by Bera, Ilia
“How curious. I heard they were starting to let humans in, these days.” The old man looks around the room and then sits down on the box he just delivered.
“And you… You’re not human?”
He laughs. “No. I’m therian. Mother was a primean. Father was a primean. I’m full-blooded primean.”
“Primean?”
“You really are new here, aren’t you?” He pushes up his glasses again and tilts his head. He’s studying me, suddenly very interested in every little movement I make. “Primeans are from Primea. Used to be its own nation, now it’s just another Therian province.”
When I ask what Theria is, his interest turns to fascination. He starts to explain everything. Theria is a country. Territs are therian money. The golden territs that Freddie is so obsessed about are worth the most—one thousand “marks.” Ten marks makes a bit. Ten bits make a crown. Ten crowns make a big crown. Ventice, another word that has come up more than once in the past week, is a material that vanishes and becomes dormant while its wearer is ‘shifted’ in their animal form.
According to the old man, therians control the human world. Every human city is somewhere inside of Theria. The roads that connect human cities are carefully built to keep humans as far from therian cities as possible. The old man claims his brother used to work for a department called ‘Regulation.’ His job was to design fake maps to make humans think they’ve explored and conquered the whole world. Supposedly, he also helped build the set for the moon landing, so humans would stop blowing themselves up trying to launch themselves at the moon inside of giant missiles.
Until recently, humans weren’t allowed to know about Theria. The new therian leader recently announced something called “The Gradual Disclosure Program,” but the old man was under the impression they hadn’t started yet.
“It’s amazing how quickly that’s happening,” the old man says, nodding his head slowly.
I need to be careful or my curiosity is going to get me killed.
Surely, the Pesconi mansion isn’t just the biggest house in town. Judging by the size of it, and its central location, it’s safe to assume Carmine Pesconi has some weight in this town, which the old man tells me is called Vianna.
It’s also safe to assume, given his overwhelming interest, if this old man has any friends, he’s going to tell them about the fascinating human girl staying at his inn. How long before that gets back to Pesconi? How long before I’m no longer a rat carcass in Pesconi’s vents?
“Who lives in that house?” I point out the little window at the Pesconi mansion.
“Oh,” the old man says. He’s slow to respond, considering his words carefully. “That’s a big topic for another day.” Planting his hand on the bedframe, he pulls himself to his feet. “I should get back to the desk. Don’t forget to eat some breakfast.”
“Wait. Who is he?”
“He’s a very rich man.”
“Is he the mayor, or something?” I ask.
The old man stops and looks at me. He pushes his glasses up his nose before straightening out his back. “Sure. I guess he’s like a mayor.” He smiles and then turns again to leave.
“Wait,” I say. The old man stops with one foot out the door. “Please don’t tell anyone about me.”
He peeks into the hallway and then closes the door. “How did you know he was a he?” he asks, keeping his voice low.
The question catches me off-guard. “I just assumed,” I say.
He steps into the room, away from the door. “Look—I don’t know where you came from, how you got here, or why you’re here. I’ve owned this inn for sixty years, and I’ve never met a human. I’ve heard some things, sure. I heard about that human girl in Old Theria—she got herself in a lot of trouble. Don’t know what happened to her, not sure I want to know. What I do know is, there were lots people asking around about her—came and asked me here, too. They didn’t seem to happy with whatever she did.”
He pushes up his spectacles and squints. “I won’t tell anyone about you. You seem like a nice-enough girl. But if people come asking me about you, I’m going to tell them what I know. It’s nothing personal, now. I’ve owned this inn for sixty years; live here, too. I don’t want to see it burning down to the ground anytime soon.” He looks out the window at Pesconi’s mansion. “I don’t want them coming around here. Got it?”
He stands still, waiting for my response. “Got it,” I say.
“I’ve got a friend that might be able to take you back to Ilium. He runs a carriage company here in town.”
“I can’t go back to Ilium.”
“Where can you go?”
I shrug. There’s probably a warrant out for my arrest in every human city, and I don’t know where in Theria I can hide from Pesconi and the gypsies. I’ve become an unwanted drifter, on the lam from two different species.
“I suggest you figure that out sooner rather than later. If you like the sunshine, I might recommend Cidessa.” He walks back to the door. “You’re welcome to stay here until you figure it out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE GHOST OF VIANNA
The cardboard box contains a hefty bag of granola, a bottle of juice, three bottles of water, three clean towels, an umbrella, and a familiar velvet bag. In the bag is a handful of territs, a few bits, a few marks, and a small, rolled-up note. It reads, “For some clothes.” The warm, fuzzy sense of gratitude is short-lived, replaced by the cold reminder that I’ve been reduced to a pathetic charity case as I pocket the money.
I can’t say no to new clothes. The only clothes I have are torn, tattered, and foul-smelling, and I don’t think the smell of rat feces is coming out anytime soon. It’s bad enough I need to wear the vile clothing out of the inn, even if it is just across the street to the little clothing shop, Siren’s.
It’s no Gucci, but it does the trick—and it’s cheap enough that I still have a couple of bits and marks leftover. I’m just happy to have clean clothes on my body, clothes that aren’t stained with blood and poop and grease and god-knows what else. In the same purchase, I pick up a big pair of sunglasses that cover far more of my face than any pair of sunglasses should, and a thick scarf, which I wrap around my head like a shawl.
Vianna is a beautiful city, built in sections over a lake, connected by a series of cobblestone bridges. From what I gather, it’s usually raining in Vianna, but the rain is nothing like Ilium’s heavy, polluted, clothes-piercing rain. Vianna’s rain is light, misty, and it makes everything sparkle and glow and no one seems to mind.
In my perusing of the town, I come across a familiar logo: BV. The Beaunelle Vianna store. A series of porosus leather handbags are displayed through the shop’s picture window. Within moments of stepping inside, I wish I’d kept Freddie’ territ stash. With the few bits and marks that I have, I can’t even afford to look at the gorgeous selection of shoes, purses, and jackets—never mind buy anything.
Shops like Beaunelle Vianna are in abundance throughout Vianna. Every block deserves an entire day of window-shopping and exploration. This town could turn a careless billionaire to dust in minutes. For the price of one pair of Max Vettore shoes, I could have bought my whole wardrobe three-hundred times over—and still had some territs leftover for a nice steak dinner.
I don’t spend nearly as much time as I’d like on the expensive side of town, knowing that, if I’m going to find Porsha Pesconi anywhere, it’s there.
Navigating Vianna is easy. The town’s many islands form an inner-circle and an outer-circle around the Pesconi mansion, and the mansion is tall enough to be seen from any of the artificial islands. Remembering which side of the mansion I could see from my room, and how far into the distance it was, I easily relocate the inn.
The lobby is empty, but I can hear music coming from an open door. With my shawl and sunglasses still on, I investigate the noise, grabbing a handful of travel pamphlets from a rack on the wall. The door connects the inn with a pub—the pub the old man warned me ge
ts loud at night.
With my sunglasses still on, the small pub is a black void. With them off, it isn’t much better. It’s tightly packed and the ceiling is low, held up by thick wooden beams that grace the top of my head as I pass under them. Each table is contained in its own cozy three-walled nook. Each little nook opens in a different direction, with seemingly no specific arrangement, some with lights hanging overhead, some tucked away in shadows. All the drinkers in the bar are the same: older men, sitting alone, no different from their Ilium counterparts.
The bartender is the cleaned-up version of his patrons; his grey beard trimmed at his neckline, his dry, peppery hair slicked back, his beer-belly supported by his tucked-in shirt. He smiles and nods and tells me to sit wherever I’d like. I like the dark end of the bar. I’m not interested in being recognized.
I order a beer but don’t recognize any of my options, so I tell him to surprise me. I lay the pamphlets out in front of me. These are my options. One of these destinations is my future home. My future, decided by a handful of cheesy travel brochures.
“From out of town?” the bartender asks, startling me as he returns with my beer.
“Yeah. Just visiting.” I smile.
“Where you visiting from?”
“Cidessa,” I say, hoping I said the name right.
He smiles and nods. “Beautiful town. I used to go with my family every year, when I was a kid. Man, I miss that place. Hey—is that clam bar still there? You know, the one on the waterfront?”
I smile. “Yeah, but some new owners took it over a couple years ago, and it hasn’t been the same.”
“Aw, that’s a shame. I’m always telling my kids about that place. I’m always saying, one day, we need to go to Cidessa and you need to try these clams.”
“They’re still good.”
“What was that place called again? Gosh, I can’t remember for the life of me.” He buries his face in his hand while he tries to remember.
“The Deep Blue Sea,” I say.
His eyes light up. “Right—that’s right. The Deep Blue Sea Clam Bar.” Another patrons waves the bartender over. He says, “Well, enjoy Vianna,” before leaving me alone to assess my options.
#
In the center of my pile is the pamphlet for Cidessa. It’s a lovely pamphlet, with a picture of a long, sandy beach, a vast, cerulean ocean, and an adorable boardwalk with adorable little shops, and restaurants—one of which is labelled: The Deep Blue Sea Clam Bar. I slip the pamphlet into my pocket; I’ll look at it later.
Of my other options, the only one I recognize is Old Theria. It’s a beautiful cliffside town, but from the sounds of it, they aren’t the biggest fans of human girls. I put the pamphlet aside. The other options are interesting, but it’s a pamphlet that reads, “Fishing Vacations in Asgard” that catches my attention. Unlike the other choices, unlike Vianna, and unlike Ilium, Asgard looks slow. No one in the pictures looks like they’re in a hurry to be anywhere and no one is competing to be better than anyone else.
I’m tired of trying to stay ahead. I’m tired of clawing my way to the top, buying the most expensive clothes to impress people I don’t even care about. Asgard may not be the most picturesque of the options, but there is something appealing about it, something exciting.
I fold up the pamphlets and stick them into my pocket. So consumed with the brochures and my wandering fantasies, I didn’t notice the time passing and the volume in the pub rising as it filled up with eager drinkers.
Too crowded for my liking.
I drop a few marks on the bar, stand up, and scan the place for the bartender. He waves and nods his head. “Be sure to stop by the Deep Blue Sea for me sometime!” he calls out. A few of the patrons turn their heads to me. Then, I notice him—
Mel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
VIANNA MELTDOWN
I’m out of the pub before Mel notices me. At least, I don’t think he noticed me. If he did, the bar was dark and I had a shawl over my head. He wouldn’t have recognized me. And there’s no one following me now, as I walk down the street.
The sun has set and my heavy eyelids are telling me to go back to my room, to get some sleep. As much as I would love to collapse onto my bed, I need a minute to calm my nerves, first. I need fresh air. I need to walk. I need a cigarette—a cigarette to soothe the pain growing in my neck, from twisting it every ten seconds to look over my shoulder. Calm down, Olivia; he’s not following you.
A plume of smoke rises up in the distance. A woman leans over the edge of a cobblestone bridge, a black figure against the shimmering Vianna backdrop. Her thin silhouette is sunken, and defeated; each drag of her smoke is long and introspective. Closer, I can see that, like me, she has a shawl wrapped around her head. As soon as she finishes one cigarette, she lights another. I may as well be looking into a mirror.
“Excuse me, could I bum a cigarette off of you?” I ask
She holds her smoke between her lips and digs into her purse. She says nothing as she passes me her lighter and a cigarette.
I light the smoke and inhale, finally allowing my shoulders to relax. “Thank you so much.”
She says nothing with her cigarette between her lips, blowing old smoke out of her nose and, without breaking, filling her lungs with new smoke. She has effectively replaced air with cigarette smoke. Maybe therians don’t need air—I don’t know. She looks over at me with a half glance, probably wondering why I’m still standing next to her. I’m wondering the same thing. There is something comforting about the woman, the thought that, someone else knows what it’s like being dragged through the mud and the rat shit. She doesn’t seem to mind when I lean against the same stone wall, and stare out into the same black void in the water below. Maybe I’m giving her the same sense of comfort.
Each drag eases my mind and assures me that Mel is still oblivious to my existence—assures me that I’m still a dead girl, as far as any of my enemies are concerned.
The woman is already holding out a replacement as my cigarette’s embers reach the filter.
“Thanks.” As I take the cigarette, my gut turns. I think I gave a cigarette to that homeless man at the Ilium Inn, that cold night.
“Don’t mention it,” she says, breaking her silence. Her voice is low and raspy, as if she’d lost it screaming. This time, she lights my cigarette for me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She takes a long drag, turns her head away from me, and exhales an elegant plume of spiralling pewter, showcasing her silhouette. She turns back to me and says, “Never been better.” I can’t see her face in the dark, but I can see the outline of her cheekbones as they lift up. “You too, I see,” she says.
“Oh, I’m fabulous.” I smile. “Let me pay you back for these.” I reach into my pocket.
“Keep your money.”
“Really, I don’t mind.” I offer her a couple of marks.
She looks down at my offer. “The last thing I want are more territs. Thank you, though.”
“The last thing I want is a handout. Please.”
She looks down at the offer again and laughs, reaches out, and takes the marks from me. “My husband was diagnosed with cancer—”
“Oh my God. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, no—this was years ago. He survived.” She rolls her head, as if, by surviving cancer she meant he forgot their anniversary for the third year in a row.
“Oh, good.”
She laughs. “He always gets mad when I tell people he had cancer. He says, the worst part about having cancer is people treating you like you have cancer.” I can’t even imagine. The old man’s pity was hard enough to swallow.
“Still. You must be relieved,” I say.
She places her purse on the ledge and slips the marks inside. The glow of a nearby streetlight glistens off the bag’s shining leather.
Looking at the bag, I say, “I love your purse.”
She lifts it up and spins it around, holding it away from he
r body as if it’s crawling with bugs. “I’ll just say, thank goodness it’s just temporary.” The same amber light gleams off the purse’s golden logo, a familiar monogram: BV. She doesn’t need to say more before my heart sinks into my gut. “Some tramp stole my nice bag.”
It’s time to go, Olivia. Force a smile; thank her for the cigarettes, and go. Go before she clues in. And for the love of God, say something. Stop standing there and say something—anything. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I manage to say.
She says, “You don’t still have it, by any chance, do you?” Her tone is unchanged. She doesn’t bother looking over at me and she doesn’t bother repeating herself.
My cigarette dwindles between my rigid fingers. I should have stayed at the inn. Why did I ever leave the inn?