by Elise Kova
“Oh!” Nico sat up, not quite slamming but definitely placing his palms heavily on the table. His gaze instantly sought out Jo’s, an enthusiasm there that was both endearing and motivating. “What if they have no findings because they don’t have anything strong enough to perceive them?”
Jo mulled that over. “You mean, they don’t have the technology?” It seemed outlandish that, out of all of the technological advancements her time period had under its belt, this would be the one thing that had fallen through the cracks. They had androids petitioning to live normal lives, indistinguishable from humans, but not better earthquake detecting materials?
“Let’s say they don’t have proper measurement tools for correct prediction information. We’d need a stronger seismograph—something that can measure deep-layer tectonic shifts and then predict future movement based on these micro-movements.” Eslar continued, frowning as well in deep, disgruntled thought.
Jo actually took a small step away from the table, taken aback with surprise. The elf was from a time period that was so long ago, and so far from her own, that it was utterly inconceivable to Jo to even imagine. Yet, he could navigate technology better than most from Jo’s own times. As annoying as he could be in his occasional role of “team mom,” Eslar was truly something else.
“I can do that.”
All eyes turned to Samson, his brow furrowed and eyes distant, as if he hadn’t even realized he’d spoken. Jo could see one hand tapping an unnatural rhythm against the table as his other fiddled with a cube shaped object held a few inches away from his lips. His fingers shifted with practiced ease, a soft magical aura emanating from him that Jo could feel all the way from the other end of the table.
The silence following his statement stretched long enough that Eslar had to cut back in, clearing his throat to get the craftsman’s attention. Samson jumped slightly, though his hands continued to fiddle; the cube seemed to mold beneath his fingers like a sentient clay, becoming something Jo could not yet envision. “Samson?”
“I can make what you need,” he clarified, eyes downcast, though not in a way that emanated any sort of self-consciousness. Instead, they seemed to shift about the open space in front of him as if already trying to work out a spatial understanding of his newest project. “It- It will be simple,” he went on. “Enough to convince anyone—scientist, government, prime minister. It should cover all of our bases, dig deep enough into the necessary seismic data that the evacuations will be irrefutable. Just tapping into the AI supercomputers for high-level calculations. . . Modifications, really. Nothing new. Just improving what’s there for them. I can do that. Yes, I can, no problem.”
For a long moment, Jo didn’t know what to say; it was the most she’d ever heard come out of Samson’s mouth at one time. But she wasn’t about to waste it. With a quick clearing of her throat, she nodded and tacked on the best look of motivated authority she could manage.
“You heard the man. He’s got the proof machine on lock.” She must really be getting used to the world of magic if she’d take that simple explanation from a thousand-year-old man as proof he could create such a thing. “So, now how do we get that machine into the hands of a scientist who can use it?”
From there, all discussion focused on hashing out logistics. If there was anything Jo had learned throughout her time as the Shewolf, it was the benefit of laying all the “best cards” out on the table, working out a foolproof methodology, and playing it like a poker game she had no intention of losing. They had aces up their sleeves—magic—and with it, there was no way they could lose.
This was merely about getting somebody to look at their hand and recognize the win.
Wayne and Takako took it upon themselves to masquerade as researchers looking to sell the updated seismograph machine to the head seismic facility, capitalizing on the recent interest in such a device. With Wayne’s magical abilities, conning their way into the office of the right people would be “a piece of cake”—or a piece of something from the 1920s that Jo promptly forgot (Tomato Pie, perhaps?). Then, it would simply be a matter of falsifying documents on Jo’s end just to tidy things up if anyone looked for evidence that Wayne and Takako were indeed part of a legitimate company. Another night of hacking the appropriate registries, creating documentation for the machine’s functionality, and their validity.
And, if she was thorough and careful, another night of opportunity for Jo to redeem herself.
Chapter 15
Ken and Goofo
THE DOOR TO the rec room opened with an icy breath. Jo instantly pulling her sleeves down over her hands.
Inside, the same set-up greeted her as last time: monitors, futon, and a freshly stocked mini-fridge of RAGE Energy. She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. It all looked pristine once more, as if waiting for her to make a mess all over again.
There was, however, one new addition. Draped over the back of the chair at the computer desk was a brand-new hoodie. It wasn’t her usual all black fare, but a deep navy ensemble with a slightly off-blue pattern over it that reminded her of abstract snowflakes.
Jo ran her fingers over the fabric, trying to place the material. It was softer than wool, higher quality than a cotton. . . cashmere? Not quite. It was different than anything she’d ever touched before and yet so similar to something she could’ve sworn she’d felt—likely a designer dress at a department store, the sort of thing she could look at and dream of but never afford.
“Really?” she asked no one but the seemingly sentient walls, trying to talk away the odd feelings it evoked in her. “You can give me a new hoodie, but you can’t make a room that’s less icy and can still have all my tech?” Jo slung her arms into the sleeves, waiting for a reply. There was none. Then again, she was a bit glad of the fact. She may be settled into her magical existence, but she had a feeling a talking mansion would take it a step too far. “Either way, thanks, I guess.”
Jo plopped herself into the chair. She didn’t run into the room this time or slide up to the keyboard with momentum. No, Jo leaned back, stretched out her legs, sank into the (surprisingly soft) hoodie the room had given her, and stared at nothing for several long breaths.
As if somehow knowing that she had yet to start in on her task, there was a knock on the door. Jo turned and what felt like a now distant memory came back to her—was the last person to knock on the door Pan?
She swallowed, making sure her voice was even and strong. “Come in.”
Part of her hoped that it was Pan; Jo wouldn’t mind a few minutes alone with that girl-creature to give her some uninterrupted pieces of her mind. But while that may be something Jo would like, it was also perhaps not the best idea given that the mere thought of the supernova-haired woman still set Jo’s blood running hot. So, ultimately, she was glad it was just Wayne. As quickly as they could rise each other to anger, it also seemed they could put each other at ease.
“Hey, doll.” Wayne swept over her with his gaze. There was something uncanny about that look. Even though Jo knew her hair was a mess, there were likely bags under her eyes, she was in a sweatshirt about four sizes too big, and Wayne had noted earlier that she “looked like hell,” he could still look at her as though she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever beheld.
“I really should figure out a pet name for you.” Jo gave him her own up-and-down. His sleeves were rolled, collar slightly unbuttoned. But his vest and pants were tailored to perfection, a sort of casual prestige that only men like Wayne could muster, even if it lacked a little of its usual magic. “You call me doll, so, how about. . .” She tapped her lips with a hum. “Ken?”
“Ken?” Wayne seemed startled.
“Yeah, you call me doll, like a Barbie Doll. Ken was her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” He arched his eyebrows.
Jo laughed at the idea, so loudly that she could hear her voice echoing in the hall. “No, Wayne, just no. Not like that. We covered all that, remember? I was just thinkin
g of a male version for ‘doll’.”
Wayne slid his hands in his pockets, an endearing smile on his lips. “I rather like my name. I don’t think I want to take another man’s, even if it means a term of endearment from you.”
“Not Ken, then?”
“No.” He shook his head. “How about goofo?”
“Goo-what-now?” Just when she thought he couldn’t get any weirder.
“Goofo,” Wayne repeated, as though it would somehow make it more obvious. “Zelda Fitzgerald called Scott that, real romantic-like.”
She could only laugh.
“So goofo is a no?”
“Obviously.” Jo grinned at him. “Don’t really want anything ‘romantic-like.’”
“You’re the one who went there with boyfriend talk.”
Jo gave him a half-hearted roll of her eyes. “I guess we’ll have to keep looking.”
“I guess so.”
There was a brief moment where they just smiled at each other. Shoulders relaxed, as if forgetting the tension of the wish that loomed over them every waking moment now. “Thanks,” Jo mumbled. “I needed that.”
“Needed what?” He seemed genuinely confused, though a smile still tugged lazily at his lips, betraying him; he might have had a better idea than he let on.
Jo shook her head, dislodging the thoughts. She couldn't let herself get comfortable and forget what was on the line. Comfort would make her relax, and relaxing led to sloppiness. The weight of the stress on her shoulders was necessary right now. “Nothing. Anyway. . . What can I help you with? I doubt you came here to talk about goofo.”
“I didn’t.” He took a step in, finally, just enough to allow the door to mostly close behind him. “I wanted to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
“I was a bit of an ass.”
Jo could draw things out further, make him really say what he’d done wrong. Prove his remorse. But she knew sincerity when she heard it. So she just waved a hand through the air, as if clearing any negative thoughts or feelings from the space between them. “It happens. Don’t worry about it. We’re all under a lot of stress.”
“Speaking of. . .” Jo knew where Wayne was going just by his tone. He didn’t have to say anything further, but he did anyway. “When you’re done in here, I thought perhaps you may need to blow off some of a little steam.”
“And you’re offering your services?” The corner of her mouth pulled into a smirk despite herself. They hadn’t actually done anything since Paris (if you ignored heavy flirting now and then), and while the itch hadn’t turned into a full-blown ache for touch, Jo supposed she wouldn’t mind some physical companionship for an evening.
So, why wasn’t the idea more appealing?
“Only if you’d like to make use of those services, of course.” Wayne gave an almost lecherous wink.
“I’ll think about it, Ken.” She dragged out the pseudo pet name, knowing just what it’d do.
He gasped and stepped away, hand pressed to his chest in only semi-faux insult. Jo laughed at his offended stare, her mission accomplished. “Well, now you’ve ruined the mood,” Wayne huffed.
“I couldn’t resist.”
“I hope you’re satisfied.”
She was, but spared him and didn’t rub it in.
He left, the air between them settled and friendly once more. That said. . . their flirting was fun, but it felt a hollow, like an echo of what could’ve been there but wasn’t quite. Stress, Jo decided. The stress wasn’t making her want anything. Certainly, that was it.
Jo placed her hands on the keyboard and set to clearing that stress right from the root. The monitors flared to life. Well, all but one. Jo stared at it dumbly. It was the same one as before. She reached up and tapped the power button.
Nothing.
Jo tapped it again. Then gave a few raps on the side of the screen. It turned on with a suddenness that nearly blinded her. Squinting, Jo quickly adjusted the brightness, and set about her work. The mansion made everything realistic, down to the occasional technology glitch, it seemed.
The banter had, somehow, re-sorted the random tangents that cluttered her mind. Things were running smoothly again. Her magic felt like a marathon, rather than sprints. Jo drew on it at a consistent pace in the background of her mind, greasing the wheels but not using it for momentum. Her own talent was enough for that.
Overall, she moved more slowly, but with unwavering purpose. It wasn’t fueled with arrogance and fear like the frazzled machete-like approach she’d taken last time. No, Jo was beginning to wield her magic like a scalpel, striking only where she needed with absolute precision. Like this, absolutely nothing could stand in her way. It was as if just touching something caused it to unravel.
There were only two cans of RAGE ENERGY left in the fridge when Jo departed the recreation room for the third time in three days. Her more measured, direct approach yielded results. Isn’t that what Yuusuke had tried to tell her years ago? Approach it like playing the long-con, not the quick attack?
At least, she thought he’d said that. Trying to recall moments from her past life, her “real” life, was starting to become more and more difficult.
It was like trying to pick apart a hyper-vivid dream from a similar memory. Whenever her mind drifted to specifics, they seemed to waver and shift like two cells layered on top of each other. Was it Yuusuke’s advice she was following, or someone else whose name and face she’d already forgotten? When images of a long beard, a crowned head, and ornate clothing flashed across her mind’s eye, was that a memory, or a phantom image from a distant but lingering dream?
Jo rubbed her eyes. Being part of a society outside of time probably just had some unfortunate side effects, that’s all. And surely the supremely hazy memories of her best friend, the man she’d given up her existence for, were purely a result of exhaustion and not an actual loss of clarity.
Even if she worked fewer hours this time, the session was no less intensive than the last. Her mind felt like pulp, one even Eslar’s bedtime story may not be able to save.
Jo looked down the empty hall. There were no sounds echoing, no footsteps nearing, and the door to the other recreation room was void of a watch. It compelled her to check her own—just past three a.m., for whatever time was worth. Basically nothing, other than the arbitrary habits they still observed.
Which meant everyone was likely holed up in their own rooms, passing the time doing whatever they did. She knew where to find Wayne just like she knew he’d not mind her barging in on his space. Jo leaned against the door with a sigh. The thought was no more appealing than it was last time. Their conversation earlier had, indeed, sparked something in her. She wanted touch, but not Wayne’s.
Jo pressed her palm to her forehead with a sigh. What did she want then? Or rather, who?
When her hand pulled away, Jo looked left, not right, toward a white door at the opposite end of the hall. She was too old to be playing games like this. She knew what she wanted and she was in control of her emotions—most of the time.
But this? This was some odd magnetic vortex that drew her forward with an inexplicable force. Jo found herself toe-to-toe with Snow’s door, facing off like it was some wild beast. She remembered the last time she’d stood before his door, the cryptic answers that followed all the questions still swirling in her mind like unspoken taboos. Then there was the time he’d come to her in the night, making things all the more confusing.
Jo’s hand hovered. But when it fell, her knuckles didn’t meet the wood of the door. Jo’s fingers splayed out over the grain. She tipped her head forward, only realizing how warm she’d grown once her forehead met the cool, unblemished surface.
She was better than this. She wasn’t some lovesick teenager with raging hormones, debating how to get laid. Hell, she had a hot 1920s heartthrob waiting in a bed for her.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Jo whispered.
Her eyes opened with purpose. No, she knew exactly why sh
e was there. She knew what she wanted. She didn’t want cheap sex or empty intimacy. She wanted more than an itch scratched. She wanted to explore a connection with someone who had somehow managed to pull her in with nothing but a look. Snow and she weren’t anything, yet infinite possibilities stretched between them like a vast ocean.
Jo had a staring contest with the door as if it held all the secrets of the man within. But even if it did, it wasn’t betraying them to her. She started down the hall in the opposite direction, hands balled into fists.
Fine, she wanted Snow. She wanted to chart that sea of “maybes” and “what ifs” between them, even if it ultimately led nowhere. She was big enough to admit it to herself. Now, it was just a matter of figuring out how and when she was going to admit it to him.
Chapter 16
Useful Skill
JO DIDN’T GO back to her room that night.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like her room. It was lovely, like a picture. But it was also a picture that reminded her of the one night she’d spent with Wayne. Furthermore, like a picture, it was something that had little use. There was a bed (for all the sleeping she couldn’t do), a desk area (pointless, given everywhere else in the mansion), the wall where she’d hung her painting from Nico (nice, but she didn’t spend hours staring at it), and a small computer (that she’d long since deemed insufficient compared to the recreation room).
So, instead, Jo returned to the seat by the pool she had begun to frequent. Eslar’s book from earlier was still there, waiting for her right where she’d left it. Small orbs strung along the entrance into the living and kitchen areas lit the patio with just enough light to read by. While her mind felt too mushy to really grasp any of the words that her eyes fell over, it was repetitive, mindless, and blissfully passed the time.
Right around dawn, shifting from the kitchen behind her alerted Jo to the presence of someone else. She shifted in her chair, poking her nose around the side to see what other ghost was lurking about in what had become an unofficial “quiet time” for the members of the Society.