“Ghostbusters.” Adrian yanks her out of her reverie.
She looks at him, startled. “What?”
“That’s what we should be for Halloween this year. The lack of scientific realism will really annoy Ches. It’ll be great.” They turn the corner, and Sloane can feel they’ve arrived before she even looks up.
Madame Sofia’s Psychic Shoppe.
The storefront window is a chaotic collection of crystal balls, spell books, Ouija boards, statues of ancient gods and goddesses, and Asian trinkets. To anyone else, this wouldn’t seem like a befitting workplace and home for a beautiful twenty-two-year-old, but to Sloane, this is all Sofia. Most people would assume that behind the door, they’d find an eccentric old lady who’d gone off the rails, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Even though Sofia is young on the outside, she’s always been that eccentric old lady inside, and she can’t stay on the rails to save her life.
Sloane pushes the door open and steps through the door into the dimly lit room. Her senses need a moment to adjust to the lack of light and the musty smell of old things. A collection of mismatched shelves borders the storefront, all different heights, colors, and eras. Many of them undoubtedly harbor secret compartments, and their contents are all haphazardly organized. Curious oddities crowd every shelf indiscriminately—from creepy dolls to dead animals in jars, bowls of precious stones, and mystical trinkets. A thin film of dust and cobwebs sprinkles everything but her reading table.
Swaths of dark fabric bubble from the ceiling, with a fringe of lucky rabbit’s feet around the edge. Wind chimes hang down, made from every material imaginable, metal, bamboo, pebbles, shells, glass, bone. Despite the sheer number, Sloane’s never heard so much as a tinkle from one. Adrian once spent five minutes slamming the door, trying to get them to sound. They stayed silent. Sofia says they only speak for her otherworldly visitors.
The heart of the room, her reading table, is wrapped in a big, dark red velvet tablecloth with a chair on either side. Her crystal rests in the center, dormant. Not a crystal ball, as one might expect, but a jagged shard of natural, uncut crystal. Here is where she gives psychic readings, reads tarot cards, and channels spirits. Although Sloane has never seen a customer, she’s also never seen Sofia short on cash. A few years ago, she even bought Sloane her very own kiln. The magical money is just a part of the eternal mystery that is Sofia.
Adrian walks over to the table and looks back and forth between the two chairs. He shakes his head and chuckles.
“What?” Sloane joins him next to the table.
“I don’t think these two chairs have moved an inch, ever,” he remarks. He nudges the chair with his foot, but it doesn’t budge.
“That’s beyond gravity,” Sloane whispers.
“It’s not beyond superglue.” He snickers.
“Are you two talking about me?” They both jump. She’s always so stealthily quiet until she’s right behind you. The two turn around towards her voice, only to find that she’s no longer there. “You just missed your mom, Sloane.” Sloane spins around and smiles. Sofia is sitting at her table as if she’s been there the whole time. A thick milky fog swirls within her crystal as if she brought to life with her presence.
Sloane rarely sees Sofia in the same outfit twice, so it always takes a moment to take all of her in. Today Sofia is dressed in a flowing purple dress so unique she must have sewn it herself. Dragon head buttons fasten down the bodice, and organza billows to the ground from her sleeves at the elbow. She could waltz right into a Renaissance fair. The gold bangles on her wrists and hoops in her ears sparkle with what little light infiltrates the store. Sofia’s Cleopatra eye makeup and purple lipstick are dark, making her teeth gleam like a beacon in the dimness, especially when she smiles. Framing her face are a few blonde curls that escaped the red scarf enveloping her head. Sofia’s always been beautiful, and the contrasting dingy shop just enhances her; she’s stunning.
“Want to come try the ballet dumplings with us?” Sloane asks.
Sofia beams. “Sounds fun.” There are fine lines by the edges of her eyes Sloane hasn’t noticed before. Sofia’s only three years older than her and shouldn’t have any wrinkles yet. Sloane wonders if her work takes a toll, constantly dealing with grieving family members desperate to connect with their loved ones.
Sofia realizes Sloane is studying her and backs away, her eyes fading as she rebuilds lowered walls. This is typical. Her personality is a mix of two contrary characters, a playful young girl and a mysterious old soul. She’ll switch from one to the other in a moment, depending on what thought enters her head.
Her eyes flick to Adrian and so fast that Sloane barely sees it, snatches his hand and twists it palm up. She begins to decipher every wrinkle and edge in his palm, all the while mumbling under her breath. Sloane stifles a laugh as Adrian glares at her over the top of Sofia’s head. He doesn’t believe in anything that Sofia has built her life around, a proud skeptic, through and through. No ghosts, no spirits, nothing otherworldly speaking from the other side, because that doesn’t exist either. He doesn’t trust in anything that a lab can’t measure, a trait Sloane thinks may have rubbed off from Ches.
As steadfast as Adrian is in his nonbelief, he knows that it’s all a part of the package deal that is the Sofia, and he’s grown used to her over the years. He may think that she needs a prescription cocktail and some therapy, but he was the first one to grab a brush when some nasty teens spray-painted “witch” on the front of her store. The vandalism didn’t really bother Sofia since she’s so used to the hate. But Adrian insisted on cleaning it off and then gave her his old bat in case the kids ever came around again. Truthfully, donating his bat was no great sacrifice. It was obsolete in his house; just a reminder of a time when his father Michael still hoped that one of his sons would be inclined to sports. He was ultimately disappointed.
Sofia and Adrian have spent enough time together to be friends, surely, but Adrian doesn’t understand Sofia like Sloane does. Most people think Sofia’s crazy or a very successful scam artist, but Sloane knows better. After enough time with Sofia, anyone could tell she is genuinely different, not the fraudulent circus gypsy she resembles.
Sloane’s uncle Nolan adopted Sofia when she was a few months old. They’re a perfect pair; he can braid her curly hair back just the way she likes, and she always knows how to make him laugh after an exhausting day. Her adoption didn’t thrill the extended family, especially because it was international. But they didn’t officially reject her until an incident when she was a girl. Sloane doesn’t know much about it, but it was enough to make Nolan pack up and move to the islands. Sloane’s mother told her it changed Sofia from an outspoken, friendly girl to a serious introvert with dark humor. But Sofia’s been like that since Sloane was born; she’s only known her that way.
Anytime Nolan was off flying, Sofia would stay with Sloane and her mom so often that Sofia had her own bedroom. Sloane’s mom offered to move Sofia’s bed into Sloane’s room, thinking that they would want to be together, but Sofia declined. Sloane had been so excited about the prospect of having a sleepover every night. She couldn’t understand why Sofia wasn’t interested. Her mom told her not to feel bad about it, that Sofia just wanted her own space, but she couldn’t help being a little heartbroken.
As close as they are now, Sloane knows that there is still this part of her cousin that she may never understand. It’s bottled up and kept away from her, but she wishes it wasn’t. It’s like trying to hug someone with a small, jagged stone in between, and it hurts if you press too tightly. So, Sloane has learned not to push too much. She’s realized that the best way to understand Sofia is to stop trying to.
Adrian clears his throat, eyes wide, obviously asking for some overdue help with Sofia, who is still engrossed in his palm. Sloane puts her hand on Sofia’s shoulder. She stops mumbling and whips her head around. Sloane jumps back—Sofia’s eyes are black. No pupil, iris, or whites, but as black as perpetual tunnels. She blinks,
and her eyes are hazel again. It must have been a trick of the light; the shadows seem to dance in here. Sofia looks dazed. A wave of paleness floods her face, a look like horror.
Sofia slowly looks at Adrian, just realizing she’s still clutching his hand. She drops his arm, much to his relief. “You should go,” she mutters, barely moving her lips.
“What? Why?” Sofia’s never acted like this before, never kicked them out.
She has an entire cupboard designated for her respectable stash of junk food. When the three of them usually hang out, they tell funny stories, play board games, and squeeze onto Sofia’s small couch to watch old movies. Sofia even got them fake IDs just so she has people to go to clubs with when she’s bored and has a higher-than-usual tolerance for ordinary people. Sofia is the designated drinker, Sloane the designated driver, and Adrian the designated creep blocker. Sloane has no frame of reference for Sofia’s current behavior.
“I said go. Now. Adrian, take her home immediately.” Adrian doesn’t need to be told twice to leave any place of superstitious weirdness, especially after this performance. He makes extra-large strides for the door, but Sloane stays planted where she is, perplexed. She’s never seen Sofia shaken; fear doesn’t even seem within her realm of capability. Then her mother’s words from all those years ago play through her head again: Sofia just needs more space. The not knowing, the confusion, it’s just a part of loving her.
Sloane reluctantly follows Adrian. Sofia grabs her arm. “Go straight home, do you understand?” The urgent look on her face disturbs Sloane, but she tries not to let it show, softening her frown for a weak smile.
“Sure, Sofia. You get some sleep, alright? Call me if you need anything.” Sloane pulls Sofia’s tense body towards her and squeezes, practically feeling the sharp rock between them dig into her chest.
From outside, Sloane watches Sofia melt into a chair, recessed into deep thought. The crystal on Sofia’s reading table has turned dark. A trick of the light... she’s sure.
In nineteen years, she has never witnessed Sofia behave as she just did. Sloane wonders if it was really the best idea to leave her alone. As Adrian turns the corner towards her house, Sloane tries to forget about it. “Let’s go to the park,” she suggests. “It’s technically on the way to my house.”
“I don’t know.” Adrian looks around nervously as if Sofia is lurking around a corner, ready to jump out and curse him for disobeying her. “Let’s just watch something at your house. The new Star Trek just came out on-demand,” he offers hopefully.
Sloane grins. He’s feeling the same unease she is, but she knows how to sway him. “Well, if you’re too paranoid about Sofia’s mystical wrath, I can go to the park on my own.” Sloane smiles at him sweetly.
Adrian rolls his eyes. “Now that was just a sad little manipulation attempt. I know you too well for that to work on me. You’re basically transparent, I see all, know all!” He huffs and stalks towards the park.
“I can be unpredictable and shrouded in mystery anytime I want.” Sloane laughs and follows him.
“You’re as see-through as glass, or water, or air,” Adrian yells over his shoulder.
At the park, Ches has recruited a small band of pirate disciples. He sits in the opening of a yellow crawl tunnel with a group of children sitting before him, listening to him preach piracy. Sloane waves at Elena, who’s sitting on a bench, reading a magazine. She smiles back.
When Sloane and Adrian were younger, the playground was made of thick wood beams, steel poles, and rope ladders. Even better, it wasn’t a popular park because it’s bordered on one side by a busy road. But a few years ago, the playground equipment finally failed to meet safety standards and was taken down, only to be replaced by a plastic, primary-colored jungle gym. That vile miscarriage of justice flooded the park with more children. Now it’s everyone’s favorite.
Adrian jumps onto the top of Ches’s crawl tube, the only piece of playground equipment that they use now; it’s a little higher off the ground, the kids can’t get up easily. Sloane hoists herself up beside him, and they listen to Ches discuss the ethics of hanging pirates and debate the decency of humanity. The children just stare at him with Frisbee-wide eyes, fascinated with the big words he uses. However, the twinkle of the ice cream truck is much more compelling than Ches’s philosophical theories and soon sends his weak followers scurrying.
“Ice cream?” Adrian asks, hopping down.
“Always,” Sloane replies.
He walks over to the truck, towering over the kids who jump around him like popcorn, making Sloane chuckle. She decides to join him, but a broomstick appears in front of her face before she can hop down. Sloane grabs the handle as Ches clambers up with some difficulty. She hands him back his “sword,” and he lays it across his legs, folding his hands in his lap
“It’s hard to compete with an ice cream truck.” He sighs. “My young demographic seems more interested in diabetes than philosophy.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone could win that battle.” Sloane ruffles his hair.
He looks up at her with his big brown eyes. “What do you think? Are normal people really morally superior to pirates?”
Sloane shrugs. “People are just people. They do the best they can in their own way.” Ches furrows his brow. “What do your seven years tell you?” she asks.
He looks over at Adrian handing out ice cream, then at his mom, who’s holding a friend’s fussy baby. Finally, he looks back at her. “People are just people,” he agrees.
Sloane looks up at the trees as they sway gently, flashing rays of sun at the grass. A bird resting on a branch takes flight. The bough under it springs up, free from the falcon’s weight. She watches as it shrinks into a tiny dot and disappears into the sky. She inhales the smell of soil and palm leaves and listens to the sound of children laughing and birds conversing. The smooth plastic beneath her fingertips is warm from the sun, or perhaps the gentle static current that coats all playgrounds. Her hair dances on the breeze, sealing in a quick moment of perfection, the grounded feeling of completeness.
The car came out of nowhere.
DUO
Gilman’s feet slide across the gravel as he whips around the corner. His feet pound the ground, his breath is quick and uneven. The screaming rings through the tunnel ahead; it’s low, a male’s throat. The blackness around Gilman doesn’t prevent him from being sure of his way, curving parallel to each turn, swerving to avoid each rough stone outcrop. He grazes his fingers against the path wall just because he trusts his footing less with the white rush of nerves coursing through him.
“Boy!” Burke bellows. Gilman pushes faster. He’s learned that he can run faster if he pretends Burke is behind, chasing him rather than standing ahead. As the screaming reaches its full height, Gilman makes the last twist into a small pocket of rock. Light from the wall torch shocks his eyes, despite the numberless times his eyes have been forced to adjust.
“Here, sir!” Gilman calls blindly. Burke emerges from the barred cell door, hauling a limp man over his shoulder. The man’s screams have quieted to a groan. His ear is missing; only a fleshy knob remains. Essentia gushes out of a deep tear in his neck, making an awful wet choking sound.
Burke claps him on the ear with his free hand, snapping his head to the side. “You deaf, boy?” he barks, his sour breath hitting Gilman like another slap. “Your legs broke? What took you so damned long?” His face appears in Gilman’s hazy view. A red scar trails deep across Burke’s face, a blow having torn out his left eye long ago. The one remaining has a yellow tint. His short-cropped gray hair is peppered with black, carpeted all the way across his wide jaw. His teeth are crooked in his sneer.
“Sorry, sir.” Gilman drops his eyes.
“I’ll show you sorry if you don’t get in there and clean up this mess.” Burke spits. “Another Educator will be sent down soon. Maybe this time, they’ll get a smarter one. This dumb bastard got too close.” Burke drags the man away, leaving a trail of essenti
a behind them.
Gilman only looks at Burke fully from a safe distance when he appears bearably small. Up close, he towers over Gilman, with broad shoulders and limbs that are thicker than Gilman’s chest.
Gilman retrieves his bucket of water and brush, brown with muck, from a small alcove in the stone. Burke returns without the man. “Is there to be food today, sir?” Gilman asks.
“After what he just did to my man?” Burke rasps with laughter. “Yeah, you dolt, maybe we’ll feed him you.” He shoves Gilman through the cell doorway and slams the door, enveloping him in darkness again. Gilman walks along the short corridor, the filthy water sloshing in his bucket. His feet transition from the give of dirt to the firmness of stone.
“That you, boy?” A voice echoes from the room ahead raised with excitement.
“Yes, m’lord,” Gilman responds, entering the small cavern. The walls are lined with torches, the room is more brightly lit by design, every horror within is meant to be seen clearly.
Black shackles string Esht up by his wrists and secure his legs apart. The chains make it easier for Gilman to look directly at him, even though it’s only an illusion of safety. Esht’s muscles are thick and toned, inexplicable on the body of a man who’s been immobile for years. But even all his strength isn’t enough to break his restraints.
Sometimes he’s strung up like this, sometimes strapped to the table, depending on what an Educator wants. A thick puddle of essentia rests under him, fed by a steady dribble trailing from his chin. The black track of it runs down his bare chest like the path of a river. A lone pair of rusted pliers sit in the middle of the puddle, dropped by the last Educator as his neck became a chew toy.
“This one was a violator,” Esht says. “None are very innovative anymore, but it is always fun when they are foolish enough to venture too close to the wrong end.” He flashes his teeth, slick with essentia, unmistakable pieces of flesh caught between his teeth.
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