by Vance, Ramy
I put it to my ear. “Hello.”
A raspy sigh seeped out of the earpiece’s speakers, “Ahh, finally we speak, Katrina Darling.”
The voice sounded old. Ancient, even … but it wasn’t one I recognized. “I guess we do,” I said. “But you have me at a disadvantage. You are?”
“The one that counseled that horrid excuse for a crusader about dealing with you. I had meant to use the boy to break you. With all that power, he should have done so easily. But instead, you broke him.”
“Oh, you’re talking about Harold?”
“Aye.”
“OK, so you tried to kill me—”
“Break you,” a rasp interrupted.
“Whatever. Still, you called Harold ‘a horrid excuse for a crusader’ and I happen to agree with that assessment, so you can’t be all that bad.”
The raspy voice chuckled, which sounded more like someone with bronchitis trying to dislodge phlegm. Lots of it. “I have been warned that you like to say silly things when frightened, and honest words when you think no one is listening.”
“And I have been warned not to talk to strangers. So unless you tell me your name, I guess this is goodbye—”
“How do you feel, Katrina Darling? If I were to hazard a guess, the word ‘empty’ comes to mind.”
Empty. That was exactly how I felt … but how did he know?
“Yes,” I finally said, wanting to see what he knew about this cloud that seemed to follow me wherever I went.
“Do you know what happens to a human’s soul when they become a vampire?”
My eyes widened. A few months back I had had an unpleasant encounter with my mother that led to me speaking with an ex-vampire and powerful alchemist named Lizile. During our brief and very weird encounter, she read my future, but not before telling me about a powerful magical item called the Rooh Ina’ah—the Soul Jar.
She said I would play a pivotal role in the war that was to come … and that it had something to do with that Soul Jar.
“I see you do,” the raspy voice said, taking my long silence as an affirmation. “Several of our kind have been looking for it—”
“Why? So you can become vampires again?” I threw in as much venom as those words would allow.
“So we can live forever,” he said without hesitation. “But alas, the jar is lost to us. What is not lost to us is the path that a soul follows when seeking the jar. And your soul, when it left your body the night before you awoke as what you once were—”
“A vampire. Jesus, can’t you guys just talk straight? What’s with the ‘night before you awoke as you once were’ crap?”
“Still frightened, I see,” he said. “Good, your fear will be an asset when making the most important decision you have before you.”
“Which is?” I said, faking a yawn.
“Which is,” he said, his voice momentarily losing its rasp, “to find your soul or not. That emptiness within … it exists because your soul remains trapped.”
It took me a second to register what he was saying. My soul trapped, and not within me? How could that be? He’s lying, I thought. He must be. But given the hollow emptiness consuming me, a part of me believed him.
I’d never felt such nothingness before. A nothingness that sprung from my heart and infested every corner of my being. When I was a vampire, the demon filled those parts of me … but now I was free of the demon, a human again, and all I felt was a hole left by the demon’s absence.
A hole that should have been filled by my soul.
“How? How do you know?” I said, not trying to hide my quavering voice.
“You are not the only one whose soul has yet to return.”
I closed my eyes and felt a warm tear roll down my cheek. But instead of sadness or despair, I just felt this awful void. I knew I was sad, but at the same time I wasn’t. The emptiness was refusing to let my emotions fill it and as this strange, confused conflict raged within me, I said, “You said ‘to find my soul or not.’ I’m assuming you believe it’s in the Soul Jar.”
“Aye.”
“And yet you haven’t found it. Why?”
“Because I already asked my question, Katrina.”
I truly wished this was one of those moments when the cryptic villain made no sense and I could go stomping off, ignoring their ridiculous way of speaking. But the sad truth was, I knew exactly what he was talking about: “the Amulet of Souol.”
“Indeed. The amulet grants its owner the answer to one question and only one. It must be the question that consumes you, that fills the very hole left by your soul. Do not ask it now. This emptiness, this pain—it is new. You need to wait until the void consumes you to the point of breaking. Then ask.”
“And what? You’re going to join me on a friendly excursion to wherever this friggin’ Soul Jar is?”
“Still afraid. Good. Use that.” And before I could say anything else, the earpiece crackled and the man with the raspy voice disappeared.
Shit, I thought, thinking back to my dream with the Old Librarian. So it really was him warning me somehow.
How? I had no idea.
I considered hitting the books, doing research and figuring this out, but I was bone-tired. And what’s more, I was fighting to care.
Another time, I thought, walking out of the Other Studies Library.
“Another time,” I muttered out loud this time as I turned off the lights.
↔
I walked up the hill, barely thinking, barely conscious of where I was and moving only on autopilot. I made it to my room where a sock was hanging. I briefly considered that Deirdre had a suitor over—lucky guy or gal, or both, I thought—and not going in. But then I remembered it was Deirdre … she was so uninhibited that she’d probably have a full conversation in mid … ahhh … stride.
I walked in, but instead of seeing a naked changeling, I saw a fully clothed, newly made young man.
“Justin,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “I thought—”
“I had to see you,” he said. “And thank you for, you know … saving me again.”
I pointed at his shoulder. “You were still hurt and well, I didn’t save you. You know who did.”
“I do. And I’ve thanked her, too. That lady has a gift basket from the Body Shop with enough anti-aging moisturizer to turn her back into an infant.”
He giggled at his joke. I did not.
“Look, I know I, you know, proposed and all … and I’m guessing you avoiding me is your answer, but—”
“Justin, do we have to do this now?”
“Just hear me out. I only proposed because I thought I literally had days to live. And I very selfishly wanted to spend them with you. Now that I’m young again, I’d like to take back my proposal. For now, at least. I might ask again way, way, way down the line.”
He got on one knee. “Katrina Darling … will you not marry me, but instead, can we go back to the way things were?”
He gave me his big, goofy smile that normally made me weak in the knees, but now did little for me.
“You would make me the happiest man on the planet if you would just say, ‘Yes.’ ”
I shrugged and said, “Yes,” less ceremonially than the situation required. I was tired. And apparently soulless, too.
He leapt to his feet. “Woohoo! She’s not going to marry me. She’s not going to marry me!” He tried to grab me to join in his dance, but I pulled away.
His face went somber. “You OK?”
“No,” I said, too tired to lie. “I’m exhausted and just can’t shake this horrible feeling. Ever since I … you know.” I pointed at where my fangs would be and gestured them going up into my gums.
“You’re human again after briefly being a vampire. That’s tough. A part of you that you thought would be gone forever came back … and now that it’s gone again, you’re kind of sad.” He took my hands in his and kissed them both. “And that’s OK. You’re allowed to feel this way.”
“I am
?”
“You are. And it might take a wee bit of time to feel better … and that’s OK, too.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
I shook my head and did something I hadn’t done since that night in the theater. I smiled.
I walked over to my bed, only taking the time to take off my jacket before falling in. “Thank you,” I said. “And I’m really sorry … truly I am, but I am so tired.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, standing by the bed and waiting expectantly.
“I’m tired.”
“No hanky panky. I won’t even try—I swear.” He made a cross sign over his heart.
“Fine,” I said, drawing back the covers. Hanky panky … that was a good one. I would normally have laughed at that one, or at least smiled. But this time I don’t think I even reacted.
He jumped into bed with me. “So I guess this is one of those all’s-well-that-ends-well scenarios?” Justin said.
“ ‘All’s well that ends well?’ ” I raised a curious eyebrow.
“Shakespeare,” he said. “I know how much you like his work and, well, I’ve been reading. And I’m trying to score a couple points with you.”
“The scoreboard is closed. Too tired to remember. Save it for some time when I wouldn’t trade my soul—” I stopped myself from finishing.
“For a good’s night sleep,” he said, finishing my sentence. “I understand.”
He drew in close, seeking to cuddle me, but I was asleep before I could feel the weight of his arms around me.
A Brief Epilogue
That night Justin falls asleep with Kat in his arms. He does not dream of being a superhero, nor does his mind wander toward thoughts of heroism or gallantry. He doesn’t even dream of Katrina.
His mind is an empty box filled only with the intangible touch of happiness. But that’s the thing about empty boxes: they are made to be filled. And as Justin drifts deeper and deeper into sleep, a growing darkness fills the empty space.
It is a mist … a specter of black that ebbs and flows as it contaminates more and more of this box.
Once this darkness covers the walls with black, it starts to summon other parts within Justin. It begins with his memories: of Katrina Darling and her friends. But it doesn’t stop there … the University, Montreal, being a student. The darkness wishes to learn it all.
When the darkness feels it has learned all it needs to know, it leaves the box that is Justin’s mind, seeping into another place within Justin to be contained. It does not take long for the darkness to find what it is looking for.
Infecting Justin’s beating heart, the darkness enters its chambers, relishing the pulsing rush and push of blood.
“Here,” it crackles. “Here is a box worthy of Dybbuk.”
Part I
A Beginning of Sorts
A long, long time ago …
My dearest Sonia,
When I told you I loved you more than life, never were truer words spoken. You are my breath, my being, the best part of me. I have relished every moment I was allowed to be your father, and I have considered that role my greatest privilege, my heaviest burden and my purest joy.
Now that our time together has so abruptly ended, I can no longer go on.
Your death has ripped a hole into the very fabric of who I am, one so great not even Oberon himself could mend it. What’s more, the abyss created by that hole has driven me mad.
While possessed by this madness, I have done something so horrible it is a blight on life itself.
That is why I must end my life—what little is left without you—and disappear forever.
Yes, what I have done is an atrocity.
Yes, what I have done has made me the monster I am today.
But know that what I have done was out of my love for you, my dearest daughter.
I am sorry I was not wise enough to protect you. I am sorry I was not strong enough to save you. But most of all, I am sorry for the time that was stolen from us.
My only hope is that Ankou the Reaper, who has guided so many of our fallen, will not lay upon you the sins of your father, and that your essence will travel somewhere more pleasant than the place my own soul must now spend eternity.
I love you my darling, my everything.
Your Father
Aelfric’s hands tremble as he finishes writing the letter he so desperately wishes he could deliver personally. But how does one deliver a letter to the dead?
One cannot. Not unless they are a being that ushers souls between this world and the next. So from where he stands on the haar-covered shore, Aelfric the Elf King walks over to Ankou the Fae Reaper and hands him his letter.
“Please Ankou, will you deliver this letter to her?” he asks, passing into a mist so thick that Ankou’s feet are hidden from the king.
Ankou, as is his way, says nothing. Nor does he offer any gesture, sign or indication that he will do as requested. Instead, he stands perfectly still, watching, once more playing witness to the theatre of life and death.
Aelfric nods in understanding. This is Ankou’s way, and through the centuries that Ankou has come to witness death, he has never spoken. Aelfric knows this all too well; the Elf King has stood witness himself while his brethren have fallen under Ankou’s impassive gaze. Why should the Elf King expect anything different tonight?
Because tonight is my death, he muses.
And every being that passes from one world to another believes their death to be special, when in truth it is not.
With a heavy heart, Aelfric folds his letter and places it in Ankou’s cloak. The Elf King can only hope that Ankou will deliver his final words to his daughter in whatever realm of the dead her soul now rests.
With that task done, Aelfric walks to the lake’s edge. As soon as his bare feet touch the water a great kelpie emerges, her massive, horselike head rising before her king.
Aelfric pats her snout and gives her a gentle kiss on the nose. “Earro’on, my friend, we have seen and done much together.”
Earro’on lets out a snort of agreement.
“Do you know why I am here?”
In answer, the kelpie’s eyes glisten with great sadness.
“I am sorry to ask this of you, my dear friend, but there is no other way.”
The great kelpie draws in a steeling breath. She knows her king’s words to be true: There is no other way. Her king must die. But it is more than death. His body must disappear to where no fae guard may watch over him, where no shrine can be erected to worship him, where no reaper may collect his soul so he may rest.
“Thank you, my friend,” Aelfric says, removing his blood-stained armor and dropping his weapons to the ground.
Naked, he stands before the kelpie, arms outstretched. “I am ready,” the Elf King says.
Earro’on does not hesitate in her duty; she bites down swift and hard on her king’s flesh so the pain he feels is minimal. She swallows the two halves that once belonged to her king and friend before giving Ankou a last, mournful glance.
The reaper, as is his way, says and does nothing. His impassive nature is his goodbye.
Earro’on, wishing the reaper could offer her comfort and knowing that he cannot, returns to the depths of her lake.
↔
But Ankou is not as impassive as Earro’on believes. For beneath his cloak, clenched fists betray an anger his kind should not feel.
Passive Aggressive, Overtly Aggressive, Nuclear Aggressive
“Because I love you.” Justin froze as those words came tumbling out of his mouth. He’d never said them before, at least not to me. And the fact that the first time he chose to utter those words happened to be in the middle of a fight was just another thing I was going to put into my Hold It Against Him column.
At least those words stopped the yelling, which was better. At first.
Then it got worse. Much worse.
Justin just stared at me as if he was waiting for me to—what? Say it back? I�
�m not going to say it back, I thought. If I did now, it would be disingenuous. I’d only be saying it because he said it. I’m not going to give in to this peer pressure—I mean boyfriend pressure.
“I don’t want you to say it back. And there’s no boyfriend pressure going on here,” he said, yelling again.
Shit, I was thinking out loud again. It was a nasty habit I had, airing out loud thoughts meant to be private. I really had to quit that.
At least he was yelling again.
“There is boyfriend pressure going on here,” I yelled back. “You’re pressuring me to spend Christmas with you.”
“Well excuse me for wanting to spend the holidays with my girlfriend. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”
“I do,” I said with a little bit too much petulant childishness.
“Really?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. His manly, magnificent, well-defined chest. Damn, it was hard arguing with someone so cute. “Like what?”
“Like … like …” I stuttered.
“That’s what I thought,” he said with a smirk so self-righteous that his cuteness advantage went out the window.
“Like doing my hair,” I said. “Besides, you know it has nothing to do with what I have and don’t have to do. I’m not ready.”
“For what?”
“To meet your parents, for one thing.”
“So you’re going to spend Christmas in the dorms, alone, because you don’t want to meet my parents? How does that make sense?”
“First of all,” I said, raising a very stern and point-making finger, “I won’t be alone. Deirdre and Egya will be here too. Secondly,”—I raised another finger on my other hand—“meeting your parents is a big, big step, and I don’t know if I’m ready.”
Justin winced. I mean, he actually shrank back with his eyes closed, grimacing. All because I didn’t want to meet his parents. If he never wanted to meet my parents—well, my mom again, given he’s met her already—I’d dance for joy. If he wanted to meet my dad that would be really creepy, because my father has been dead for almost three hundred years.