Pacific stepped forward. “Father Jude sent me,” he simply said.
An icy silence filled the air. Sophia looked at Pacific, her eyes gleaming with an emotion Alfred couldn’t describe. Reverence, maybe. Or plain fear?
“It’s you,” she breathed out, as if that was her first carefree breath in a very long time. She slumped back on the chair, looking stunned. “Yes,” she said, her expression now a mix of shock and gratitude. “I was waiting for you.” She looked at Alfred, as if she were noticing him for the first time. “Who is he?”
“One of my ancillaries,” Pacific said dismissively. “He will assist me.”
Sophia nodded, as if that explained everything.
Pacific drew up a chair beside Sophia and looked at the girl on the bed. “How is she?” he asked in a practical tone.
“She’s dying,” Sophia said, casting a sideways look at Pacific. Only now that he was closer did Alfred realize her eyes were wet and swollen. She must have been crying for a very long time. “The doctors say there is nothing else they can do,” Sophia added.
“They are right,” Pacific said matter-of-factly. “Nothing they can do.”
Sophia stared at Pacific. “But you can help, can’t you?” she said, her eyes so full of hope they were sad to watch. “Father Jude told me everything.”
Pacific placed his DSLR camera on the bedside table. When he looked at Sophia, his eyes were two drops of steel embedded in a white mask. “I know what you want, Ms. Alanis. But I need to make sure you understand the terms. All of them. Father Jude explained to you the consequences of—”
“I don’t care.” Sophia cut him off. “We don’t have time! And I’m ready. This was not supposed to happen. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!”
And then Sophia started crying, a long, deep cry that seemed to make the room darker and smaller. Alfred looked away. He felt like he had intruded on something very private he had no business meddling with.
Suddenly, the room grew quiet, as if somebody had turned off a switch.
Alfred looked back at Sophia with eyes wide open. The girl seemed to have turned into a statue, still and silent, a curled figure with her face deep in her hands. A woman in grief embedded in the reality of the moment.
Time had stopped.
Alfred’s eyes met Pacific’s, and he saw rage behind them.
“Don’t you dare look away from her,” Pacific hissed, his words as sharp as steel striking steel. “Aren’t you here to understand my craft? How are you supposed to do that if you look the other way when the time comes to see more closely? Look at this!” Pacific pointed at Sophia. “This is something I can mold into the shape I see fit. See the sorrow? See the desperation? See the cry for help? Do you see them?”
“I do,” Alfred said, nodding hastily. “I see them.”
“Good. Because this comes included in the knowledge package you requested so eagerly yesterday. See that?” Pacific pointed at Sophia with a sharp nod. “This is what makes me me. Now pull yourself together and answer my question. Why am I here?”
Alfred looked at the unconscious girl on the bed. “To … to harvest her time?” he said weakly.
“Wrong!” Pacific said sharply. “What are the rules of time harvesting?”
Alfred went over them quickly. Then he understood why Pacific had asked the question. “She can’t agree to anything,” Alfred realized.
“Precisely,” Pacific said. He gestured toward Sophia. “That means I’m here for her.”
Alfred nodded slowly. “What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing she doesn’t want me to do.”
The desperate cry of the girl once again filled the room, and Alfred knew that the flow of time had been restored.
“Tissues,” Pacific said curtly, holding a hand out in Alfred’s direction.
Alfred looked at Pacific’s hand for a few seconds before realizing Pacific was talking to him. The young man patted his pockets and took out the pack of tissues. Pacific handed one to Sophia.
“She’s dying because of me,” she said between sobs. “It’s on me. I did this to her.”
“Father Jude told me what happened,” Pacific said in a reassuring voice that felt as smooth as olive oil spread over silk. “It was an accident.”
“No!” Sophia’s breathing was ragged. “It was my fault! I was the one driving. I started arguing and … I didn’t see the red light and … and … when the car hit us, I made it out with barely a scratch, while Hera … she just …” Sophia trailed off, leaving a void of grief in place of the unspoken words. She shook her head and remained quiet.
Pacific bobbed his head a couple of times and respected Sophia’s silence with studied grace.
It was clear to Alfred that Pacific was acting: nothing more, nothing less. The words he spoke, the pauses he used, the reluctance in his voice—everything was carefully orchestrated to give the illusion of empathy.
“I want to make things right,” Sophia said finally, looking at Pacific with fire in her eyes. “I would do anything to save her.”
“So I’ve heard,” Pacific said hesitantly, looking away with a grave sigh.
“I want her back,” Sophia said with a steadier voice. “Please help me.”
Reluctantly, Pacific looked back at her. “Do you understand the terms?”
“Yes, I do. I swear I do. Please help her. Please.”
“Very well, then.” Pacific opened his jacket and took something from one of his many pockets. This time it was a knife. Alfred squinted at it, as if he couldn’t quite decide if the object were real or not. It was the most peculiar knife he had ever seen. The blade was as black as coal, and the hilt was ivory white. The short blade was thin, but it didn’t look frail. At all. On the contrary, it looked sharp and dangerous, like a hornet’s sting thrust into the night.
“It won’t hurt,” Pacific reassured Sophia, who was eying the knife fearfully.
Pacific took the glove off his right hand, and as soon as the black blade touched his skin, it opened a long cut that let red liquid out. He held the blade in his palm, using a tissue to keep the blood from dripping. “See,” he said, smiling reassuringly, “I barely felt it. Now your turn, Miss Alanis.”
Sophia stretched out her hand and took the knife.
“That is not a normal blade,” Pacific warned her. “It’s very sharp. Don’t apply too much pressure. It could easily cut your hand off if you press too much. Just brush your skin lightly. That is all you need.”
Sophia nodded. She looked at Pacific. He nodded back at her with a reassuring smile.
Sophia breathed in and cut her palm.
“Good,” Pacific said, his eyes anchored on hers. “Now let’s shake on it.”
Sophia lifted her bloody hand and shook Pacific’s.
A noise from the wall attracted Alfred’s attention. It was a low hum, almost a buzzing. Alfred lifted his head and noticed that the room clock was acting weird. The hands of the clock were moving impossibly fast counterclockwise.
He looked at the malfunctioning clock, then at the handshake happening in front of him. Something kindled in his mind. He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time displayed on the screen. It was noon … and then eleven in the morning … and then it was ten past nine o’clock.
Alfred looked back at Pacific and Sophia.
“It is done,” Pacific commanded.
Alfred looked up at the wall clock. It had resumed its normal pace and displayed the real time. The real time. Alfred found himself lingering on that thought. What was real, when something like this was possible?
“The bottle,” Pacific said, breaking Alfred’s reverie. “Give it to me.”
“Right,” Alfred said. He handed the small bottle to Pacific, who opened it. He poured some of the content on his wound and some on Sophia’s wound. The blood stopped flowing immediately, and the cuts disappeared as if they had never existed.
“The Pact of Blood has been sealed,” Pacific announced in a de
finitive tone, putting the knife and the bottle back inside his coat.
Sophia nodded thoughtfully, as if a new realization had dawned on her. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes still shiny with tears. “Thank you so much.”
Pacific rose. He looked at Sophia’s sister. And then it happened.
Hera woke up. It wasn’t a sudden awakening; it was slow and progressive, like a person gently woken by the increasingly intense daylight.
Sophia put both hands over her mouth and stared at her sister as palpable relief flooded her face.
She darted toward Hera, took her hands, and kissed her twin on the forehead.
Alfred realized he had held his breath for several seconds, his eyes fixed on the scene.
“Time to go,” Pacific said, gesturing toward the door. He turned and walked away from Sophia.
“Wait!” Sophia said.
Pacific stopped. He looked over his shoulder and waited.
Sophia seemed out of words for a moment. Then, mustering a new courage, she asked, “Are you … Are you really him? Are you Samael?”
Pacific looked at her for a very long moment. “I am whatever you need me to be, Ms. Alanis. But I’m truly nothing more than the blessing of a second chance.” Pacific touched the rim of an imaginary hat and bowed slightly. “Yours, always.”
Pacific walked out of the room, with Alfred trailing behind him.
10
Cross of Ashes
Alfred glanced repeatedly over his shoulders as they walked away from the room.
“You’re looking back like some malignant force is chasing you,” Pacific said, adjusting the strap of his camera around his neck. “There’s nothing back there, Alfred White. Nothing but a done deal.”
“I—” Alfred closed his mouth then opened it again, but nothing came out. He bit his lip and tried not to look like he wanted to bury himself underground.
“I don’t blame you for the silence,” Pacific said. “I blame you for not being upfront about it. Are you still following me in your quest for knowledge?”
“Yes,” Alfred managed to say. “It’s just … I don’t …” he trailed off, waving a hand, trying to chase some thought that kept evading him. “I’m not used to seeing miracles, that’s all.”
“Miracles? Is that what you think happened in that room?” Pacific’s smile was stretched, almost mocking. “No, my young friend. Miracles have nothing to do with my business. What you saw was simply the way of my trade. Nothing more, nothing less. You witnessed a time transaction between a vessel and a donor.”
“A vessel and a donor?” Alfred repeated numbly.
“Myself and the girl who sealed the Pact of Blood.” Pacific showed the hand he cut with the knife. “Oh, don’t give me that look, now. I’m just using the right words to describe what happened. There is a whole new vocabulary you have to familiarize with if you want to truly understand who I am.” They walked past the nurses’ station toward the elevators. “It’s like learning a new language. If you’re not open to the culture that harbors it, you’ll never fully understand its many nuances. The economy of time is a vast, complicated subject. You just got a peek at it in that room.”
“The economy of time?” Alfred echoed, looking lost.
“It’s a system based on the sourcing, supply, and distribution of time,” Pacific explained. “In the economy of time, everything is based on time balance. Time can be measured, parceled, transferred, or simply used, as I did when I created your déjà vu.”
“So that girl, Sophia. She transferred time to you with … a bloody handshake?”
“Sealing a Pact of Blood requires much more than a cut and a handshake,” Pacific said. “It requires free will by the donor. Without that, the time transfer cannot happen.”
Alfred nodded. “Well, she looked very eager to give up her time. That’s for sure.”
“That is why it worked,” Pacific explained. “If the donor is willing to give up their time, you can transfer it smoothly. You just need a bridge that can carry it from point A to point B.”
“A bridge?” Alfred said. He looked quizzically at Pacific. “You?”
“Remember what I said? Time can be treated as a currency, and a currency can be transferred, if …” Pacific trailed off meaningfully, tapping his wristwatch. “If you have a reliable way to store it.”
“But how can you do that?” Alfred tried not to sound like he was desperate for an answer. “I mean, I get it. You can store and use time thanks to that watch, but how can you decide how much time to get? How can you move it from here”—he waved around frantically, as if pointing at the whole world—“to there?” He indicated the wristwatch. “I just don’t—”
Pacific held up a hand, and Alfred stopped talking. “Let me tell you about time,” he said. “People keep track of time in very basic terms. Human terms. There are immensely vast and complicated areas of reality that move on different timelines. Some species of insects are born, mature, give offspring, and become no more in a matter of days. The face of the Earth is changing as we speak, a few inches at a time. This is enough to radically change the face of the planet over the millennia. Humans are people-centric, and they devised a way to create the illusion of time control. In fact, they built a prison they willingly live in. No matter what people think, their idea of time is just an artificial package.”
Alfred held his hands out. “So what is time?” he asked.
“Time is a river,” Pacific said with certainty. “You can take out that river water with your bare hands and call it a minute, but it’ll still be just river water. It slips away from your hands if you don’t know how to hold it. And to hold it, you need a bucket.”
“A bucket?”
“Yes,” Pacific said. “This brings me back to square one, which is the need for a reliable system, one you can bank on. A bucket holds water effectively. The economy of time is a system: a bucket that holds time and turns it into an asset.”
Alfred half closed his eyes in consideration. “This is much more down to earth than I thought,” he admitted. “It seems like I’m talking with my project coordinator.”
“See?” Pacific said. “I’m just a fellow operating in a very niche market.”
Pacific called the elevator and they stepped inside.
Alfred’s mind lingered on Sophia. “How much time did she give you?” he asked as the elevator brought them down.
“Ten percent of her remaining life span,” Pacific answered promptly. “Approximately seven years.”
“And is that … a lot?” Alfred asked.
“It’s more than average, less than exceptional,” Pacific said. “Now, to get back to the mentorship bit, which is what you should focus on, did you notice the girl’s state?”
“Yes,” Alfred said. “She was very sad.”
“She was desperate and broken,” Pacific corrected him. “I’ve provided her with the solution to her problem. I’m happy. She’s happy. Her sister is happy. It’s a win-win. So you see, a solution to a pressing problem can do wonders when it comes to time harvesting. As I said, timing is a huge factor that can make or break a time transaction. Keep that in mind, and you’ll have figured out most of what I do.”
They got off the elevator. Once again, they were on the main floor.
Alfred had so many questions he could not keep them all straight. He pondered a little, and plucked a question from the top of the messy pile. “Who is Samael?”
“It’s just a name,” Pacific said bitterly, dismissing the matter with a casual wave of his hand. “A name with no more real value than Devil or Satan or Lucifer. People have called me by many names, all of them designed to give them an illusion of rationality. I don’t like those names. They are dangerous. They nail you down to a set of basic assumptions, and you can’t wrestle free of them without becoming something else or disappearing into nothingness.”
“But you do have a name,” Alfred pointed out while they were passing the cafeteria. “Don’t you?”
&nb
sp; “That is different,” Pacific said. “I chose that name for myself. It’s mine. I own it. Nobody stuck it to my face without my permission. The bottom line is that I ignore all the other names—and you should, too, if you don’t want to get lost in a dark forest. Trust me. It’s dangerous to think you know when you are only assuming.”
Something else popped up in Alfred’s mind as he was thinking about the time transfer. “That girl, Sophia,” he said. “She seemed to know you already.”
“Yes,” Pacific confirmed. “She knew everything she needed to know about me, and she was well aware of what I could offer her. She had been prepared for that moment long before I walked into that room. That saved me time and effort. I almost never approach a donor who has not been made aware of what I can do.”
“She also seemed to believe blindly everything you said,” Alfred pointed out.
“People of faith are my favorite stock,” Pacific admitted with a thin smile. “They require the least explanation and the least effort to convince. They simply believe, because that is what gives them assurance. And their assurance fattens my purse.”
“But … why? I mean, she clearly had never seen you before.”
“That is correct.”
“So who told her about you?”
“Ah.” Pacific sighed with satisfaction. “That would be my dutiful pastor of souls, the very person I want you to meet.”
Pacific stopped in front of a big oak door with a cross engraved on it.
Alfred looked at the door. It took him a few seconds to realize they were in front of the hospital chapel.
Pacific placed both hands on the door and pushed it.
“No words of warning this time?” Alfred asked, trying to brace himself for whatever was waiting on the other side of the door.
“None are needed,” Pacific said, pushing the door all the way in. “Relax. Nothing weird is going to happen.”
Alfred couldn’t bring himself to believe that.
The chapel was spacious but bare. There were a dozen lines of benches, all of them empty. On the opposite side of the entrance an altar sat on a platform, and above the altar, prominently displayed on the snow-white wall, was a crucifix made of gold.
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