Sloane finds Adrian in his room. Everything looks the way it did the morning before the accident, except him. He sits slumped at his desk, hovered over a small pad of sticky notes. His pencil twitches back and forth, defining one of Sloane’s eyes. Her miniature likeness smiles out at him from the little yellow square. Tiny details like freckles are placed exactly right, even though he’s drawing from memory. It’s a talent he always tried to keep hidden, even from Sloane.
The first time she caught him, they were in elementary school, and he was in the field past the schoolyard drawing a lone tree that had been struck by lightning. He hid it from Sloane as she approached, so she pretended she didn’t see. Throughout the years, the same thing would happen, at the beach or in Ches’s nursery. Sloane brought it up to him once, encouraging him to show her, but he kept insisting he had no idea what she was talking about. She’s known about the sketchpad he keeps hidden under his mattress for years. The compulsion to scribble must have overtaken him before he could reach it this time, so he grabbed for the closest paper.
It’s the first time Sloane’s really seen his work, and he’s better than she ever imagined. She doesn’t like pictures of herself, but this is different. Her face emerging from the lines is inquisitive and happy, each stroke made with tender intention. Adrian uses the edge of his pinky to smudge the shading around Sloane’s jaw and defines the thin scar just above her right eyebrow. He knows that mark well, from the time he tried to teach Sloane how to skateboard, and it ended with three stitches in the Emergency Room.
She rests a hand on his shoulder. Adrian puts down his pencil and sits back, rubbing his forehead, scrunching up his hairline. He massages the bridge of his nose and suddenly looks strikingly like his father. His skin around his eyes looks worn thin, being dragged down by the bags. In front of him on the desk sits a plain bobby pin, a twelfth birthday card Sloane made him, and a silver key chain in the shape of a violin with a treble clef twisting through it. Sloane recognizes it as hers, but she hasn’t seen it in years; she thought it was lost forever. He must have scoured his room for any scrap of her. The desk lamp shines a bleak yellow spotlight on the pitiful yield of that venture, aligned in a row on the table. He peels the sketch off the other sticky notes and slaps it in line with the other mementos. Adrian studies the four objects intensely, arms crossed over his chest. He looks as if he’s waiting for them to spring to life and tell him some secret to heal the hole in his heart. She wants to tell him she’s sorry. Sorry that she left him, sorry that she couldn’t say goodbye.
He takes a deep breath and then, with one last look at the items, turns off the lamp. As he stands, Sloane realizes that she’s never seen him go this long without a smile. She worries that the distraught frown possessing his face will remain permanent. He collapses onto his bed, and Sloane stays as he falls asleep. His breathing deepens and slows, and his expression relaxes into the neutrality of sleep, becoming a little more familiar.
Just as Sloane’s about to leave, there’s a tapping at the door. Elena brings in Adrian’s dinner plate that he didn’t eat. She sighs at the sight of him curled on his bed. Sloane assumes it’s not the first meal he’s missed. Elena sits next to Adrian and runs her fingers through his hair, watching him sadly. She throws the covers over him, noticing the little row of articles he has assembled on her way to the door. She clicks her tongue and gives a tired sigh. Taking one last glance at her son, Elena flicks off the light and shuts the door, leaving Sloane and Adrian in the dark.
The little neon square illuminates from the streetlight. Sloane walks over and plucks it off the table. It feels velvety through the veil. She wants to believe that Adrian just needs time, that he’s not permanently broken, but she isn’t convincing herself. Adrian flips in his bed, pulling Sloane out of her thoughts. She sits with him a bit longer until the darkness feels too stifling.
Sloane returns to her house, her old room. Someone closed the window; Sloane always slept with it open. Her violin sits cold on its stand. Seeing it like that always makes Sloane itch to have it in her hands. The thought of it remaining quiet and untouched forever is tragic.
The click of Spitzer’s claws on the hardwood makes Sloane turn. He’s standing in the doorway, staring out the window behind her; he doesn’t even notice her. A low growl sounds in his throat, and he races up to the window, jumping and barking at the darkness. Sloane can’t see anything. The tree next to the house blocks the streetlight. She calls him and snaps him out of it, leading him downstairs.
Sofia is relaxed in the armchair, Nolan is flipping through channels on the TV, and Sloane can hear her mom rummaging around in the kitchen. A glare from Sloane’s pottery corner catches her eye. The dish she made the day before the accident sits on the shelf, finished and final. The narrow table between there and the kitchen displays pictures of Sloane from infancy through graduation. A newly framed photo catches Sloane’s attention. She walks over to inspect it.
The picture fits into her memory like an old puzzle piece that hasn’t been used in years. Recognition of its shapes and colors is distant at first, but details begin to trickle back. Her mom showed her the picture all the time when she was little. But as Sloane grew old enough to despise it, her mom kept it hidden away. It’s the only other piece of proof, besides Sloane, that her father ever existed at all.
The Polaroid is shot from the back of her mom’s head, like she was trying to keep the camera out of his reach, snapping randomly. His face is blocked out by her hair and the flare of the sun. They’re somewhere bright. Her cheeks are lifted; she’s smiling. His hand clasps her head just below her ear, holding her in a kiss. Even with the saturated light, Sloane can make out a jagged Y-shaped scar tracing up his arm from his wrist.
Sloane’s cheeks burn with agitation at the sight of his picture beside hers. She hates it for a reason. Her mom must’ve resurrected his image in her grief, memorializing the entire family she’s lost. As if putting them together like this would help them find each other in the afterlife to forge the bond they never could.
Sofia glances up and notices Sloane. “Hey Lyn!” she calls into the kitchen. “Sloane’s stopped by.”
All Sloane’s molten anger freezes. Her father drops completely from her mind. “You told her?” Sloane breathes. Sofia grins at her mischievously, without putting down her book, which looks hundreds of years old and full of spells.
“You’re just in time for the movie, Slobo,” Nolan says to open air.
Her mom pokes her head around the archway, and Sloane can see the disappointment on her face when she is nowhere to be seen. “Hi, tadpole.” She tries to smile.
“Hey, mom,” Sloane says. Sofia interprets this back to her. The next moment is silent. No one’s sure what to do.
“How long does it take to make some popcorn?” Nolan asks, trying to lighten the air.
“You’re welcome to come and try to find the air popper yourself.” Sloane’s mom snaps, throwing a tea towel at him. “While I’m looking, Sloane can decide what color we’re doing the cabinets.”
Sofia motions to a couple of paint chips on the coffee table. Sloane kneels in front of them, trying to ease into normalcy. “Uh, Prussian Mist looks nice.”
Sofia makes a sound of disgust. “She wants the blue.”
“Told you,” Nolan says with a grin.
Sofia shakes her head. “Weak.”
“Found it!” Her mom makes a triumphant sound in the kitchen.
When they settle down for the movie, it is agreed that Sloane will stay in the armchair, so no one sits on her; new logistics to get used to. The night is an ode to nostalgia, as the four of them spend the evening like they used to. They talk to the screen, recite favorite lines, and Sloane’s mom throws a coaster at her brother when they get into a debate about the main hunk’s attractiveness. Sofia’s translation for Sloane is so seamless that she feels like an actual participant in the conversation.
Sloane’s mom sneaks nervous glances at her chair all the time, maybe w
ondering if she’s really there. She can’t be as alright as she’s pretending. Sloane wonders how much of her act is to keep the mood light and how much is raw desperation to believe she’s with them. Her mom eases up as they banter like they used to, laughing deeply at things only Sloane would say. After the credits roll, people meander towards beds. Sloane’s mom initially refuses, but Sloane promises to stay with her until she falls asleep.
They curl up on her mom’s bed, sandwiching Spitzer between them. The bed has always seemed so big to Sloane. It was the safest place she knew as a child, a refuge from the dark and any monsters it harbored. “I know I can’t see you, but I trust Sofia,” her mom says, her chin quivering. “Please don’t worry about us too much. We’re going to be okay, my love.”
Sloane realizes that she’s the one her mom is trying to be strong for. She closes her eyes to focus on the sound of her mom’s voice. A white heat trails down Sloane’s cheek as the crickets outside sing to the moon. She whispers, “I love you, too.”
Sloane collapses onto the couch in her dorm, ready to pass out. She feels a little crunch under her. Leaning forward, she frowns as she pulls Adrian’s sticky note out of her back pocket. She must’ve slipped it into her pants without even realizing it. She spreads it out on the coffee table, trying to flatten the crinkles.
“Where did you get that?” comes a voice from the corner.
Sloane springs up, realizing the lights haven’t come on and the door is cracked. “Who’s there?” The lights flicker on, revealing Rhuso leaning in the corner. His falcon is perched on the top bunk. Sloane makes a quick note that she needs a better—no, she needs a lock. His eyes narrow on her, suspicious and gleaming like coal. She backs away into the opposite corner of the room. “What are you doing in here?” she demands, her voice rising threateningly. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“Where did you get that?” he repeats calmly.
When Sloane doesn’t answer, he snaps his fingers, and the bird swoops towards her. She flinches before she realizes that he’s not coming for her. He snatches the drawing in his talons and delivers it to his hominum.
“Hey!” Sloane lunges forward. “You can’t have that!” Her chest heaves with anger.
“Neither can you,” Rhuso says, turning it over in his hand.
“What are you talking about?”
He’s muttering something to himself over and over, but she can’t make it out. With each repetition, he looks more disturbed.
“Hey!” Sloane shouts to get his attention. “What are you talking about?”
He holds the drawing up to her face. “You brought this back?”
She grabs at it, but he yanks it away, infuriating her. “So what if I did?”
“Stupid girl!” He growls, digging his fingers into his head. “This is no ordinary Arc ability. It will damn you!”
Sloane’s heart pounds as fear chills her arms. “What do you mean?”
“Never do this again!” He snarls, stepping forward. “You will be destroyed if anyone discovers!”
“Get out!” Sloane yells. Rhuso grabs her arm, dragging her towards him. His grip is not painful but strong. She claws at his hand, trying to pry his fingers off, but he is clamped firmly around her arm, not budging. She stops struggling, plants her feet, and glowers at him. His gray eyes are stormy and wild.
“Tell no one. Never do it again,” Rhuso thunders. “Say you understand.”
“Let go of me!” Sloane screams, punctuating each word with a threat. “Get out!”
“Hey, asshole!” calls a sassy voice from the doorway. They both turn towards the sound in astonishment, and his grip slackens a little, just enough for Sloane to wrench her arm away.
Ben steps into the light, glaring at Rhuso. Sloane retreats out of his arm’s reach, but Ben marches right up to him and gets in his face, scowling. “The lady said to get out.” He towers over her; his hulking frame is at least three heads taller. She doesn’t even seem to notice. Her conviction is unblinking. “You better mosey on, or I will kick your ass so hard your living relatives will feel it.” She spits with a threatening hiss at his waist level.
Rhuso looks a little dumbfounded. People probably don’t threaten him often, especially not this small a person. Despite her small size, Ben is so ferocious she looks like she could make good on her promise. Rhuso’s eyes flicker back to Sloane, and she sees him decide he will live to fight another day. The falcon ruffles his feathers, clearly distressed. With one last sneer at Ben, Rhuso stomps past her out of the room. His bird does a tight circle around Sloane’s head and soars after him, fanning her with each wing beat.
Sloane exhales shakily and plunks down on the couch. Ben sinks down beside her, untucking a candy cigarette from behind her ear. She pops the end in her mouth.
“Those’ll kill you, you know,” Sloane says.
Ben snorts. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
They stare at each other. Ben’s expression cracks, and she snickers. Sloane’s shaky breath comes out as an unexpected chuckle.
Sloane doesn’t even realize that her smile’s dissolved until she hears it in the tone of her next words. “Thanks for the assist.” She stares at her hands.
Ben shrugs it off. “Well, what kind of eye candy would you be if some psycho maimed you all up?” A grin stretches across her face. “I will accept my payment in the form of a kiss.”
“Heroes don’t ask for payment,” Sloane informs her flatly.
“Right, that must be how they all have mansions and girlfriends.” Ben rolls her eyes. She stands and walks to the door.
“Hey, can you not tell anyone about this?” Sloane asks.
Ben seems reluctant for a moment but then loses interest. “Whatever,” she says, closing the door behind her.
Sloane finds the sticky note in a crumpled ball on the ground. She lies in her bunk, pressing it between a flat palm and her chest. The adrenaline fades, but the terror doesn’t. Fear doesn’t look right on someone as intimidating as Rhuso, someone you hope is the scariest thing out there. She doesn’t even want to wonder why he was in her room in the first place. She settles down for a sleepless night, lying in the unsafe dark, clutching Adrian’s paper close.
SEDECIM
Gilman hasn’t slept properly since The Ascendant’s last visit. The thought of Esht trapped half in the ground haunts his mind too much for sleep. The first couple of days, the caves echoed with Esht’s howling, like a hopeless animal caught in a trap. Gilman wondered where he found the breath to go on for so long. It wasn’t a sound of physical pain; it was mental agony, which was worse, Gilman decided pretty quickly.
The sudden silence on the third day was so jarring that Burke ran into the cell to make sure Esht hadn’t found a way to end his suffering permanently. That’s not allowed.
Nothing was amiss; Esht had simply given up. A new Educator was summoned later that day, proof that everything was returning to normal. When Gilman was sent in to clean up after, as he always does, Esht was a sight. His body was the typical color after a session. The white, bruised flesh was so meshed with the color of normal skin they were indistinguishable. Fresh cuts were carved into his skin everywhere, made by various sharp and crooked devices. His free arm that once supported him off the floor was broken in three places—completely useless. The other arm was still sunken firmly in the stone, at an odd angle with the rest of his body.
It wasn’t the sight of Esht that made Gilman’s throat swell. He’d seen him in worse physical shape many times after a session. It was his silence that was harrowing. He uttered no derogatory comments, didn’t call Gilman “boy,” or want to play their regular game of choosing violent ends. He just lay on the floor soundlessly, essentia draining out of his body slowly. His eyes were glazed over, unfocused on the cell surrounding him. Gilman hoped his mind was somewhere nicer, maybe somewhere above ground.
Esht remains the same, day after day. A nagging urge to check on him wakes Gilman up without fail every night.
This night begins no different. Gilman rises to the sound of Burke’s rattling snore. He slides off his top bunk, having long abandoned the concern of being quiet. Years have taught him it would take a cataclysmic sound or shift in earth to wake Burke’s sleeping mass. Gilman rinses his face with the small stream of water that cuts through the wall of the cramped room. The foul smell of the water used to bother him, but his nose has been dulled to it, like his eyes to the dark and his ears to the silence.
Gilman takes his usual path out of the small barrack. He can rarely afford to walk at the pace he wants. He’s always running here, dodging there, to clean or duck from Burke’s swing. But during the nights, he can take his leisurely time, savoring a meager taste of freedom.
Everything serine drains away in an instant when Gilman turns the corner to find the door of the cell open. The fear leaps upon him more suddenly than any time in recent memory. This has never happened. He does a quick visual sweep of the room as if Esht might lurk in the shadows. All the grisly ideas Esht posed to Gilman in their games flash across his mind. They could all become a reality. He knows he should run and wake Burke, but he needs to see where Esht is. He steps into the cell’s hallway.
He is much more careful now to be soundless; he doesn’t know this cell like he knows the tunnels outside. Whispers echo as he advances. There are two distinct voices: a low, quiet one and Esht’s sharp pitch. Gilman peeks around the corner to see The Ascendant’s hooded figure crouched next to Esht. Gilman restricts his gaze away; The Ascendant is no less dominating hunched down. An anxious tingle spreads through Gilman at the unusual nature of his visit.
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