Ourselves

by S. G. Redling

  “Time won’t make any difference,” Lucien said. “If something is broken in him, if whatever this coldness is comes from something wrong, some fault—”

  Sylva kept her voice soft. “This isn’t Hess we’re talking about.”

  Lucien lunged toward her, jabbing his finger in her face. “You don’t get to talk about Hess. Not now. Not ever. You have no idea what it means to see the Vint, to feel it. End of story.”

  Sylva held her hands up in surrender. She waited until Lucien had stormed out, slamming the door behind him. “I know I’ll never see what you see.”

  “Sylva . . .”

  “But I know pain when I see it. And I know a boy when I see one. Why you want to rush into this and drag him through—”

  “Because it’s already alive within him. Lucien’s right. You don’t know what it is to feel the Vint. And to know it’s waiting within someone you’ve come to care about. We could wait a hundred years. When it comes, it’ll still tear him to pieces.”

  Sylva stared at Lucien’s empty chair. “We should send the girl away.”

  Vartan paged Adlai and Stell to the complex early the next morning.

  “So where’s the job?”

  “Indianapolis.”

  “Isn’t Daskolias there?”

  Vartan shook his head, not looking up from the envelope he was stuffing. “Had to go to Maine or some such place. Someone had a baby, having the naming ceremony. I didn’t ask for details. You know Daskolias, she didn’t offer any.” Adlai said nothing. Behind him, Stell kept sticking her head out into the hallway trying to spot Desara. “Besides, the girl ought to meet some people. You say she’s good, I’m prepared to take your word on that.”

  “And what is the job?”

  “The usual, move some money, send a few messages. The Venezuelans are trying to muscle into our man’s territory with some high-grade heroin. You might want to bring a few more of those exploding things you use when the house has to go.” While drugs themselves were not Nahan business, the people who fought over them fought on Nahan property. Several decades earlier, the Council had seen fit to take a closer hand in who made money where and Adlai had a reputation for dealing with the heated and heavily armed participants.

  This job was bogus, Adlai knew it. There was no problem with the Venezuelans in Indianapolis; he’d have heard about it by now. This was just a clumsy way to get Stell away from the complex so they could tweak her boyfriend. Did they think he would have forgotten being sent on a snipe hunt like this just four years ago? Did they think he would forget what was waiting for him when he returned?

  None of this showed on his face. He followed Stell out the door and into the hallway. He would help her find her Tomas, give her plenty of time to say goodbye. He held back as they met outside the kitchenette. Adlai noticed the boy had not yet adopted that strange half-walk, half-shuffle of the Storytellers around him, always watching where they were going without looking anyone directly in the face. They must have told the kid he’d be going through some heavy work while she was gone. He was probably relieved Stell would be busy while he was out of contact. Such a lucky coincidence. Well, Adlai figured, if they were being banished, he would put the time to good use and feel the girl out on her willingness to help him.

  Tomas had been told to expect an especially long and physical session. After yesterday’s one-on-one with Dalle, he was glad for the more physical workout with Sylva. He tried to pace himself as he moved into his fourth position in the eighteen-position motion meditation Mentor Sylva had taught him. Similar to tai chi, the positions moved from one to another with exquisite slowness. A moderately paced session would last just under three hours; Sylva had told him she expected them to be in motion for over four. He followed her lead, his muscles trembling under the strain, his blood pumping smoothly in time with his calm breath.

  A month ago, four positions would have been more than he could handle. It was not only the physical strain—moving in such slow motion required an astonishing amount of strength—the mental focus required to mind the delicate shifting of balance was exhausting. Tomas had stuck with it, his body and mind responding to the gentle discipline of Sylva and now he found that after eighteen positions his mind and body felt clear and clean.

  A bead of sweat slid down the inside corner of his eye, down along the curve of his nose to rest, suspended, off the tip of his left nostril. He didn’t focus on it nor did he fight to ignore it. The sweat, like the twinge in his right thigh and the tic in his shoulder, spoke to him. They were expressions of the machine of his body.

  “When your body needs to be heard, you must let it speak.” Sylva had told him early in his training. “These small sounds, these physical glimmers, are no more than the sighs of the flesh, your body dreaming of its freedom.”

  Tomas began the slow pivot on the ball of his right foot. His right arm made a graceful descent toward his waist, while his left hand turned palm up and, led by his middle finger, rose slowly toward the ceiling. On the edges of his vision, he could see his motions mirrored in Sylva. Like him, she wore a pale-blue cotton tank top and loose cotton shorts. Like him, she was bathed in sweat, the clothes clinging to her slim body. Early in his training, Tomas would find himself distracted by her presence, transfixed by the loveliness of her movements and the distance in her eyes. Now, moving in time with her, he felt a stronger bond, a fluid connection as the air moved about their bodies.

  Four hours and twenty-eight minutes into the discipline, Tomas’s mind was transformed. His muscles had moved beyond fatigue into that state of strength that drew from a source the conscious mind could not tap. He had no thoughts, no words in his mind, only the shift and flow of the meditation. Position eighteen brought him back to a simple standing pose, his hands before him in prayer position. He closed his eyes, mindful but not alarmed at the weakness in his shoulders and calf muscles. Before him, Sylva mirrored his position. He let his breath restore his strength as he listened for his teacher.

  Sylva broke position and crossed the room. They were in the swimming room in the basement of the complex, the long narrow pool of water reflecting the candlelight in erratic patterns on the low ceiling. They often practiced here, the acoustics making the second part of the meditation more challenging. She moved to a table near the door and picked up a bag of marbles. Tomas could hear the stones clink against one another. Carefully, she emptied the bag into the top of a tall, bamboo box.

  Inside the box were a series of narrow chutes that pivoted on tiny fulcrums. At different levels within the box were small brass bells. The marbles of differing sizes and weights moved across different chutes at different speeds. Some dropped quickly, some rolled slowly, finding balance until another marble knocked them loose. Sylva tiptoed silently away from the box, preparing for the second meditation.

  Sweat evaporated from his skin and he listened for the bell. He didn’t squeeze his eyes shut; his lashes barely touched his cheeks as his energy went inward to the part of his mind that was always aware of his surroundings. This was a location meditation. Each time he heard a bell, he was to point his hands in the direction of Sylva.

  His eyes were closed and the echoes of the water hall made his hearing unreliable. He had to turn to his mind’s eye, the eye that saw when his physical eyes were blind. Tomas relaxed and allowed his mind to see the shadows of the room around him. Part of it was memory. He knew the contours of the room as well as he knew the contours of Stell’s face. Part of it was sensory—an awareness of air displacement and the whispers of sound as his teacher moved as silently as possible. The biggest part of the ability was internal.

  A bell sounded and Tomas tipped his hands to the left, directly at Sylva. He was not allowed to open his eyes to check if his answer had been correct. The teacher moved silently again as another bell rang. Again, Tomas located her instantly, pointing his fingers over his right shoulder. Bell after bell sounded and each time Tomas located his instructor. In his mind, the room glowed a watery shade o
f blue as he felt, more than saw, Sylva move around him. Finally she stood before him, very close.

  Tomas smiled. He loved Sylva, loved the feel of heat her body radiated. He wouldn’t open his eyes until instructed to do so but he felt a yearning for the soft hands of his meditation teacher, for the way she would gently stroke his hair or rub his back. He remained still, his breathing calm, waiting for her cue to move.

  His eyes remained closed when he felt the sudden draft of air between them. They remained closed at her sharp intake of breath. But his eyes flew open when Sylva’s fist crashed solidly and painfully into his solar plexus, doubling him over and dropping him to the floor.

  He rolled to his side, gasping for air that would not come. Sylva fell on him, pulling a thick cord out of nowhere and tying his hands behind his back. She was impossibly strong and lightning fast. In his struggle to breathe and make sense of what was happening, he was only partially aware of the door to the swimming room opening, footsteps rushing across the floor and rough hands pulling at him. He had just a moment to see Lucien and Vet over his shoulder before he broke the surface of the water, his desperate attempts to breathe succeeding only in sucking down warm water as he sunk to the bottom of the pool.

  Chapter Seven:

  VINT

  Vint: the physical manifestation of human desire and emotion, visible only to Storytellers

  “Nothing here strike your fancy?” Stell shook her head. There was a couple at the table near the dartboard who had been eyeing them for most of the evening. Adlai recognized the type, married couple, probably both on their second or third marriage, cruising bars looking to spice things up. Chicago, Indianapolis—it didn’t matter what city it was. Some things never changed. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  She was. Her appetite had been growing, her hunger making itself known every couple of days rather than every other week. She missed Tomas. She had never hunted with anyone else before. She didn’t realize how heavily she relied on his ability to read a room and weave a story. Out here with Adlai, who was as reticent as she, the fun of luring people lost its luster. It seemed too much trouble to introduce themselves to the couple across the room, listen to their chatter, burning time until they could get them alone and vulnerable. She would rather drag them out back and bash their heads against the wall to get what she wanted.

  Adlai slid his hand over hers.

  “There’s nothing for us here. Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  He chucked her under the chin with his finger. “We’ll just follow our noses.”

  Outside Stell headed for the bike but Adlai pulled her along the sidewalk. The neighborhood they walked through changed from suburban chain restaurants and bars to progressively seedier nightclubs with smoked-glass windows and steel grates on the doors. Stell clutched Adlai’s hand tighter, feeling a familiar rush of heat move through her. She snuck a glance at his face and caught his hard stare as he scanned the streets before them.

  At this moment she didn’t miss Tomas. Where Tomas would always look for the story, the bond to form with his prey, Adlai seemed to understand her need for the rush of fear. A shiver passed up her spine as she knew tonight she would have r ‘acul.

  Shouts came from the alley they were approaching. Glass shattered and Stell heard male voices laughing loudly. Adlai surprised her and pulled her tight against his body. His lips crushed hers as together they staggered, locked in an embrace, and crashed against the brick wall in the mouth of the alley. He forced his legs between hers, one hand pulling her thigh up onto his, the other pulling at her clothes. Stell climbed onto his body, slipping her hands under his jacket and clawing at the t-shirt beneath, not thinking, only wanting. Her heart hammered in her ears as the heat from his body burned against her, the rough brick cold at her back. She clung to him, a moan escaping her throat as she heard footsteps approaching from the blackness of the alley.

  “Aw, isn’t that romantic?” The voice was male, high-pitched with a nasal Midwestern accent. Stell opened her eyes and saw the voice perfectly matched the source—a scrawny white boy with bad skin and a worse mustache. Adlai looked at the kid and scoffed.

  “Fuck off, man.” He went back to his hot-breathed lovemaking on Stell’s neck.

  “Did you hear that?” Mustache asked. “Brady, you hear that?”

  “I did. That fucker just told you to fuck off.”

  Adlai sighed, resting his forehead against Stell’s, meeting her eyes with contained glee. There were three of them behind him. She could tell by the look in his eyes, he was thinking the same thing: Can it be this easy?

  Adlai turned around and looked from one thug to the other, as if he just realized he was outnumbered. “Hey man, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Hey, he doesn’t want any trouble.” Brady, a tall, doughy man-boy, said with a laugh.

  “Oh well,” Mustache’s high-pitched voice got even higher. He got up in Adlai’s face, his breath stinking of beer and cigarettes. “In that case, why did you tell me to fuck off?”

  Stell watched the three men close in on Adlai. She could smell their adrenaline and it made her mouth water. She slipped up behind Adlai, cowering behind him, and whispered in a small voice, “C’mon honey, let’s just get out of here.” She opened her eyes wide, broadcasting a fear she did not feel. The third man, in a stained Colts jersey, took the bait.

  Adlai began backing out of the alley. Colts Jersey stepped behind him, blocking his way. Brady laughed again as Mustache feinted left then right, trying to spook Adlai.

  “What do you want?” Stell almost laughed at the affected tremor in Adlai’s voice.

  Mustache sidled up alongside them and with surprising speed, pushed Adlai toward the other two men while pulling Stell into a choke hold. All three men had knives ready, one at Adlai’s throat, one waving in front of his face, Mustache pressed the third against Stell’s cheek. It was clear they had done this before. Mustache backed away, dragging Stell with him as his cronies laughed. Adlai began to bargain, then to beg, offering them all the money he had if they would just leave them alone. Brady elbowed him hard in the stomach to shut him up.

  Mustache waited until Adlai had straightened up to pull Stell close to his chest. Holding the knife under her chin, he unzipped her jacket and pulled it open. Stell whimpered in his grip, begging him not to hurt her, even mustering up a desperate tear. She could feel his body pulsing behind her, could feel the start of a pitiful erection pressing into her back. She couldn’t meet Adlai’s eye for fear she would begin laughing. Adlai barked angry obscenities to his captors as Mustache lowered the knife to the hem of her thin t-shirt.

  “You got a nice-looking woman here, dude. Maybe you ought to take her to nicer places.” He purred in her ear, running his tongue along her throat. He pulled the t-shirt hem taut with the tip of the knife as his two buddies giggled stupidly on either side of Adlai. Colts Jersey held Adlai by the back of his jacket, the knife falling away from the target’s neck as he watched the show unfold in front of him. On his left, Brady was paying more attention, his hand locked on Adlai’s arm in a powerful grip, his knife positioned for a messy gut wound.

  Confident his buddies had the muscular man contained, Mustache let the knife cut through the fabric of Stell’s shirt. She followed the blade’s progress up her stomach, between her breasts and up to the neckline of her shirt. Mustache’s cold hand slid across her stomach as he popped the final inch of fabric, letting her shirt fall back, exposing her bare torso to the night. Adlai closed his eyes at the sight, biting his lip. The attackers thought it was from anger or shame or modesty, but Stell knew differently.

  Mustache pinched one of her nipples between his fingers and heard her gasp. “I think she likes me, boys. What do you think?” His two comrades were reduced to wheezy giggles as he whispered loudly in Stell’s ear. “You like that, don’t you? You been looking for a real man, haven’t you?” Her eyes half closed, Stell tried to maintain the pretense of fear but seeing A
dlai’s tongue dart across his lips and the flash of his teeth as he waited for what was coming, her body reacted on its own. Her back arched, bucking her body into Mustache’s open hand. His hands moved over her bare skin, hot in the cold night air.

  “We’re gonna have us a party. You and me and my buddies here.” His breath was ragged as he pulled Stell deeper into the alley. “You tell Mr. Muscles over there that you want a real man.” Stell said nothing, trying to prolong the anticipation. “Go on, say it.”

  Stell closed her eyes and whispered. “I want a real man.” Brady and Colts Jersey clutched Adlai tighter as they laughed.

  “You tell him you want us all, all three of us tonight, right here, right now.”

  She met Adlai’s eye. “I want all three of them. Right now.”

  Adlai winked at her. “Greedy, greedy, greedy.”

  Mustache tried to kiss Stell’s averted lips as he eyed Adlai. “She’s gonna like it, you stupid fuck, three real men, one after the other.”

  Stell let her head roll back on her captor’s shoulder. “It sounds wonderful but I think I may have to share.” Mustache looked at her, confused at the laughing tone in her voice.

  Before he could recover, she threw her head back, smashing his nose. Adlai wrenched his arm free from Brady’s grip and threw a sharp jab to the larger man’s nose, followed by a quick backward elbow to the jaw that rattled Brady’s brains and dropped him in a heap on the alley floor. Colts Jersey stood by stupefied as Adlai turned to face him. With a snapping grip on his neck, Adlai lifted Colts Jersey off his feet and slammed him onto the alley floor. He pulled the knife from the stunned man and used it to open his throat. A dozen feet away, he could feel and smell and hear Stell tearing at the skin of Mustache.

  Tomas’s lungs burned as they filled with water. With his hands tied behind his back, he flailed helplessly, disoriented, his head bumping against the concrete. He forced his feet below him and pushed off, the muscles in his stomach screaming from Sylva’s punch. Just as he broke the surface and sucked in air, the water erupted. Lucien and Vet leapt into the pool. One Storyteller grabbed a handful of hair and yanked Tomas back under the water; the other lunged onto his shoulders, pushing him deeper.