Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  “I need to get to school,” I say to Mom. “I’ve missed enough time already.”

  She turns away from Mrs. Ford. “Absolutely. Just give your hair a brush and be sure to take a full water bottle for the walk.”

  Not wanting to waste time going upstairs, I walk over to one of the cracked and mottled mirrors that line the rectangular pillars of the lobby. At one point in time this building must’ve looked pretty decent.

  My dark hair is frizzy from the humidity. Perspi­ration moistens it along the nape of my neck. I quickly run a brush through it, pulling the hair off my face and into a high ponytail with an elastic I’ve got in my knapsack.

  “I’m off,” I say, giving Mom a quick hug and a kiss. “Bye, Mrs. Ford,” I add, throwing her a quick wave.

  Mrs. Ford waves back enthusiastically, putting her pit stains on full display. “You’re camera-ready,” she shouts as I head out the door.

  Aren’t you the poster woman for feminism? Not! I think as I start down the sidewalk, breaking into a light jog. Already, dark storm clouds are gathering over the lake, the deep, angry rumble of thunder rolling in the ­distance.

  By the time I get to school, the entire sky is a deep grey, and sweat is pouring down my face in tiny rivulets.

  Desiree looks up from her computer as I rush into the ­office and to the front desk. My mouth is so parched, it feels like my tongue is made of flypaper.

  “Jade! Are you okay?” She stands up, pushes her ­red-framed reading glasses up onto her mane of bleached hair, and comes round to me. “Can I get you some water?”

  I nod, wiping my hand across my forehead.

  Desiree fills a cup with water from the cooler in the corner of the office and brings it over to me. “Lucky we’re in an urban area and don’t have to worry about ­dried-up wells or drinking water being rationed yet,” she says with a smile. “Have a seat. It’s good to have you back.”

  “Has Ms. Samson seen the news? About Jasmine?” I ask between gulps of water. The cool liquid feels like heaven as it hits my belly.

  Desiree nods. “Mr. Khan hit ‘record’ on his video watch as he got into the mayor’s car. Good thing he’s wearing long sleeves today, though we suspect Mayor Smith doesn’t care if he records the conversation ­taking place between the three of them. I suspect she’s not too afraid of us, with the knowledge she has. You can go ahead into Ms. Samson’s office. She’s got Ms. Clarke in there listening to it with her.” She smiles at me. “She’ll be glad to see you as well. We all missed you very much.”

  “Thanks,” I say, standing up and giving Desiree a quick hug. “It means a lot.”

  She places both her hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. “Don’t let it get to you. You’re just as special. The great thing about Seers is that we ­balance each other like yin and yang. Besides, being targeted for anything, positive or negative, by Smith is not ­something you should desire.”

  My heart skips a beat. I forget how good some Seers are at reading thoughts, unless you guard them, and even then we can still pick up fuzzy bits and pieces of what someone’s thinking, or what their intentions are.

  I refill my cup as I pass the cooler, thinking about how hard it must be for all the people in rural areas whose wells have dried up and who can’t afford the tens of thousands of dollars to have new ones dug. Stories of families moving in with relatives and living in ­basement apartments or camper vans set up permanently in ­backyards are pretty common.

  I knock at Ms. Samson’s door. Ms. Clarke opens it for me, smiles, and puts a finger to her full lips. She’s ­wearing an earpiece. I step inside, and she closes the door behind me.

  Ms. Samson is sitting behind her large, wooden desk, leaning forward on her elbows with a look of complete concentration. A massive palm tree towers above her, its fronds reaching nearly to the ceiling.

  “Jade’s here,” Ms. Clarke says, motioning for me to sit down on a leather chair across from her. A large ­monitor on the opposite wall shows the text of the conversation between Jasmine, Mr. Khan, and Mayor Smith. At the moment it looks like they’re talking about the food on the table in front of them.

  “Please carry on listening and let me know if ­anything critical occurs,” Ms. Samson says, taking out her earpiece and tucking a renegade dreadlock behind her ear. She sits back and smiles at me.

  “It’s good to see you, Jade,” she says, folding her hands on top of her desk. I stare at the multitude of ­silver and indigo rings on her fingers. “How are you feeling? A great deal has happened … and this latest turn of events is very worrying. We need to get you and Jasmine back into training as soon as possible. Two weeks off is a long time.”

  “I just want you to know that I tried to convince Cassandra and Jasmine not to go to the beach to train that night. All of this wouldn’t be happening if they’d just listened to me. And he wasn’t human. Jamie Linnekar, I mean. He was full demon when he attacked us.” I pause. “How can that be?”

  Ms. Samson nods, her dark eyes taking in every word. “We don’t ever know what might or might not have happened on any given day. Cassandra’s been spoken to about her choices that evening, and Jasmine will be as well. As for Mr. Linnekar, it’s most ­unfortunate. Vulnerable souls are easily possessed.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you need to hear this,” Ms. Clarke says. “Both of you.”

  JASMINE

  “Now,” Mayor Smith says, taking a generous sip of her red wine. “Let’s get down to business. I am well aware of your extraordinary courage and special talents as a Seer.”

  I raise my head from my plate of salad and chicken. It’s so long since I’ve had meat, I don’t care if I’m dining with someone who is very likely an enemy. I’m happy to bite the hand that feeds, and Mayor Smith will find that out really fast if she gets too close. Even though what Smith just said made my heart freeze, I plaster an expression of indifference on my face and shove another piece of chicken into my mouth.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say ­between chews. “What’s a Seer? I saved my sister and tried to save Mom’s best friend. Anyone would do the same.” I glance over at Mr. Khan, who hasn’t touched his meal or water. His face is blank, purposely devoid of emotion. It also means I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing here.

  Smith smiles, and I can’t help but wonder how she keeps her teeth so shockingly white if she drinks red wine, even though it’s a stupid thought to have in the middle of all of this.

  She leans forward. The smile that seems to be ­permanently plastered on her face doesn’t reach her eyes; instead, her gaze is full of frost and menace. “Jasmine, Lola was your Protector. I know everything … and, just to let you know, she was sorry about Jade. It was the only way she could save Femi. It was a trade, you see. He was saved from his illness in return for your sister’s soul being kept in the Ibeji doll. You’re not the only ones with knowledge that our world contains the supernatural, the extraordinary …”

  I stare hard at the table, a lump of anger burning brightly in my chest.

  “Jasmine,” Mr. Khan says softly. “Emotions.”

  “What do you want from me?” I ask.

  “I’ve chosen you because your story and your actions are inspiring. You have charisma and the type of ­fearlessness during these dark and frightening times that people decades older than you could only hope for. I want to be sure Toronto does not end up like LA or go the way Paris and New York seem to be … they’re ready to implode in civil war. All the mayors of the world’s prominent metropolises, particularly the ones that stand poised to withstand the global economic and environmental changes that are happening, want to be more … proactive. But we need the support of the people to do the things we feel are necessary. Part of ­getting that support is giving people hope in the form of someone or something they can believe in, that they can look up to.” She sits back. “An
d for Toronto, that ­someone is you.”

  Her words tumble toward me like a landslide. I feel suffocated. One word in particular flashes in my mind like a red alarm. Chosen. Again, I’m reminded of the ­demon’s raspy voice calling me elegido. The chosen …

  “For years other countries, ones that have ­generally been frowned upon by Western nations, have ­broadcast the public executions of terrorists. It ­started in 2006 with the hanging of Saddam Hussein and ­became more commonplace in the early 2020s with the ­execution of members, particularly leaders, of other terrorist groups.”

  “Yeah, I wrote a persuasive essay on it last year,” I ­interject, wrinkling my nose to show my distaste, “when certain broadcasters here and in the US ­wanted to ­publicly broadcast the executions. It’s a disgusting thing for people to want to do to one another, let alone watch for thrills. I mean, we teach that it’s wrong for a human being to murder another human, but then we murder the offender in return. It makes no sense.” I look over at the bottle of red wine. Smith clearly has money. Wine and any meat besides squirrel and pigeon are now hot commodities. You can’t even find them in ­grocery shops most of the time, and when they are there, they can cost hundreds of dollars for a ­bottle or for one roast chicken. Cattle production has been banned for years, so beef is like gold … rare and ­priceless.

  “Is that what you’re planning to do? Start ­broadcasting executions? Sell tickets so people can come and watch?” I ask sarcastically, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork.

  “That’s one part of it. Hopefully it will be a massive deterrent to terrorism and to terrorist-group recruitment for people to see the consequences awaiting. We also want to stop any new immigration into the city. Now that countries have closed their borders, we need to find a way to make sure all those refugees who have slipped into Canada over the last decade or so don’t try to make Toronto their home. If people want to work here, particularly if they’d like to drive night taxis or subway trains, or work as identification and security ­officers in the evenings, we can provide them with housing on the outskirts of Oshawa and give them ­DNA-encoded passports to allow daily access in and out of the city. We have a need for workers in these sorts of employment and understand that these jobs are more challenging and dangerous. We wish to reward individuals who want to contribute to the smooth and safe ­running of the city. However, this means ­establishing a clear boundary between, essentially, ‘old’ Toronto, where no new population growth aside from live births will take place, and the outskirts, where new residents may be permitted to live.”

  “How very apartheid of you,” Mr. Khan quips as he pushes his plate away. “This is insane. No one is going to support executing people, especially if you plan to turn it into public entertainment, like some sort of barbaric circus show. Besides, the death penalty doesn’t even exist in Canada.”

  Smith directs her smile at Mr. Khan, regarding him silently for a few moments. “You’d be very surprised what people will support, and quite enthusiastically, I might add, when their own welfare is threatened, Jameela.”

  Mr. Khan’s eyes widen with surprise. “How do you know my birth name?” His voice is unsteady ­with­ ­emotion.

  “What Lola told me about all of you was so ­fascinating, I felt compelled to find out more about Beaconsfield, about the Protectors, and especially those Protectors and Seers whose twins are no longer with them. Mina … what a tragic story. And Grace — I mean, your beloved Ms. Samson — her story is so very sad as well. But your story trumps both of theirs for tragedy and change, doesn’t it? Gender reassignment for you, and, well, your sister’s awful demise.”

  Mr. Khan doesn’t say anything. Instead he just stares down at the table. He feels defeated and knows that Beaconsfield and everything we’re doing there is at stake if he fights back. I can read that. He’s also in immense pain. His heart feels as though it’s been torn apart.

  All of which makes me supremely pissed off. There’s no way I want to be poster child for this demented bitch. But it looks like I might not have a choice … for now.

  “Stop it,” I say. “Leave him alone.” Meeting her gaze, I narrow my eyes. “What exactly do you want me to do? Because I’m not playing this game anymore.” I follow Mr. Khan’s lead and push my plate away, even though my stomach rumbles at the sight of the ­unfinished chicken breast perched on top of the last of the greens.

  “I want you to stir up patriotic feelings in Toronto and the rest of Canada. Rabid patriotism. Make people feel that even the smallest contribution to the running of our city — for instance, bringing food to elderly residents trapped in their buildings due to power outages and ­elevator issues — makes a huge impact. I want the ­general public to understand that we’re at war with both ­terrorism and the environmental changes happening around us. Make them understand that sacrifices will be required. Make them willing to turn on their own family members, if necessary.”

  I think back to my first journey to the ­Place-in-Between last year, when I found myself in the middle of the Blitz in London during the Second World War. The trapped souls there talked about the same kind of patriotic ­sacrifices. I’m guessing I’m going to be Smith’s Churchill. Or that she wants to be Churchill and I’m some sort of personal assistant.

  “Most importantly, I will need you to make people very afraid of the CCT and of the CCT’s power to ­recruit the young people of Toronto. In fact, I want them to be terrified.”

  “And what do I get in return?” I ask, leaning forward onto my elbows and folding my hands on top of the table. “Because this all feels very one-sided right now.”

  Smith smiles again. “Oh, Jasmine, first off, you avoid being charged with the first-degree murder of Jamie Linnekar, because I can so easily have my technical ­department come up with a doctored video showing you attacking him first. It’s so easy to change a ­narrative. And then, suddenly, it would be him ­acting in self-­defence and not the other way around.” She leans toward me. “The funny thing is, so many people in Toronto and beyond will believe anything I say.” She sits back again and smiles widely. “So what you get is the assurance that all the Seers, as well as your precious little Beaconsfield, don’t get exposed and dismantled for being a terrorist training ground. It would be very difficult to ­explain why such rigorous work on combative teachniques is being done on a daily basis, wouldn’t it? Especially ­difficult to explain to a public that’s scared to death of any more ­bombings and kidnappings. In fact, I question the ­curriculum there myself. Perhaps I need to make a visit one of these fine days.”

  “No thanks,” I mutter.

  She picks up her wine glass, regarding me as though I am some sort of fascinating bug. “We’re at war, and we will not negotiate with terrorists,” she says, taking a large sip and then holding her glass out in front of her. “Here’s to alliances.”

  This is what it must feel like to be a fox caught in a snare. My choices are either to die or to chew my own leg off in order to survive. I stare at Smith, at the silver ring glinting on her finger as she holds her wine glass aloft in front of her.

  She’s very correct about one thing, though. We’re ­definitely at war.

  JADE

  Ms. Samson sent me to classes and training, despite my protests.

  As my head hits the mat and Amara Jakande twists my arm behind me, placing her knee squarely in my back — a move that would effectively render me dead if she were a demon, but here in the gym, simply leaves me red-faced with embarrassment — I think about the danger we’re all in. Not just from the demons, but from Mayor Smith as well.

  “Jade, you’re out!” Mrs. Jackson shouts from her chair on the sideline. She motions me off and over with a sharp wave.

  I pick up my pole and jog over to her as Amara’s ­sister, Vivienne, steps onto the mat.

  “Where’s your head at, girl?” Mrs. Jackson asks, ­getting up as I approach. She’s at least fo
rty and wiry, but strong. Her biceps pop out as she places her hands on her hips, regarding me carefully. “I know you’ve been through a bit over the last few weeks, but you need to get back on your game and get yourself together. We need to be ready for anything. You’d be dead in an ­instant with the kind of laziness I saw out there today. It was like watching a fish out of water, flopping around. Sloppy, to say the least.”

  I nod. She’s absolutely right. I’m not even going to attempt an excuse. It would only make me look more pathetic.

  “Now, take your seat over there by Cassandra.” She points at the bleachers where Cassandra and Lily are ­sitting, poles in hand, waiting for their turn on the mat. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since everything ­happened, and I’m still more than a bit annoyed at Cassandra for her part in dragging us to Cherry Beach to train.

  Both Cassandra and Lily greet me with big hugs.

  “So good to have you back,” Lily whispers, leaning over to me, her dark eyes shining. “I was so worried. Did you know that Fiona and Jennifer were attacked the other night? They were in their yard. The demon tore apart their dog, Isabelle. That’s how it lured them out.”

  My stomach plummets. Isabelle. Fiona and Jennifer had brought her to school a few times. (Ms. Samson doesn’t like animals being inside, but understood that Isabelle was a retired guide dog and deserved not to be left on her own all day.) She was just this lovely, big-eyed ­chocolate Lab that had a kiss for every hand she could reach.

  “Did they kill it?” I ask, hoping for Isabelle’s sake that they smashed its head to bits like a ripe jack-o’-lantern.