

  There was something strange going on, and I would get to the bottom of it.

  For now, having been spared breakfast with Frollo—who had Praetor duties to attend—I wandered the streets of Paris, bustling with activity as the citizens frantically prepared for the Festival. A construction crew had begun building a massive dais near the landing pad where guests of honor—including High Seraph Phoebus—would sit during my performance. All around the plaza, surrounding the Well of Power, tall poles with a cushion at the top had been erected. It took me a second to realize they were extra seats for the additional Elohim who might attend and not have a seat at the main table.

  The Elohim didn’t mingle with common mortals. After a few minutes of sustained exposure, the constant aura of energy emanating from them would indispose anyone with no affinity with ergokinesis, which meant the majority of the population.

  More workers toiled assembling multiple long tables along the edges of the plaza, where a giant buffet would be laid out for the citizens to partake in the free feast of the Festival of Light. Over the centuries, the Festival had become a mish-mash of pagan rituals. While its true purpose was merely to refill the Well of Power so that the city and its dependencies would have electrical power for the next three to six months, other more exciting celebrations had been tacked on to it.

  In its symbolism, the Festival would bring light to chase away darkness, and with it, the demons that lurked within. The population would therefore don disguises of monsters, fearsome creatures, or loose representations of things that terrify people such as death, diseases, poverty, etc. Even now, many of the stands in the open market had a plethora of costume offerings. I slowed down to examine them, in particular the masks, each more creative than the other. Knowing I had no personal use for a costume, the merchants thankfully let me be, content to give me a polite smile while ogling me with curiosity. Constantly being observed by multiple pairs of eyes could get a little irritating, but at least they didn’t bother me with unnecessary inane conversations.

  The almost recluse-like life of endless training on Obscura had made me a bit of an introvert.

  I stopped dead in my tracks upon reaching the fourth stall, coming face to face with the most stunningly realistic Fallen mask. It came with two options for the outfit; either a long, hooded robe, or a holographic suit that created an illusion of their greyish-blue skin and scales. Fascinated, I walked up to it and ran my fingertips over the beautiful dark-grey horns on the mask.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a woman’s voice behind me.

  Startled, my head jerked to the left, looking at her over my shoulder. In her mid-fifties, black hair streaked with a few strands of silver held in a bun, the woman’s hazel eyes stared at me with an unreadable expression.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s quite stunning and incredibly realistic.”

  The woman, who visibly ran the stall, came to stand next to me and touched the silvery scales alongside the jaw of the Fallen. Kwazeem didn’t have scales there but some kind of bony spikes with rounded tips that I’d been dying to touch as well.

  “Althea—commonly referred to as Old Nan or ‘the Hag’ by the less respectful youth—made it, along with the seven other masks you see here,” the merchant said, waving at them.

  They were all just as flawlessly made, all of them representing real life entities deemed dangerous and fearsome by the locals. But unlike the other masks I had seen in previous stalls, hers didn’t depict them as grotesque. Her work struck me as respectful towards them.

  “Her work is phenomenal. But this one remains my favorite,” I said with sincerity, my gaze returning to the Fallen.

  “A Vestal drawn to a Fallen. Beware, child,” the merchant said with a knowing smile. “For some reason, their kind holds a strong appeal for yours when you are in fact meant for the Elohim. Be careful that you do not fall alongside them.”

  “Fall?” I asked, taken aback by that comment.

  “The few Vestals who have allowed themselves to be seduced by those creatures have lost their powers, their affinity with ergokinesis permanently severed,” the woman said in a slightly dramatic way. “They were driven out of town in shame and cast out as pariahs. The only reason they weren’t executed was because the law forbids raising a hand against an ordained Vestal, even one on whom Vesta herself has turned her back.”

  That winded me. I had never heard of Vestals losing their powers, and we’d never been warned against fraternizing with the Fallen. It had been a given that any of us who became ordained would be paired with an Elohim, a Praetor, or one of the high magistrates of the Circle we would be assigned to.

  “Are you sure they are draining the powers of the Vestal?” I asked, dubiously. “Before the divine wars, before they became the Fallen, the Light Bearers used to enhance the powers of the Elohim.”

  “They did,” the woman conceded. “But they also fed from their energy. Why do you think that, aside from Vestals, common humans can no longer live on Elysium? Without the Light Bearers to absorb the excess energy swirling around them, the Elohim—especially the Seraphs—might as well be nuclear power cores with wings. In fact, before the Fall, the Fallen were equally called Light Bearers and Light Eaters.”

  Obviously, I was aware of that part. With female births among Elohim being extremely low, it explained why many of their males attended a new Vestal’s first Festival of Light to find out if she could be their soulmate. But only a few of us received that honor. As an Anointed, the Matriarchs at the temple on Obscura where I’d been raised were holding high hopes that I would not only be one of the chosen, but that my mate would be one of the most powerful Elohim of Elysium. Some going so far as betting I would be High Seraph Phoebus’s mate.

  I had hoped so as well. But now that I’d met a certain hybrid, my whole world had been turned upside down. I barely knew him, and yet…

  “Since the Fall, the light of the Elohim has died within the Fallen,” the merchant continued. “Now, they hunger for it. And this is why they are banned from our cities. They suck the light out of any offspring that could become a Vestal, and turn your Vestal sisters into commoners. Involuntarily though it may be, they would cast us into darkness if allowed near us. And yet, how
beautiful is the beast?”

  She added that last sentence in an almost wistful way. I suddenly wondered if she had personally known or been attracted to a Fallen. Could her stern warning be fueled by bitterness? As much as her arguments couldn’t be dismissed, my experience with Kwazeem had been the direct opposite. He’d enhanced my power like never before, and part of that still lingered.

  “Very,” I whispered in a non-committal way. “I would like to buy this, with both the cloak and the holographic suit,” I said, taken by a sudden whim. Having always been a by-the-book kind of woman, this new impulsive, almost impetuous side of me was disconcerting.

  The female merchant recoiled, her eyes widening in shock. “You want to buy a costume?”

  “It’s not for me,” I explained quickly. “But I have a friend whom I think might enjoy it.”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me but didn’t pry further. Good for her, too, because I wouldn’t have welcomed further intrusion into my personal business. While I considered myself a generally nice person, my claws swiftly came out when anyone thought to bully or control me.

  “What else does Old Nan make?” I asked casually after paying her.

  “Wild fruit preserves, scented candles, and natural body wash,” the woman responded while wrapping my purchase.

  I gaped at her, and she burst out laughing before extending me the bag containing the items I’d bought.

  “She lives alone, deep in the Godswood,” the merchant explained. “Despite her age, that stubborn old woman is self-sufficient, and makes most of the things she needs on the day to day. She rarely sells for currency, preferring to trade for the things she cannot make. For this, however,” she said pointing at my bag with her chin, “Old Nan will take her share in credits.”

  “Thank you, Madam,” I said politely. “This was most informative.”

  “Please, call me Ellen,” the merchant said. “You will soon find out that, despite all appearances, Paris is quite informal.”