Solatium (Emanations, an urban fantasy series Book 2)

by Becca Mills

  “Well, it’s nice of you all to help us get where we’re going.”

  He shrugged. “No prob.”

  “I’m Hera,” I said.

  He snorted. “Please. You’re Elizabeth Ryder. We’ve been hearing about you for months. Mr. Gates is a gossip.”

  I forced a laugh. “So much for secrecy. I go by ‘Beth.’”

  No wonder Chasca had seemed so interested in “Hera Hanson.”

  I went back to scrubbing the saddle, trying to hide my dismay at being thought gossip-worthy.

  Terry seemed perfectly happy to work in silence. He cleaned the guns with impressive efficiency. Then he started loading magazines.

  I watched him surreptitiously. He was in his late twenties, tall and lean, with bold, slightly uneven features. And really nice hands. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but I thought he was attractive.

  He glanced up, caught me looking, and grinned. Then he went back to work. I could tell he wasn’t interested, but he managed to give me that vibe without embarrassing me.

  “So, do all you guys work for Mr. Gates?”

  “Sure. This is his place.”

  “Do you just work for him, or do you belong to him?”

  Terry looked up from the clip he was loading, his face serious.

  It occurred to me that I’d just asked a black man if someone owned him.

  And he was very generously giving me a chance to explain myself.

  “I don’t mean belong to him, like, legally. I mean, are you free to leave if you want to? ’Cause, you know … I’m not. I belong to Cordus. I’m … he owns me. For all intensive purposes. Intents and purposes, I mean.”

  I stumbled to a stop, mortified.

  Terry studied me for another few moments. Then I guess he decided I was okay despite my idiocy, because he shrugged and went back to work.

  “Mr. Gates isn’t like Lord Cordus. We’re free to leave.”

  “But you have to do what he says so long as you’re with him?”

  “Not really. He expects us to be straight with him, but we can make our own choices.”

  “I don’t get it, then. Why are you guys helping us?”

  Terry broke the seal on a new box of ammo. “You know about ’56, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  That was when the Seconds had finally admitted humanity might pose a threat. Apparently, a bunch of the great powers had gathered to watch one of the nuclear tests at Bikini Atoll. It must’ve scared them shitless, because a year later, they agreed to a single universal law — the existence of the S-Em must be disguised at all costs. They divvied the F-Em up into territories. Each one would be overseen by a power, who’d act to enforce the law. By the early ’60s, it was all set up.

  They soon realized that Nolanders might be useful as a police force. We could do the dangerous work of tracking down Seconds who broke the law, and if one of us accidentally revealed something to the humans, we’d be the one to pay the price. It was a win-win for the powers. Whether it was better for Nolanders was questionable. We weren’t hunted for fun anymore, but we’d lost any chance to live freely.

  “Well, there were a few powers who chose to live in the F-Em before that,” Terry said. “Mr. Gates is one of them. He’s lived on that farm since the 1750s. He helped a lot of runaway slaves back then — sent them through the strait.”

  “So Mr. Gates pretty much created this town?”

  “No, Native Americans had been using the strait for thousands of years, so there were already people here. But lots of us are descendants of the people Mr. Gates helped. He helped Nolanders too. If you could reach him, he’d send you through. That’s what happened with my grandfather — he was being hunted. Mr. Gates doesn’t send people through much anymore, but it still happens sometimes. Like with Joanna. He sent her here because she was married to this guy who tried to kill her.”

  No wonder the town was called “Free.” I felt a little teary. Mr. Gates was certainly an exception among the powers. What a wonderful person.

  “But then Lord Cordus claimed the area,” Terry continued. “Folks here were worried, but it turned out he wanted to make an alliance with Mr. Gates.”

  “Instead of just killing him and seizing the strait, you mean?”

  Maybe I was off-base, but I had trouble imagining Limu or Innin allowing another power to hold territory within their territory.

  Terry nodded. “Doubt it had anything to do with kindness. Our guess is he finds Mr. Gates useful. And we’re one of the things that make him useful. We can do stuff like this — help him help Lord Cordus. So we do.”

  “Good thing we came along, then. We’re helping you help yourselves.”

  Terry laughed. “Yeah. Thank god for you guys. We were getting desperate for dangerous missions.”

  Of course. Of course Cordus was lying when he said the trip would be safe. He was lying about everything.

  “Is this trip going to be really bad?”

  “Naw. We’re well armed, and that barrier-worker of yours is golden. We’ll be fine.”

  “Well armed, huh? Do you have a stash of grenades?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I wish. Mr. Gates won’t allow trade in explosives. I’ve only got a couple, and one of them’s in pieces at the moment.”

  “Oh. Bummer.”

  “Totally.” He grinned. “Not enough to juggle.”

  I stayed busy for the next few days. That was good — it kept my mind off things.

  On the other hand, the work was hard. I cleaned so much tack my fingers ached. I washed clothes. By hand, of course — an experience that convinced me the washing machine was the greatest invention in the history of humankind. I helped clean the tavern, kitchen, and guest rooms so that Mr. Gates’s people would be free to do other things. I groomed horses and mucked out stalls. Ida even had me do some cooking. Just a little. We soon discovered my time was best applied elsewhere.

  All this activity took place in the most sweltering heat and humidity imaginable. I took to stuffing a dishtowel in my back pocket so I could wipe the sweat off instead of dripping on the floor wherever I went.

  I should’ve asked Williams to carry that sweaty towel around for me. The man was on me like white on rice. He clearly didn’t want to leave me alone with Mr. Gates’s people for any length of time. Half an hour with Jobah or Jimena seemed to be okay, but not the others.

  Especially not Mizzy, who showed up the day after our conversation at the theater, saying she’d thought it over and decided to come with us. Williams seemed suspicious of her, even if she was too valuable an asset to leave behind. Personally, I couldn’t see why. Sure, she’d tried to get out of coming with us, but that made sense. She had a life here, and we were strangers asking her to leave it behind for a good long while.

  At any rate, I was glad she was coming because Terry was right about the stories.

  For several nights in a row, I watched her tell tales in the inn’s common room. She seemed almost to become the characters as she spoke. Sex pot came easily — lidded eyes, pouty lips, a little turn of her head, and bingo. But she could also become an old woman by hunching over and scrunching up her face. Or she could smooth it into guilelessness and be a child. Or, with a lift of her chin, she could put on the haughty demeanor of a queen. It was really something.

  She always spoke in Baasha, so some of what she said went over my head. But I understood more the second night than the first, and more the third night than the second. I’d put a lot of work into the language. Now that I was hearing it every day, it was coming fast.

  Even if I hadn’t understood a word, her gift made her stories’ emotional tenor pretty clear — the sad ones had grown men weeping, the funny ones had everyone laughing too hard to breathe, and the bawdy ones had people groping each other under the tables.

  The groping was a little embarrassing, but I was envious anyway. Having a gift that gave people pleasure — I wish that were me.

  I complimented her one evening as we were cleani
ng up the common room after the last dinner patrons had gone home.

  She smiled and shrugged it off. “Story-telling puts food on the table, but the stage is where I really want to be.” She sighed. “I wish people around here were more interested in theater.”

  “Maybe there’ll be some opportunities on our trip.”

  She glanced over my shoulder, and her voice took on a seductive air. “Oh, I think I’ll be a little too busy for that.”

  “Mr. Williams is standing behind me, isn’t he?” I whispered.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I turned and saw him leaning against the far wall, watching us. I looked back in time to see Mizzy make a kissy-face at him.

  Honest to god, the woman had a death wish. She never missed an opportunity to yank his chain. So far, he’d ignored it, but I figured he’d eventually snap and kill her.

  I pulled a new towel out of my pocket. One of the diners must’ve spilled his whole beer — the table I was cleaning was awash with the stuff.

  Mizzy tossed me a second towel.

  “Thanks.” I paused, considering. “Hey, can I ask you something? It might be sort of a touchy question.”

  That got her interest. “Sure. What is it?”

  “Are there many Seconds who can’t work essence at all? Like Terry?”

  “Yeah, there are. About one in four can’t do it. Sometimes they’re called ‘blunts’ or ‘hirelings,’ but that’s considered rude.”

  “One in four? Seriously?”

  “Yep.” Her eyes narrowed. “How come that’s so surprising?”

  I shook my head. “We aren’t told that kind of thing. It’s not that they lie. It’s just …” I groped for words. “I guess they let us assume all Seconds are super-powerful, and we never think to question it.”

  Except Gwen. But even Gwen hadn’t taken the idea that far.

  “So, what makes people like Terry different from Joanna? Or any other human?”

  “Nothing. He was born here, so he’s a Second. Joanna was born there, so she’s quote-unquote human. That’s all.”

  I glanced again at Williams, but his eyes were aimed down. I don’t know why I was seeking confirmation from him, anyway.

  Mizzy seemed to wonder the same thing. “Dunno what they’re telling you over there, but we’re all just people. Some can work essence, some can’t. Some are born here, some there. The categories themselves don’t really mean anything. What matters is power. If you’ve got enough, you can protect yourself. If you don’t, you’re going to be someone’s bitch, wherever you were born.”

  “Oh.”

  I wrung out my towel and thought about it.

  Of course power mattered. But the “we’re-all-just-people” thing rang false. Seconds weren’t hunted, like Nolanders had been. They weren’t enslaved, like I was. Obviously, Chasca had some people working for her. But Free seemed to be full of ordinary folks living their own lives. I hadn’t seen any of them killed with impunity, the way entities like the Thirsting Ground were allowed to kill humans, back in my world.

  I went on to the next table. It was messier than the last one.

  In my head, I heard Theo make a tart comment about people’s table manners and Andy say, “Yeah!” and then belch loudly. That’s just what they’d do.

  Thinking of them hurt. I pushed the image away.

  I wasn’t getting the whole picture, I decided. It wasn’t that I doubted what Mizzy had said. It just didn’t feel complete.

  I looked up and saw she’d made her way to the back of the room and had begun lifting the chairs up onto the tables so we could mop. With every chair she lifted, she bent down a bit farther than she really needed to and waved her ass in Williams’s direction.

  Definitely a death wish.

  I wanted to ask her for more info, but I didn’t really know her yet, and even I was sharp enough to realize the questions I asked could reveal a lot about me to anyone who was listening.

  I sighed and went on to the next table.

  This world had already surprised me. I wondered what else it had in store.

  Chapter 10

  I hefted my saddle bags and stepped out into the inn’s courtyard.

  It was the proverbial crack of dawn, but everyone was ready to go.

  Bill Gates’s people were dressed in long-sleeved shirts and pants that looked to be made of modern synthetic material. They must’ve been imported through the strait. Mizzy, Kevin, and Terry were riding calm, well conditioned horses. Mizzy was wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

  I caught her gaze, and she gave me a mischievous smile.

  Ida was riding a tall, sturdy mule. She was a big woman. The mule was probably a good choice. Most horses aren’t as well conformed as Bertha for carrying a heavy rider.

  Kevin and Mizzy were carrying sidearms. Terry had an M4 carbine, and Ida was carrying a double-barreled high-caliber rifle that must’ve cost an arm and a leg.

  Cata was standing off to the side, her expression a mixture of sullen anger and worry.

  Williams was on foot. We’d have to drop by the livery stable to pick up our horses.

  He was looking at me impatiently.

  I guess I should’ve known “at sunrise” actually meant “half an hour before sunrise.”

  Jobah was holding a string of packhorses.

  “Well,” he said, “y’all had best be on your way.”

  He handed the pack string up to Ida.

  There was a flurry of goodbyes. I watched Joanna force herself to let go of Kevin’s stirrup. Kite stood beside her with tears in his eyes.

  Hey, they’re a family.

  I immediately felt dumb for not having noticed before. And Joanna was the one who’d fled the F-Em to escape a homicidal husband. How wonderful that she’d found new happiness here, and with a guy like Kevin, too — he was strikingly handsome. I’d watched with some amusement the amount of attention he got when he waited tables.

  Williams opened the courtyard gate and stepped through.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said to Jobah.

  He nodded to me. “Safe travels.”

  I hurried after Williams, not wanting to thread my way through the dark alley among the horses. I valued my toes.

  He led us to the stable. The boys who’d waited on us the other day had Copper and Bertha all tacked up and waiting. The four packhorses were loaded and ready to go.

  Williams eyed the boys.

  “Nothing’s been stolen, sir,” one of them said, looking nervous.

  “Packhorses go to him,” Williams said, nodding toward Kevin.

  The boys rushed to do as Williams ordered. I was relieved. I had a feeling Copper was going to be hard enough to handle out on the open road without a pack string to keep track of.

  I went to Copper and started checking him over. The boys had done a good job tacking him up, though I did tighten his curb strap before mounting.

  Williams got on Bertha and flipped each boy a coin before heading off down the street.

  Probably a penny, I thought sourly.

  I followed him, and the others fell in behind.

  The sun rose as we hit the northern edge of town.

  For about five minutes, we rode through shadowy pastureland. Then we came up against a huge stone wall. A bunch of heavily armed guards were minding the gate. I could see large weapons mounted atop the wall.

  Was Free walled all the way around?

  Williams stopped to hand one of the guards a piece of paper — his tax receipt, maybe? The guard disappeared into the gatehouse, and Williams reined back to speak to the others. Kevin pulled out a map and showed him something.

  After a few minutes, the guard emerged from the gatehouse and signaled the others to open the heavy wooden gate for us.

  As it started to move, Williams put us in formation: he’d ride first, with Terry on his left flank and Mizzy a bit farther back on the right. I would come next. I was to stay nearly abreast of Mizzy. Kevin would ride half a length back from me and to the l
eft, with Ida bringing up the rear.

  “Stay grouped, but stay clear of each other,” Williams said. “Eyes to the sides and back. Pay attention. Don’t forget to look up.”

  We got ourselves in order and rode through.

  On the other side, the land had been cleared of trees and brush for a hundred yards. Then began the world I’d expected to see when I rode through the strait — Earth as it might’ve looked if the last great extinction never happened.

  Trees towered on either side of the road. They were far more varied than the spare conifers of Octoworld. Some were slender. With others, four men couldn’t have joined hands around them. Thick vines climbed the trunks and laced the canopy, and everything was covered with strange flowers. Some were tiny, but others were so big they reminded me of those saucers you can use for sledding. They seemed to grow on every available surface. Some trees were so covered I could barely see any bark. They looked like those bendy things you use to clean a pipe — pale and fuzzy with a million blossoms. It wasn’t raining, but everything was damp. The air was hot and humid and sugary-sweet. There was birdsong all around us.

  The Cretaceous, plus sixty-five million years of evolutionary refinement. It was beautiful, magical. And creepy.

  A half-mile out from the walls, the cobblestone street gave way to dirt. It seemed to be a well made road — hard packed and gently sloped, so water would drain into a ditch on the low side. Nevertheless, I could see mud and standing water in a low spot up ahead.

  Oh well. I’d known the journey wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  Unfortunately, my mount made it even less pleasant than it might’ve been. Copper’s nights in the rental stable had convinced him that was home. Every time I relaxed my attention, he tried to wheel around and head back to Free. Thank god for all those lessons with Patricia.

  Once he actually managed to get a few body lengths down the road before I regained control. As I brought him back up to his place in line, Mizzy tsked in disapproval.

  “The spots are cute, but he’s a pain in the ass.”

  I nodded. “He’s the one I’ve been riding at home, but he’s not good for this.”