by Jesse Jordan
He didn’t need Ezra; he knew it. You can hear it. You can feel the path.
James closed his eyes. James felt. He reached out with his mind and—There—he felt Taloon, right there. He pushed. It was so natural. He couldn’t believe the ease of it, as if he was simply following the path Ezra had cleared for him. It was just like stepping through a waterfall.
James opened his eyes.
This time he was ready for it, and still, the shifting landscape filled him with a whole-body queasiness. His brain seemed to be screaming to the rest of his body; it did not accept this as truth, and that doubling of his consciousness was a sickening roller coaster.
The Moons still hung over the same mountain range he’d seen last time. Is it the same time of day as when I was last here? No, it can’t be. James turned, and the landscape shrugged and stuck, as if it were settling into its track. Again he felt the wave of nausea, again what he saw began to shred, and through it he could see the factory. No. James bit back the bile rising in his throat and tried to calm the sensation that the world was spinning. He focused on the land, on the place far off where it met the sky.
The rips mended. Smells filled him.
Water. Salt water. There, on the horizon. An ocean? A sea? It could be something else altogether, something James had never before thought of or seen. Then, at the very moment the thought crossed his mind, the smell turned. It combined and burst: salt water, burning wood, rot, mold.
James pinched his nose shut and swung his gaze around 180 degrees. Once again the landscape seemed to start to move with him before snapping back to position. The other direction, James found, was very different. Way, way off in the distance things were protruding into the sky. James was pretty sure that at least some of them were mountains, but others appeared too thin and flat. Buildings? Towers? James wondered if that was where Mikhael was, where he’d find the Pit.
A prison in the sea. Ezra’s words slipped back into James’s mind like a friendly nudge. A prison in the sea. The smells recombined and intensified. James knew those smells: The Pit. That’s where I’ll find him.
He didn’t move, though. He told himself he should at least walk toward the sea, at least look, but even as the conversation played out in his head, he knew he wouldn’t. The thought—just the thought—of finally going there, of actually being in that place, hobbled him. As scared as he’d always been in his dreams, as sure as he was that it was waiting for him, it was still on the edge of impossible for him to believe. How can it be real?
It isn’t.
Like that, Taloon was gone. James stood in the middle of the empty floor of the ChocoMalt factory, a thin layer of sweat covering every millimeter from the top of his scalp to the bottom of his heels. The idea didn’t arrive in linear form; it exploded, fully formed. None of this is real—You’re crazy. You’re schizophrenic or something—This isn’t real—It’s all been a hallucination—You’re crazy, you’re going crazy—Schizophrenia—Hallucinations—Ezra, Dink, the Escalades, them taking you: none of it really happened. None of it. Not them grabbing you or the interrogation or the escape or the man . . .
The man who smelled like fish and vinegar.
He was real.
James knew that. He saw the man lying in his makeshift grave, blood pouring from his nose, and a quiver of revulsion and guilt racked his spine. The moment passed. For an instant he’d believed it—convinced himself—and it’d been a moment of such terror and relief that, feeling it pass, he was filled up with an urge to collapse and cry right then, simply out of exhaustion.
James reached into his pocket. He bit his lip and pictured his hand coming out with a small ball of dry dirt. He’d squeeze it and it would disintegrate. Because that’s all it is. Dirt. That’s all it ever was. He tried so hard to believe the words.
When he brought out his hand, he held it up and let it fall open. There, still as a ball of dried dirt, was Dink, his legs pulled up to his chest as he sat. Then he blinked. It was an odd mannerism in a homunculus with no discernable eyelids. James wondered if his own psyche could have created a little detail like that.
“What is it?” Dink asked.
But James couldn’t answer. He shut his eyes hard and wished—with more power and lust and humility than he’d ever wished for anything—to just be fifteen again, to be someone else, to have time and freedom and a full life without this horrible purpose. He wished to be with Dorian right now, not speaking, just leaning into each other, his hands on her skin. A kiss.
James opened his eyes.
54. This is true. Ezra had, in fact, argued that the One should not be approached until his nineteenth birthday. However, less patient minds prevailed.
14. The Quest
James made a decision. Whether it was the night before or while he slept that his mind solidified this choice seemingly without him, he couldn’t say. The idea of doing it—the moment of actually doing it—was terrifying to imagine but somehow a thousand times better than the constricting anxiety of doing nothing, of lying through omission.
No, this was better. It was.
He was going to tell Dorian everything. Every word of it, from that first morning with the Escalade and the blond man filming him by the tracks, to Ezra and Dink, to them grabbing him, to Old Fish-and-Vinegar in his shallow grave. He was going to tell the story, and if she said he was crazy he’d tell her he understood, and if she screamed at him for lying, he didn’t know what he’d do. He supposed he should just show her Dink. But what if Dink refused to un-dirt at the final moment? What if he had some kind of code about no one else seeing? Who knew?
Stop it. Worry about all that later. Just go there now. Go and tell her.
James picked up his phone and dialed her number for the eighth time in the last two days, figuring he would at least leave her a voice mail letting her know he was coming over, but when he put the phone to his ear, there was no ringing. There was nothing. Except . . . there, in the silence. Something. Not breathing, just an awareness. Someone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, James.”
“Ezra?”
Dink stood on the dresser.
“It’s time, James.”
“ . . . Can you just stop? I need to think.”
“There is nothing to think about.”
“I’m, I’m not sure I’m ready right now. Okay?”
“James, you must act now. You must be strong. You must not be a slave to fear and weakness. Do you hear me? Now is the time, while everything is aligned. Who knows what could happen if you delay?”
“I thought you said I was safe.”
“You’re as safe as we can make you, but the longer you delay, the greater your peril.”
James swallowed. He looked at Dink, who peered back like a statue, and he tried to think of things to say, ways to stall Ezra, but his mind filled only with core sensation memories, floating for a moment before popping like bubbles: Dorian laughing, his mother crying in the kitchen years ago, the smell of orange Danish, the Schroeder brothers screaming, the heat as the first Fearless story thrashed in his brain, swimming in Haley Pond, kissing Dorian, the kids cheering for him—pop, pop, pop. All gone. No words. “I need time.”
“James—”
“No. I’m not ready.” James hit the button and slammed the phone down. He stared at it, waiting for it to ring, for Ezra’s muffled voice to issue from the receiver, before finally looking up to Dink. The homunculus said nothing, and James stared into his inscrutable dark eyes, certain that they were alive with judgment. The silence pinched and prodded. “Stop looking at me.”
Dink craned toward the window.
“I’m sorry,” James said. “I know I should be one of the strong. I’m gonna be. I swear. I just need time.”
And then Dink turned back to him. He stepped to the edge of the dresser and said, “The strong?”
“Yeah. Y’know, like there are only two kinds of people—strong and weak.”
“Don’t say things like that. They ma
ke you sound like an asshole.”
“What does that mean?”
“Only two kinds of people—the strong and the weak? That’s garbage. That’s a child’s philosophy. Only someone who’s never been in battle, never really been in trouble, would say that. I’ve seen monsters sob, and I’ve seen little crying nothings lop off heads. Everyone gets crushed at some point—and it’s those ones who consider themselves the strong that shit their pants and fold when it finally happens. Do you understand, kid? Don’t be strong. Be honest and adaptable. Honest and adaptable are worth a hundred strongs.”
“Honest and adaptable.”
“Hell yeah.”
Honest and adaptable. “Okay.” Honest and adaptable. “Come on. We’re going to Dorian’s.”
Dink hitched a ride as James walked out. Down the stairs, he had the door open before he heard the throat clear and, turning, saw his parents.
They were sitting on the couch, dressed and ready for the day. Mom smiled, and Dad noticed him and shut off the TV as he sat up. James thought Dad looked tired: baggier under the eyes, hair a little thinner, and his midsection was starting to develop a paunch of its own. He smiled, and even that looked tired.
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
But it was Mom who spoke. She looked as impeccable as ever, with her tiny shoulders and black hair both pulled back. “You know your father and I have been going to couples therapy, of course. Well—”
“Are you guys getting a divorce?”
“No,” she blurted, throwing out her thin-boned hands as if to stop it. “God, no.”
“No way,” Dad said.
“Of course not.”
“Yeah, nope. We’re good, buddy.”
“Yes. Good. Very good.”
“Good to go,” Dad said, putting his arm around Mom.
And then there was silence for a second or two, into which Mom said, “Of course, there is work to be done.”
“Sure,” Dad said. “Sure.”
“Anyway, we’ve decided we need to do more family activities.” Mom said it to James, but as she did, she turned to Dad and nodded, and he nodded right back. “So today we both made sure we had nothing else on our schedules, and the three of us are going to go and have a great day. I was thinking we could go to the zoo, but your father has also mentioned there’s a minor-league baseball game today and he says they’re very fun, though I’ve never been to one, so I’m not sure.”
“You’ve been, right, James? We’ve been, haven’t we?”
“I . . .”
“To a Cougars game?” Dad said before turning to Mom. “They’re much more laid-back than a big-league game.”
Mom took a deep breath and spoke as if reciting. “I’m more comfortable with things I know and places I’ve been, which is about control. That’s what I’m feeling right now. I’m scared to go to the baseball game because it’s different.” Deep breath. “But it’s okay to feel scared like that, and everything’s new until it isn’t, so sure, let’s go to the baseball game.”
Dad smiled. “You’re amazing,” he said, and they leaned in and kissed quickly and silently.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” She looked as if someone had asked her to try something new.
“I just, I have something to do. I have to go see someone.”
Dad leaned forward. “Who?”
Mom said, “Well, you can reschedule with them. Your father and I have cleared our schedules for today.”
“How about tomorrow?” James said. “We can do something tomorrow?”
“Can’t tomorrow. Got golf in the morning, and then I gotta put together the end-of-month reports.”
“Yes, Josh, we’re all busy. Thank you. Now listen, James, we planned today special. It’s important.”
“I know. And I get it, but there’s something I gotta go do. I just . . . I can’t.”
Dad turned the TV back on, sulking at his wife’s rebuke, and she turned from her son to her husband and back, growing more and more upset. “And what if I say that . . .” Deep breath. “James, I’m sorry, but you can’t go out now. As your parent, I have to sometimes make tough decisions and do what is right for you. Maybe not always what is fun or popular but what is in your best inter—”
Josh and Ellie Salley sat on their living room sofa with unfocused gazes, their bodies on pause from the last instant they’d been in control. It was easy now, reaching out, and James, unable to stand another second, had pushed out, into them both, and there, inside of them, he was struck by how little he knew of these two. The parts they held for themselves, the parts they gave to others, to each other, the vastness they held back from him. For a second it reminded him of his anger toward Ezra, the anger of being lied to, but that wasn’t what it was. What he truly felt was sadness and a new kind of loneliness. He wondered if he would ever really know these people. He wondered if he wanted to.
“Just relax,” James said. “Sit here on the couch and watch movies today. Have a nice day.” Then he walked to the door and opened it once more before turning back. “Don’t worry about me while I’m gone.”
James extracted his bike from the garage and pedaled off with religious determination. He reached the end of the block before he slowed down. Be cool. You’re gonna show up sweating like a monster. He pedaled in slow, easy depressions, coasting between each one, dying with impatience as he forced himself to just be cool.
Traffic was light, even for Stone Grove, and James coasted across Main Street with barely a glance each way, continuing down Jackson, cutting waves in the street, letting the air cool the sides of his head, trying to forestall even the lightest sweat, flushing, or funk. Did I put on deodorant? He curled his head into his body, burying it in his armpit and sucking great lungfuls through his nose. Okay. Seems okay. Okay.
James tried to create some kind of script as he rode. “Hey, Dorian.” “Hi.” “Hi, Dory.”
What if she won’t see you?
She will. Just tell her you want to tell her where you were.
What if she’s not home?
You wait.
“So I know this sounds crazy. I’m not crazy, okay? Just because crazy things have happened to me doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”
That’s good. Start with something like that.
James turned north onto Orange Street with a weird, new anxiety multiplying within. His cheeks felt hot and his lungs felt cold and he kicked the pedals harder, forgetting completely about being cool. He rode fast and thought of nothing. No plans, no worries. Somewhere deep inside, he knew she would believe him. He would use only words that came straight from the story, and he wouldn’t try to make it sound better or prettier, and she would see he was telling the truth. He could already see her visage softening into worry and camaraderie. They’d figure it out together. A team; like Fearless.
He leaned hard into the turn onto Adams Avenue, heedless and blinded by a giant lilac shrub. He squinted and tensed, but the street was empty and he continued like a rocket toward Dorian’s, coasting around the bend in the road and up her drive, dragging his feet to a full stop. James stepped off the bike and let it clatter to the asphalt, but as he reached the door he noticed it was slightly ajar, and the image, innocuous as it was, sent a shock of belief through him.
Something’s wrong.
Summer. Hot. Lots of people left their front doors open in Stone Grove to let a little air in. There was no reason the sight should have been alarming. And yet.
James reached out and pushed the door open. He leaned forward and placed one foot inside. “Dorian?” All the way inside now, the feeling building to a scream—Something is wrong! Through the living room—“Hello?”—and into the kitchen. “Dorian!”
Nothing. He felt Dink clamber onto his shoulder, holding onto his shirt.
“Dorian!”
And then he was at the door to her room, panic holding his hand in place. Why? What are you afraid of? The image e
xploded from his memory—Dorian stretched out on that bathroom floor, washed in her own blood. Turning the knob took a conscious command—head to shoulder to elbow to hand—and the door opened with a single soft creak.
Everything as it should be. The room appeared wholly undisturbed, exactly as it had the one time he’d seen it previously. His eyes searched—nothing. He’d pulled the door halfway shut before he saw it. On the floor: Dorian’s gray water bottle from the Hair Bee. It was nothing. Nothing. But there it was, lying on its side with a tiny puddle of water on the wood floor below and another drip falling. It felt to James like a portent of some terrible violence. He tried to shake the thought out of his head as he backed out of the room—Doesn’t make any sense—until his back touched the far hallway wall. Every part of his conscious mind reported that everything was fine, that there was no reason at all to believe anything was wrong. Everything’s fine. Everything—
James rushed out of the house, across the walkway until he was standing in the middle of Dorian’s front yard. You have to find her. It’s just . . . wrong. Something’s wrong, very wrong.
“Calm.”
James turned to the voice, but no one was there.
“Calm down. Shhh. It’s okay,” the voice said, and then James saw Dink on his shoulder, his hands up and imploring. “Breathe.”
James realized all at once that he’d been spinning in place, looking everywhere and nowhere. “I . . .”
“Breathe. Don’t speak. Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
James continued to drag large empty breaths through his mouth.
“In through your nose.”
James heard him and did it, and it was as if the gears finally caught and the machine was running again. Everything else continued to pinball through him, but he no longer felt that he was about to suffocate, and with that relief, his body relaxed—and that was when he saw them.