by Chris Howard
"Pan, incoming," Andy called to a jump-suited woman shooting past from the other side of the vehicle, ponytail swinging. Pandora turned at the door to the house, knocking with three sharp raps, looking up Atlantic Avenue to see an NHFD paramedic and a black police cruiser, blue lights pulsing.
Andy caught up to her with the gurney as the front door flew open. An older man—maybe fifty—with a gaunt face and long dark hair threaded gray ushered them inside. "Hurry! Two of my daughters. They can't breathe. They're bleeding from cuts that just appear on their skin. Please."
"Bruises as well," said a tall slender woman, her long dark hair braided in threes. "They just blossom without anyone touching them. Mostly up the arms."
The paramedics and two police officers joined them, Andy carrying Jill down the stairs through the kitchen. He set her down gently in the living room, and one of the paramedics came in with Nicole, who was shivering, making involuntary shuddering grunts as if she had just been pulled from an ice bath.
Pandora unlatched the orange boxes, flipped them wide open, grabbing two of everything, peeling off sterile packaging. "Andy, vitals. Call her in." She looked up at Gregor. "What happened?" Then over at the parameds. "Rich, what do you got? Compare symptoms."
The windows were tiny, rough-cut narrow slits in the rock high on the wall. Kassandra watched the white bars of sunlight creep across the floor toward her. Nineteen times the bars had slipped across the stones, up the far wall, faded into night. Nineteen days, and Kassandra couldn't stand, could barely crawl, but since there was nowhere to crawl to, didn't bother trying.
She thought of radioactive decay, tissues rupturing, cell wall breakdown, fluids seeping through decomposing tissue. Her braids had unwound, and her hair was brittle, breaking, losing its color; her skin was like paper, flaking off her body in sheets.
She coughed weakly, flecks of blood on her lips, spots of it across the stone floor. Her hand curled, fingernails scraping feebly against the stone. "Bachoris," she wheezed. "Please?"
She had never felt a stronger urge to cry. Nothing came from her eyes, no demons, no seawater, nothing. She curled into a tight protective ball, her knees up to her chin. Her bones felt loose, dry space between them, atrophied muscle clinging, rigid but uselessly weak. Her thoughts spilled around her soul, making no sense.
There are four of us.
That seemed like something set in stone, fixed in her mind. She didn't know what that meant, but she felt them, and it felt right. Two strong paths she could draw on. One hot spark at her core that she could not let die. I will die before I let any harm come to my spark. Protect the core. Let everything else fade. Nothing else matters. Protect the core.
Now there are four of us. Shut it all down, run on as little as possible, consume yourself to keep the core alive.
Kassandra closed her eyes, and did not open them again for two months.
By that time, she was blind.
The scrape of metal against heavy hard wood, the squeal of hinges, and the prison door swung open. Sunlight fanned over the floor, a sharp line across the stones with the stiff curl of a human body in the corner behind the door.
Bachoris found her and trembled, falling to his knees, crying. His voice was lost in the dry wind, the hiss of sand over the paving. "What have I done?"
He reached out, his fingers gliding over Kassandra's shoulder, touching the material of her shirt. Long strands of her hair had stiffened and broken off, scattered like dead grass. He expected death. He felt something, her life banked so low in her body that she made no sign of breathing. Still as death.
He thought about picking her up, but she looked too fragile to move, and Akastê waited somewhere beyond the door to his rental cottage in Hampton. Where would he take her?
A small ripple under his fingers and he jerked back as if burned. Kassandra was alive, her motor functions coming back online after months of decay. She uncurled into a loose ball, making a crackling papery noise, trying to wet her lips. Her voice came out hoarse, dry like dead leaves. "You betrayed me, Bachoris."
He was crying, eyes blurred with tears. "I saved you from her. She cannot find you here. But you cannot live here." He bent forward, closer to her ear. "I don't know what to do, Kassandra." He pleaded with her. "If I don't return with your crown, I will lose Agenika forever. Tell me what to do."
Kassandra rolled on her back with a splintering sound like bones breaking, blind eyes staring up at him. She looked sad for a moment, and then pulled some anger into her expression. "Akastê?"
He spun, pointing through the open prison door. "She waits for me there, waits for me to return with your crown. She wants to be the Sea."
Her angry expression deepened slightly, as if she wanted to respond with something vicious. She froze, pulled in a deeper breath, opened her mouth. Something in the air. She tasted it. Her gums had pulled back from her teeth, her tongue dry and shuddering, moved past her lips, seeking something.
Bachoris closed his eyes, couldn't look at her any longer. "I'm so sorry, Kassandra."
"Yes." Her voice a dry whisper. "Yes, you are."
"I didn't mean for it end up like this."
Kassandra reached out one shaky hand, blindly extending her finger, joints burning, the tip touching a teardrop on his cheek. "No one ever does."
Her body went rigid, and then bent in the middle. She sucked in a breath, deep painful wheezing. She felt the stir of power inside her. The core is safe. She repeated the thought, trying to find the other parts of her that had kept her alive. I can barely feel the other two paths. Where have they gone? We have saved the core. That is all that matters.
She felt an oozing of regeneration, her body re-growing muscle tissue, saliva in her mouth—all from a single tear off Bachoris' face. Her hair grew long, winding into braids on its own. She blinked, trying to focus, everything fire bright and blurry. Her sight returned.
Her hand reached out, feeling with her fingers across the stone floor, picked up Alex's vial of the ocean, the metal hot, burning her skin white where she touched it. She pulled it into her other hand, and spun off one of the caps.
And the ocean spilled out of it.
Clark Gerdes stared down at the plastic floor tiles, the delicious color of ground up Oreo cookies, rich dark brown, somewhat chocolaty with smears of white. Cookies and cream ice cream, that's what it reminded him of—and of the peculiar New England obsession with eating ice cream in late fall—or too early in the spring. Nothing says zeal like frozen desert with a forty degree F chill in the air.
Gerdes snapped his fingernail against the side of his coffee mug, a spasm of frustration. The weather was going to hell up there, and no one seemed to know what to do about it.
Weather extraordinary enough to make him question his own perception. But he knew he wasn't the only one concerned with the atmosphere and oceanic irregularities in the Gulf of Maine, off the coasts of Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine. He'd jumped on the anomalies by the protocols, formed a research team to study the...strangeness, sent them off to discover what they could and convene with some predictability data and forecasts. That was a week ago, and nothing but vague status reports with terms like "broadening our scope" and "extremely narrow window of event opportunity," which, when combined, simply meant that they couldn't find a damn thing.
An alarm chirped startlingly loud, gave Gerdes enough of a pause to catch the coffee mug dropping out of his fingers before launching into a rapid pulse of sharp high-pitched machine pleasure. A frown was just starting to form on his face, and then the shock of recognition ripped through his body, launching him to his feet, setting them running.
It was the EOW—end of the world—alarm, a million and a half air, surface and subsurface data gathering devices all signaling something catastrophic, global scale environmental emergency.
Gerdes sprinted to Control, shouting before he'd crossed the double-doored threshold, "What is it?"
A room full of researchers, scientists, engineers stari
ng up at the wall of video panels, some shaking their heads, others with eyebrows knotted in calculation mode, running numbers in their heads.
"What's going on?" Gerdes repeated, trying to follow the waterfalls of numbers pouring down the panels.
"Sea level," someone whispered without looking over at him. "The sea level's dropped almost six centimeters in the last four minutes. Worldwide."
Gerdes grabbed one of the consoles and brought up the surface change topography, bands of delta pink outlining all continental coastal boundaries, showing him where the oceans had dropped, but no where filling up.
"Where is it?"
Others were following his lead, calling for him to look at the polar landscape.
Someone finally said aloud, "Where's the ocean going?"
Gerdes rubbed his eyes, searching for something that made sense. He kept repeating, "It's not going anywhere."
Then it stopped, the level of the oceans hitting some floor, and the alarms died sullenly. Wherever the seawater had gone, whatever volume of space it had filled, the ocean had flowed into every corner of it.
Kassandra staggered through the shallows, north along Hampton Beach toward home. Her eyes still weren't working well, but she thought she saw Akastê, maybe a couple other immortals with her, but when she summoned her trident and brought her crown to life, the Erratic One had vanished.
"You better run." Her whisper enough to carry a threat. "You touch Bachoris' sister and I'll cut the bones out of your body one by one and let bore-worms eat them. One by one."
She had left Bachoris sobbing in the depths of his world—his deep ocean theme redecorated world. She walked home, stopping on the doorstep to dig in her pocket for the keys. Just as she pulled them out, Gregor threw the door open, grabbing her by the arm, angry as she had ever seen him.
"Where have you been? Jill and Nicole are in the hospital while you're off with your boyfriend, not answering your phone. Out all night!"
She stared at him, confused. "What?"
He pulled her into the house and slammed the door. "You're out all night without a care for your sisters."
"What night? What day is it?"
Zypheria stood behind her father, arms folded, just as angry as he was, biting off the words, "Friday morning, the twenty-first."
Kassandra shook her head, wrapped her arms around herself. She looked smaller, fragile, using everything inside to hold herself up. "But...it was months. I was in there for months."
"Where?" said Gregor unsympathetically.
Zypheria rubbed her eyes, trying to hold in her feelings. "I wish I had listened to Nicole."
"Me too." Kassandra looked at Gregor, holding her middle tighter, fingers clutching at her sides. "I was...nowhere." She withdrew, searching for the other two paths, the two that had given her life for months inside Bachoris' hell world, Nicole and Jill. I fed off them. My own sisters. I am a monster. "I am so sorry. I've let everyone down."
The phone rang. Zypheria grabbed it, nodding, making sharp acknowledging grunts, then, "Thank you." She turned to Kassandra. "They...they're better. Their hydration levels are normal. Jill just woke up."
Gregor didn't say anything, just walked quickly through the kitchen to the mud room. He held the door open for Kassandra, and they both got in the car. He started the engine, backed it into Atlantic Avenue, and headed east through the center of North Hampton, out to 101, and then to 95 north.
They were halfway to the hospital in Portsmouth, when Kassandra whispered, "I wish I could cry, dad. Growing up, that was one of the normal things I wished I could do."
He looked at his daughter, a goddess, the Wreath-wearer, the strongest being he knew, one of the only things in the world that put fear in him, and she looked broken, taken apart, not put back together right. She stared out the window, didn't even look at him when she spoke, repeating herself, "I wish I could cry."
"Why don't you? Is it really that you can't—or is it that you don't want to?"
"I've never been able to, or it's never been easy." She made a halfhearted gesture with the hand nearest him. She clutched the door handle with the other, so tight her knuckles looked like bone. She shrugged. "Ochleros will show up."
"So?"
"Maybe more than Ochleros."
"Fill the car with demons. Why is that so hard for you, daughter?"
She shot him a questioning look. "I have summoned others...but it's like they are my slaves."
"You are the Sea. They are. You don't think they feel it when you're in pain—from wherever they are right now? Whatever is happening inside your soul—right now—they can feel it, Kassandra. If I understand how this world works, they are made from you, a part of you, not by blood, but they have ties to you in this world. You think they don't understand what is troubling your soul?"
"I never thought of it." She shook her head, and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, staring at the blur of green pines and maples. "I need to see my sisters. Can you speed it up?"
He looked over at her. "Can you help them?"
"Of course. It's the least I can do—since I nearly killed them."
Chapter 28 - The War-bards
Theoxena met her daughter Nikasia of the Kirkêlatides beside a bench just up from the lighthouse at Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. They hugged, bowed to each other, unsure of the balance of authority. Theoxena offered a seat to Nikasia, smiled thinly, thinking back on the same awkward moment with her mother, half the bleed split between the two, who is the true Kirkêlatides, who rules the house now? And she said the same words her mother spoke to her—and probably the same passed down from the beginning.
"If anyone is to die in this next battle, my daughter, my bleed earner, Nikasia, it will be me. The line dies with you. With me, you become the full bleed bearer."
Nikasia stared at Theoxena a moment, frightened, something small and childish and painful, a knot of it rumbling in her stomach. She bowed her head, whispered, "Yes, mother."
Theoxena let the moment pass slowly, held her breath, tried to make it last. It lasted, but only a few minutes, and then she was the commanding war-bard to the crown of the seaborn again, making decisions, planning wars for her king. She put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, bringing in her fingers to get her full attention.
"Something has happened, or is happening. Kassandra has gone. I cannot feel her presence at the house, or anywhere in the world. With the right call and bounce, she stands out like a beacon in the abyss. But she is nowhere."
"What do you mean?" Nikasia looked at her mother, a concerned questioning stare. "How? Is it possible that she has gone out of the world?"
"No. She knows I am watching her, waiting for her to slip. She is careful, always has her guardians nearby, in easy reach. She has befriended another immortal, one of the dry sands lords, Bachoris."
Nikasia's mouth fell open wider. "And we must go up against him as well?"
Theoxena went still, thoughtful, and didn't come out of that state for several minutes. Nikasia waited, watching her, running her fingers along her mother's hand when she felt she had given her enough time to find an answer.
"Well?"
Theoxena's mouth tightened at the corners. "I am not certain. I have just recalled everything I know of the barrens and their ladies and lords, and of this one, Bachoris, in particular. They do not get on well with the water ladies and lords. Never have. It makes this union with Kassandra all the stranger."
"Your sense is that he will not support her?"
She nodded.
Nikasia looked relieved, happily so, waved her hands in mock glee. "Oh, well that's excellent news. We just have to destroy Poseidon's own heir and crown wearer, who's a bit over protective of her murdering old dad. It'll be a walk across the flats, a kick in open water, a dance with dolphins. We'll simply walk up to her front door, knock it down, cut the head off Gregor Lord Rexenor, and tell her she'd better not give us any trouble, or she'll be next."
Theoxena had long ago let her s
ense of humor go to rot, and glared back at her daughter. The sarcasm didn't even register.
Nikasia went dead serious, commanding her mother, "Make the call again. I want to see the hole she has left in this world."
Theoxena bowed her head, scooped up the Atlantic, and sang for the Sea to show herself.
The call came back, blinding, like a star in the water sloshing around in the cup of Theoxena's hands. Nikasia leaned in, touching the surface gently with a finger, stirring the water. Her voice out low, confused. "She is there, not in her home, very weak, but in this world. Again."
Theoxena looked again, scowling, nodding. "Yes, she is. But she was not here at the last sunset when I looked." Theoxena let the water spill through her fingers. "Now, we must plan her father's death with her in our way."
Nikasia nodded, not very happy about that. "There are other problems to solve, players who have a part to play."
Theoxena looked at her sharply, but nodded as if already guessing something about her daughter's next direction. "More than one? Who?"
"I have found an actual live Telkhinos." She said it with an air of discovery, as if Alex Shoaler was something on an endangered species list. "A Telkhinos of the lord's line."
Theoxena let a hint of a smile appear on her lips. "I have also seen him. Kassandra is protecting him—or in league with him. Yes, quite the formidable little force she is assembling."
Nikasia nodded. "Another question to answer, I have one of the demons—a deathless one—following me."
Theoxena sat upright. "Who?"
"Their king. Ochleros."
Her expression hardened. "I know Ochleros. He was once a slave of King Tharsaleos." She gave her daughter a narrowed, uncertain look, then opened, decided to share a secret with her. "I killed their former king, Ephoros—with the help of Tharsaleos. But I would rather not meet any of the Sea-Daimones in the water." She lifted her chin imperiously, the decision made. "We must remain above the waves where it hurts him to pursue you."