by Dan Rix
Aaron.
***
Aaron was twenty-five feet underground, trapped in a tunnel full of water. His lungs writhed for oxygen. He thrust his head back, struck concrete, and raked his scalp to shreds. He scratched the walls, terrified, but there were no air pockets.
The closest air was back in the well, minutes away.
Aaron opened his eyes underwater, felt the sting, and glared up the submerged tunnel—wondering only which thought would be most fitting for the last few seconds of his life.
He chose Amber, fixed his mind on her, and just for a second pretended they spent their lives together. He imagined finding out tomorrow, on their birthday, that they were halves, that they always had been, always would be, forever—a spasm in his chest jarred him back to the tunnel. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he had to breathe.
But he felt warm despite the death congealing in his skin. There was light up ahead, conveyed through the water like clairvoyance. But how far? Too far. And how long before his chest was rent wide open? Aaron fought the current and crawled forward, buoyed by the liquid, his brain slurry. Then his breathing reflex took over, his mouth sprang open.
He thrust his head back one more time. But this time, there was no ceiling. His mouth cleared the water and he filled his lungs with air. He felt a breeze on his face, raindrops. A circle of sky glowed twenty feet above him, pearl gray at the top of a vertical maintenance shaft. Fastened inside the shaft, a rusty ladder led to the surface. He grasped the first rung and climbed.
Aaron burst through a layer of roots and sprawled out on the grass under an oak tree, just beyond the meadow behind Dominic’s house. He had never loved the taste of air so much. As rain kissed his cheeks, he gazed at the mansion through the trees. Golden strips of light sprinkled the meadow from tall, radiant windows.
Somewhere in there was Dr. Selavio, the man who could supposedly cure half death and treat a ruptured channel. Now that Aaron was here, he might as well investigate. Today was his birthday, after all. It was now or never. Plus he needed his cell phone back.
Still panting, he untangled himself from the roots and climbed to his feet, but before he took a step, something odd caught his eye off to his right, in a clearing between two oak trees. An oddly shaped mound glistened in the rain.
Aaron breathed in slowly, and he noticed the smell. Odor didn’t carry in the rain. He shouldn’t have smelled anything from that distance, just wet soil. Yet he did—a wretched smell slinking through the rain, impervious. And Aaron was certain the mound in that clearing was its origin.
Aaron edged closer, and details materialized under the raincloud’s feeble silver glow. A glossy plastic sheet had been stretched over a lumpy mass. Droplets splattered on the material and drizzled off in the folds. A shovel stood propped against a tree beside a pile of mud, and an unfinished hole—a grave.
Suddenly, Aaron choked on the stench of rotting flesh. He clutched his stomach as the black fumes pried into his nostrils, scorched his sinuses. His knees jerked and he lost his balance, tripped forward and caught himself inches from the plastic. By then he knew what was underneath, and he realized it would be a mistake to visit Dr. Selavio.
The mound was a corpse wrapped in cellophane and turned on its side, a boy; he couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Blisters festered on his waxy skin.
It was like someone turned up the volume inside Aaron’s head. His heart drummed. The oak leaves crackled beneath him as he stumbled backward.
The boy had to be Justin Gorski.
But there was one thing about the body that disturbed Aaron more than anything else. Under the faint light from a nearly full moon that beamed above the clouds, it was clear.
It couldn’t have been any clearer. Justin’s head had been shaved, and a dark “X” had been drawn across the back of his scalp. And in the very center, scabbed over and crawling with maggots, a hole had been drilled into the back of his skull.
NINE
0 Days, 9 hours, 51 minutes
Justin’s corpse proved Casler had committed murder—no, worse than that. He had punctured the boy’s channel and drained his sacred connection to Emma Mist into a vial, killing them both.
And he claimed he cured half death.
Aaron turned away from the corpse and faced the house. A surge of prickly blood blurred his vision. Rain boiled off his skin, and he stumbled forward and crossed the meadow. He snapped off fistfuls of gnarled stalks, splinters and all, and wiped his face. He reached the door in the east wall of the house and yanked the handle.
The door creaked open, and he stepped inside a laundry room. Murderer or not, Aaron just wanted his fucking cell phone back.
As soon as he was inside, static scampered across his skin. The floor vibrated from the drone of Casler’s machine. Once again, he noticed the sore spot at the back of his head, like a finger pressing out from the inside.
Aaron climbed the nearest staircase. He found Clive’s room empty, but what he saw from the doorway knotted his stomach. There wasn’t a square inch of wall exposed—Clive had plastered images of Amber’s face into every last corner.
His collage of her was complete.
Aaron heard voices from the living room down the hall. Just as he spun and marched toward them, though, the voices faded. Aaron hesitated, hearing only his jerky pulse. He crossed the hall, backed into the shadow of an armoire, and peered around the corner.
Seated in a black leather couch opposite a fireplace, Clive and Dominic were speaking in low voices. In the glow of dying embers, their mouths hardly moved. Aaron crept closer.
“ . . . Father wants to test it again.” Clive tapped something metallic against the coffee table then covered it with his fingers, which were trembling. “He’s found a way to reseal the channel once he’s made the cut, so that not that much leaks out.”
Dominic swirled a glass of whisky, and the ice clinked and crackled. He shook his head. “Not after what happened to Justin.”
“But he’s fixed it—”
“Then he can test it on himself,” said Dominic. “No one else gets involved.”
“He needs someone who hasn’t met their half.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “And who might that be?” he said. “Me? Amber?”
Again, Clive tapped the metal thing against the glass. “He wants Harper.”
“Harper? You’re kidding.”
“When my father examined him, he noticed something really weird about his channel. Said it looked like . . . like . . . ” Clive whispered the rest, and Aaron missed it. Damn.
“I seriously doubt that, Selavio.” Dominic drained his whisky and slammed it down on the coffee table. “It’s been long enough. Let’s go fetch him. You can tell him what you told me . . . maybe he’ll even volunteer.”
“No. He stays there until after my birthday.”
“It’s his birthday too, fuckface. We leave him down there, his family’s going to sue us.”
“I don’t care. He thinks Amber’s his half.”
“So what? Maybe she is,” said Dominic.
“She’s not, okay? I just don’t want him messing anything up—” Suddenly, the metal object slid from his hands and buzzed across the glass.
Aaron’s instinctive reaction was to clutch his pocket, but his pocket was empty—of course. His cell phone was vibrating across the coffee table.
“Unbelievable,” Clive muttered, lifting the phone. “That’s the third time she’s called him.”
He cleared his throat and answered the call. “Amber, you should be in bed. If you call this number one more time—”
Even from across the room, Aaron heard the click on the other end.
Clive swallowed and laid the phone back on the coffee table, his knuckles white. “Unbelievable,” he repeated. But then his head jerked toward the hallway, and his eyes widened. Dominic glanced back too—as Aaron, hands casually in his pockets, strolled into the light.
***
Aaron wiped his nose
and picked at the dirt caked on his knuckles before he spoke. “You guys haven’t seen my phone anywhere, have you?” He glanced up. “Ah—”
Aaron plucked his phone off the coffee table. “Must have slipped from my pocket,” he said, “lucky you picked it up.”
He winked at Clive and walked back to the hallway. Clive and Dominic didn’t budge until he reached the top of stairs, probably too stunned. Finally footsteps sounded behind him, and Aaron spun, ready for a fight. Clive bounded toward him with Dominic at his heels.
As they closed the distance, the back of Aaron’s head throbbed. All at once, the ache sharpened into a burn, scorching deeper with each step Clive took. “Jesus!” Aaron flinched away from him, clutching his scalp. “Get away from me!”
Clive halted, and a smirk crossed his lips. “Does that hurt your head, Harper?” His pale eyes gleamed. “I didn’t even touch you.”
“Alright, who’s the fuckface bleeding on my rug?” said Dominic, kneeling over a red spot on the floor. “If this leaves a stain . . . ” his dark eyes targeted Aaron, “you’re dead, number eleven.”
Aaron stared at the red spot, and a chill sank through his skin. He touched the back of his head, and slowly, hands trembling, lowered his fingers before his eyes. But there was no blood. His gaze snapped to Clive.
“Selavio, it’s you,” said Dominic.
“What?” Clive twisted, and another drop of blood struck the carpet. “Where’s it coming from?” Eyes frantic, he scanned his hoodie.
“No idea, but you’re dripping all over the place.”
Then, just like Aaron, Clive felt behind his head. He pulled his hand back and leveled his index finger in front of him. They all fell silent. A single drop of blood teetered on his fingertip and dripped to the floor.
“We need to get your dad,” said Dominic.
“No!” said Clive. “We’re not telling him a goddamn thing. I’m fine.” He glanced at Aaron, and for a split-second, terror flared in his eyes—before he fled down the hall.
“Number eleven, get out of my house,” said Dominic, and he raced after him, leaving Aaron alone.
Except for the melted ice rocking gently in Dominic’s glass, there was no sign of life. Aaron felt his heartbeat pulsing in the back of his head. Clive hadn’t even touched him; he was eight feet away, yet Aaron had actually felt his presence.
And was it just a coincidence that Clive had started bleeding at the same exact moment? Or was it some kind of backlash? Aaron didn’t finish the thought, though. Around him, the living room lamps faded. The orange bulbs winked out, and blackness immersed him. They must have been on a timer.
He could feel Clive pacing in the back rooms, his movements pivoting in his skull like a compass needle. Aaron jumped at a scratch, a patter of footsteps. But only his own erratic breathing pierced the silence. He backed against the wall and tiptoed downstairs.
Aaron had only just reached the front door when a car’s high beams glared into the marble entrance hall. The headlights flooded the room with blue light.
Doors slammed, tires kicked up gravel, and lanky shadows arced across the ceiling as the car drove back down the driveway. Male voices approached the front door and the handle twisted. Aaron flattened himself against the wall just in time, as Casler Selavio and Father Dravin stepped inside, both of them in red cloaks.
It was four in the morning. What the hell were they doing here?
Casler flipped on the lights, and Aaron realized his hiding place wasn’t a hiding place at all. He held his breath, but they didn’t turn around. Casler led Dravin straight across the room, and they ducked into the wine cellar. For a moment, the aitherscope’s silver orb beamed beyond the door before it clacked shut and silence flooded back.
Aaron let out his breath and headed for the front door, but he paused, hand poised at the handle. He glanced behind him. The wine cellar led to the dungeon.
It was four in the morning. Why were they even awake? So instead of leaving, Aaron followed them.
***
Aaron emerged at the bottom of the slimy stairs and tiptoed into the cavernous dungeon. While Dravin perused the laboratory, Casler booted up his laptop at a battered desk. The machine droned behind them. Its metal edges appeared blurry, almost transparent. Like a projection.
Aaron edged closer and slid behind a rack of medicine bottles.
“Just one more thing,” said Dravin. “I was under the impression that only the water molecules in the two vials were entangled. But when you introduced the red dye into that first vial, it clearly colored both. Dr. Selavio, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems the molecules of red dye jumped as well.”
Casler smiled, pulled off his red cloak, and tossed it onto the chair. He wore his lab coat underneath. “You’re very perceptive,” he said, “but I’m afraid the demonstration was simply a magic trick designed to prove a point. The real fluid was pinched from me some weeks ago.”
Dravin raised his eyebrows. “And it wouldn’t be the first time Mr. Lilian did you a favor. May I ask how the trick was accomplished?”
“A pinhole in the top of the vial,” said Casler.
“But a magician never reveals his secrets,” said Dravin.
“I’m a doctor, not a magician,” said Casler.
“It seems to me you’re neither,” said Dravin, setting his own cloak on the desk and stepping over to the machine. He wore a black, clerical robe underneath. “You’re a politician. Is this it, then?”
“All two-hundred million volts of it.”
“And what is the machine’s secret?” said Dravin. “A pinhole in space?”
Casler’s smile widened as he typed in his password. “Very perceptive indeed.” He flicked the touchpad, and files flashed across the screen. “Although the entrance to the channel is slightly larger than a pinhole.”
“And where, may I ask, did you find the entrance?” said Dravin.
“I’m afraid it requires drilling,” said Casler. “It’s on the inside of the skull, just behind the visual cortex. I give my son credit for the discovery—” He laughed quietly. “His awful headaches.”
Dravin placed his palm on the machine and circled it slowly. “Dr. Selavio, how is this machine different than the machine you tested eighteen years ago?”
“This one reseals the hole.”
“So the subject lives?”
“The patient lives,” said Casler. “Forgive my sensitivity, Father.”
“But he lived the first time,” said Dravin.
“Not entirely,” said Casler.
Dravin paused at the open panel behind the machine and peered inside. “I pray to God I never understand what you mean by that.”
“You always were squeamish,” said Casler. “Here, I’ve got it loaded. This is from that kid you met on Wednesday. It’s a video of the inside of his channel, recorded directly from the aitherscope.”
Dravin patted the machine and headed back to the desk. “You mean the rugby player?”
“The other one. The one who left early.”
Aaron shifted to get a better view, and his wrist cracked.
Dravin whipped around. “Did you hear that?”
“Trust me, we’re quite alone,” said Casler.
Aaron stayed perched on his fingertips until Dravin’s eyes finally returned to the laptop. Then he eased himself into a crouch, praying his slamming heart wasn’t audible over the drone of the machine.
“Okay, watch this—” Casler played the video, and in slow motion, the screen displayed exactly what Aaron had seen through the aitherscope—three and a half seconds of flashing static—before it went blank.
“No regular clairvoyant signature,” said Dravin.
“I noticed that too,” said Casler. “Fairly typical for a patient who’s sustained trauma to his channel, and that was my initial diagnosis. But I filtered out the static and . . . ” he tapped a few keys, “I want you to watch it again, from my angle.” Casler slid over, blocking the screen from Aaron’s vie
w.
The priest leaned in, and a moment later, his eyebrows furrowed. “Is that a branch?”
“You tell me.”
“But . . . to where?”
“Father, I’m beginning to wonder . . . It’s too much of a coincidence that this boy shares Clive’s birthday.”
“We checked the Registry, though,” said Dravin. “No one was born opposite Amber—except, of course, your son.”
“I know, I know . . . ” Casler rubbed his temples, “but we knew the operation would affect both ends of the channel, both halves. We just weren’t sure exactly how. Supposing the machine skewed the synchronization. The Registry might have clocked the boy’s birth a few seconds late . . . or maybe even registered him as a stillborn. Stillbirths aren't always recorded accurately. Maybe that’s why we didn’t know about him.”
Dravin nodded. “Then deal with him before he becomes a problem. And for your son’s sake, don’t speak of this again . . . not even to the potentate.”
In the frail light, the shadows elongated under Casler’s high cheekbones. “Of course.” He reached out and closed his laptop, his hands trembling.
“Clive seems very much in control of himself lately,” said Dravin. “He’s come a long way.”
“Yes, he has,” said Casler. “But there are still times when he lashes out—”
“As with all of us.” Dravin straightened his glasses and focused on Casler. “You may wish to know your son has been chosen as the heir.”
Casler rose from his seat suddenly. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened them again, a tear slid down his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I am pleased to hear that.”
Dravin appraised him with cold eyes. “I only wonder if he’s mature enough,” he said. “If he can’t control that half of his—”
“She will submit to my son,” said Casler.
“Mr. Lilian is in full agreement that you should do everything in your power to make his daughter complacent for our heir.” His lips curled into a smirk. “Quite a prize, she is. You won’t tarnish her face, will you?”