by Jasmine Walt
5
There were rumors that several cell towers in Washington, D.C. were dummy towers. I didn’t know if it was true, but it made sense with all the embassies of countries that liked to spy on one another lined up in nice rows on one street. The name of the street was even called Embassy Row.
That evening, I made my way down to 12th Street. With laptop in hand, I climbed to the top of the Federal Communications Building. I figured the FCC would be the last place to lose a connection and the strongest place to make one. It was date night, and I wasn’t taking any chances.
I watched the sun set in the capital. It was one of the prettiest sight lines in the nation. That was because of the regulations about building heights. Most believed that there was a law that restricted the heights of buildings to less than 130 feet because no structure could rise higher than the Capitol. But that was a myth. It had more to do with the width of the narrow streets relative to the heights of the buildings. The upside of the rule was that the skyline was actually visible.
Down below, trees intermingled with stone and steel. Up above, the horizon was an ombre of blues. The white smoke of chimneys reached into the pale of periwinkle where the skyline began. As the sun slipped deeper into the cover of night, a blanket of azure spread across the sky.
It was the type of view Zane would feel compelled to immortalize in his art. I arranged myself in front of the laptop camera so the skyline was my backdrop. Twenty minutes later, the ringtone of an incoming video call sounded.
Zane’s face filled the screen. His dark hair fell in front of his dark eyes. His lashes were so thick that he always appeared to be squinting. One corner of his mouth was parked upward in a perpetual smile. Even when he was annoyed with me, which was surprisingly often, he looked as though he was amused with my antics.
He ran a hand through his damp hair as he settled his lithe body in front of his computer camera. He was shirtless. I could make out beads of moisture on his defined chest. He’d come from the shower, but his hand still had streaks of paint and hardened clay at his fingertips and knuckles.
“There is my goddess, my muse. Amen, mon coeur.” His hand reached out to the screen to trace what he saw on his side of the connection. “Mon dieu, I always forget how perfect your cheekbones are.”
He reached for something off screen. It was a pencil without an eraser and a sketchpad. I knew better than to stop him. But it had been weeks since I’d seen his face or heard his voice. I wanted his attention on the live me and not the one he was about to capture on parchment.
“Zane.”
“Oui, ma petite nova.”
I listened to the pencil scratching the parchment. It was funny how one sense could spark the memories of another. The sound of the lead brought me to a memory of the first time we met. It was in Florence, Italy, in the fifteenth century where he’d been employed as a mentor teaching sculpture and painting to artists.
He’d stopped mid-speech, turning away from his students, his gaze locked on my form as I came near. His immobility had not been because he’d recognized his own kind. Well, that had caught his attention. It was the effect we Immortals had on one another. But then his gaze found and held mine.
When he’d taken a step toward me, my hand reached for the daggers beneath my skirts, assuming I would encounter a threat. He caught my hand movements and the glint at my thigh and grinned. The cold steel was clearly visible in my hand, but he kept walking toward me with that confident swagger and devil-may-care grin.
I didn’t loosen my grip, nor did I take my eyes off him. I didn’t move as he came to stand before me with only a paintbrush in his hand to defend himself.
He told me my cheekbones were perfection and asked if I would pose for him. After repeating his request twice in my head, I barked out a laugh and declined. He smiled, completely unfazed, and watched me as I walked away.
But it wasn’t the last time I saw him. He managed to pop up wherever I happened to be every couple of years, like he could predict my movements. For the next hundred years, he continued to pursue me across two continents. Until I finally held still long enough for him to paint me.
I was content to hold still for him now, like I always did. Time stopped when I was with Zane, which was funny. Time didn’t move normally for either of us.
We’d been on this earth for thousands of years. Exactly how many thousands? Neither of us were sure. None of the Immortals knew for certain how long we’d been here. None of us could remember exactly how we’d gotten here. Whether we were human or something else entirely.
We all didn’t talk to each other much. We were impervious to disease, physical assault, and time. Our only weakness was each other. We jokingly called it an allergy.
For some reason that none of us knew, we began to weaken when we were in each other’s presence for too long. It might start with a tickle in the throat. A week later, the fatigue would settle in and we wouldn’t heal as quickly if injured. After a month or two, the door to our impenetrable immune system would open. Once it did, any manner of disease, malady, and injury could befall us. In a sense, we made each other human.
So, of course, I went and fell in love with one of my own kind—a man I could only see for a small amount of time or suffer contraindications. Zane literally made my heart skip beats. He made my knees weak. I went stupid whenever I saw his face or heard his voice.
I watched as he continued his sketching in the present. He’d drawn my form countless times over the last half millennium, but he never seemed to tire. And it wasn’t only me that he depicted in his artwork.
Zane had been drawing, painting, and sculpting for as long as he could remember. But he rarely got the opportunity to take credit for his work. His technique evolved. His name changed. But his face didn’t. He was careful how often he went out in public, especially these days when information from across the globe was at everyone’s fingertips with the touch of a button.
In the past, he’d contented himself with teaching his techniques so that the influence of his artwork could be shared. When I’d met him in Florence all those centuries ago, he’d been teaching a twelve-year-old boy named Michelangelo the art of fresco, which was painting on plaster with watercolors. It was a technique Zane had perfected in Egypt. But it wasn’t until his pupil grew up and painted on the ceiling of a church that the practice took on a new life.
Zane was back at painting huge wall installations for his newest collection. The images he sent me were a study in mosaics. He used all manner of textiles, textures, and materials to create his pieces ranging from photographs to rocks to insects.
“Are you ready for your showing next week?” I asked him.
He smiled and my pulse jumped, along with the computer screen. I held my breath, but the screen didn’t go out. I let out a sigh. Zane hadn’t noticed the technical malfunction. He was too intent on my perfect cheekbones.
“I am,” he said. “I arranged … he thought … I wouldn’t … showed him.”
The screen and sound jumped as he spoke, stuttering along with his answer as I crossed my fingers and toes that the connection didn’t break entirely.
The screen froze for more than ten seconds, and my heart plummeted. I closed my eyes. Tears stung the corners, and I let them fall.
“Nova, êtes-vous là?”
I opened my eyes at the sound of his voice. “Oui—yes. I’m here.”
Zane put his pencil down and focused on the screen. He rubbed at the spot where I imagined my tear fell down my cheek, marring its perfection.
The allergy extended to technology as well. Even before satellite communication, when we’d written letters across continents, the letters would get delayed, lost, or damaged when they came into our hands. All signs to remind us that Immortals were not meant to coexist. We ignored them.
“Tell me, cherie, what part of history have you saved lately?”
I smiled, swiping the tear from my cheek. “Well, I uncovered a civilization that worshiped monkeys.
”
“Monkeys? Fascinating.”
I laughed. Zane never let me take myself too seriously. He had little interest in history, even where art was concerned. He was much more fascinated with the present moment and finding the beauty within sight. I couldn’t blame him. We had lived through terrible times in the past that we’d soon forget. A lot of it, we already had forgotten.
It was difficult for humans to carry around a century’s worth of their lifespan in their heads. Imagine five hundred years. Over a thousand. More. Immortals were strong, but even our brains couldn’t carry that heavy a load. We lost a lot of lifetimes as our brains let go of the past, century by century. The memory loss wasn’t chronological. It often had no rhyme or reason.
I remembered watching Rome being built from the period of kings in 600 BCE, but the Renaissance was sketchy to me. I’d spent time in America before Columbus came, but I only knew that because of the records I kept with the Cherokee. Unfortunately, many of the records had been destroyed by pilgrims and conquistadors while I was traveling in India along the Silk Road. I knew I’d been to China, though I had no clear memories of my time there.
No, that wasn’t true. I had memories, but they were more like nightmares. It was one of the times I wondered if my brain was protecting me from something I didn’t want to remember.
“Someone came to me today with a dragon bone.”
“Dragon bone?” Zane rubbed a paint-tipped finger at his square chin. “I thought dinosaurs bored you.”
“A dragon bone is an Asian relic. This person, Loren Van Alst, found it in the Gongyi and needs it deciphered.”
Zane let go of his chin and tilted his head to the side. “You’re thinking of going to China? You hate China.”
Hate wasn’t what I felt when I thought of China. Fear. Shame. Guilt. Those were better examples.
I always told Zane everything. Everything except why I had an aversion to that particular continent. No one wanted the person they loved to think the worst of them, especially when I wasn’t sure what I might have done in the distant past to garner those feelings.
“She thinks there may be a lost civilization,” I said.
The corners of his mouth fell. “You will never leave the past buried, will you, my petite nova?”
“I would leave it buried if people didn’t try to build something new on top of it.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his seat. “The plot thickens. Tresor must have building permits on this land.”
I felt the hair at the nape of my neck stiffen at the sound of that name. “He’s an arrogant asshole with no care for anyone but himself.”
Zane shrugged. “I think he sees the world differently than you and me.”
I huffed at his charity. “Must you always see the good in people?”
The uptilt to his mouth returned. “I only care about the good in you, cherie. The good around you, and the good coming your way.”
“You’re so good to me,” I hedged. “Why don’t I come to see you, instead? I’d come to your show. Be a proper girlfriend.”
He shook his head as he smiled sadly. “You know what happened the last time. We said we’d wait this time, so we can spend more time together.”
Zane and I had spent four months together last year when we met in person. It had put me in the hospital with a case of pneumonia. Once we were separated, I was back on my feet in a few days, but all communication between us was thwarted for weeks. Phones died when we picked them up. Computers short-circuited. Even a mail plane went down. No one was hurt, but all the mail was lost.
“It’s just a few more weeks, Nova,” he said. “I’ll finish up this showing and then I’m all yours.”
I didn’t argue because I knew this showing was important to him. I was just being selfish. But I couldn’t help it. We were going to live forever, but I got so little of his time in the grand scheme of things.
“Trust me, mon coeur, it will be worth the wait.” The tilt at his mouth rose even higher with carnal intent. “You will need all of your strength for what I have planned for you. I’m going to—”
The screen froze. The connection never restored. I stayed on the rooftop staring at his frozen face until the screen and the sky went black.
6
The dream began like always. I was dressed in a white gown. It reminded me of a peplos, which were the draped gowns that women in Ancient Greece wore. My feet were bare. I was bound to a stone slab altar. There were men dressed in black, with sashes tied around their waists and hoods covering their faces. They had swords. The moonlight from above caught the glint of their blades. They were everywhere.
I was surrounded. The cold stone permeated the fabric of my gown. My wrists and ankles chafed at the rope abrading my skin. I tugged with all my might, but I couldn’t escape.
I was weak. So weak. The worst allergy of my life, but there were no other Immortals around me. I couldn’t understand why my power had failed me.
There was someone holding a jade sword over me. I felt the burning heat of the blade against my skin. The trickle of my blood as it left my wrists.
And then the pain stopped, but the nightmare did not.
More blood splattered, thick droplets suspended in the air. The red liquid caught the moonlight like the steel of the swords. The blood wasn’t mine. I saw heads roll, eyes stretched wide, mouths gaped open. Body parts littered the ground—arms, legs, torsos. Not just of the men, but of the women … and the children.
I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I bolted up in the bed. My eyes wrenched wide as my hand clenched my throat, raw from my silent screams.
In the hotel room, I poured a glass of water. Then a second. The cold liquid burned my throat. I was fevered, but I was shivering in the cool air.
I looked at the bed like it was an enemy. There was no way I was climbing back under those rumpled sheets. No way I could risk going back to that cold, dark place. I pulled on clothes and slipped outside.
The monuments of the National Mall of the Smithsonian at night were a thing of beauty. The white of the buildings stood out against a cobalt sky. The array of water fountains sprayed a sequence of foaming arcs under yellow lights.
I had been to this land when it was a swamp. Under the cover of night in the face of the history of these multihued, socially diverse, intellectually polarized people, I could admit that progress could be a good thing. But only when it was done right. America had not done everything right, but this culture was a self-reflective one if ever I saw it.
One of Tres Mohandis’s signs on a high rise came into view. I cringed. Its steel face went against the white brick motif of the city. It reached up to 130 feet, the max allowed here. The structure looked entirely out of place. The monuments were lovely. But that damn building was an eyesore in the sight line of the museums and monuments, a place I frequented in my line of work. I knew he knew that, and I swore he put it there to antagonize me.
I walked past the Lincoln Memorial to the Reflecting Pool. It was after midnight. D.C. was not New York. This city went to sleep at night. There was hardly a soul on the street. I was alone with only my thoughts to reflect on.
I thought of the bone Loren Van Alst had presented to me today and the story waiting to be revealed. I thought about what Zane had said to me regarding my need to hold on to the past. I wished I could let go of things, but I couldn’t. I’d lived a long life, while having to watch so many other lives get snuffed out like candles. I couldn’t help but feel it was my duty to record, rescue, and restore as many stories as I could.
Death was easy. It was being erased that scared me.
Wind rustled a ripple in the still waters of the pond. The problem that the breeze presented was the fact that it wasn’t a windy night. And so the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. A tickle rose in my throat, but I held on to the cough.
I turned my head to the left. Nothing stirred, not a bird or a beetle. The silence was crushing, like an anchor sinking fast into t
he depths of the ocean. It wrapped around me and gave a persistent tug downward.
I’d heard drowning was a peaceful way to die, once people stopped struggling. They’d fall into a peaceful sleep as the waters invaded their lungs and shut down their senses, their will, their life.
I inhaled. The cool night air filled my lungs. The lethargy fled my body, like dirty dishwater swirling down the sink. I was not going anywhere any time soon.
I reached down at my hip for the handle of my sais, only to remember I was in civilization, and it wouldn’t do to carry a large blade out in the open. I bent and dug my hands into each of my boots. With the twin daggers in hand, cold steel warmed my palms. I straightened just in time to meet the first attacker.
Only to duck again to miss the sharp edge of a throwing star. The man covered in black had aimed the star true, but I evaded it easily. It had been meant as a momentary distraction while his fists and feet came at me.
I stepped into a reverse lunge, the opposite of what Loren had done at the art gallery. My attacker wasn’t an idiot. He was studied in the martial arts.
I continued to step back, step aside, and duck out of his strikes. My evasive maneuvers wouldn’t work for long. He landed a kick at my midsection. I grunted.
I wasn’t hurt, but the force of his strike knocked some of the wind out of me. He was strong, stronger than most humans. The masked man took a fighting stance. I knew without looking that two other masked men, dressed in black with sashes tied around their waists and hoods covering their faces, had boxed me in on each side.
Had I forgot to mention I was routinely hunted by ninja assassins? By routinely, I mean they only found me once every decade at best. But they’d been getting better at hunting me. They’d found me more and more frequently during the last hundred years.