Sloane’s head is airy with relief that someone has more information. But she keeps her gaze composed. “What did he say about them?”
“Very little,” Somboon warns her. “Any notions I have are pure speculation.”
“I’m listening.” Sloane takes a sip of his tea in good faith. It’s warm and pleasantly tangy.
“The High Arc can conduct other souls to Earth because they’re stronger at influencing energy.” Somboon crosses his legs beneath him. “And if they truly have power in both worlds, they could potentially manipulate matter on Earth or alter elements of The Midst—”
“Or move objects back and forth.” Sloane shrugs, swirling her tea.
Somboon’s cup pauses just before reaching his lips. He lowers his hand. “Curious, is it not, that The Midst would bestow such gifts on a soul with malicious intent?” The extreme youth of his face allows him to hide his emotions more easily than one with an older face. Maybe it’s the lack of lines. In older people, every muscle movement is magnified by the wrinkles; it makes emotions easily readable.
“Did Ilir say when the last High Arc was here?” Sloane asks, trying to gloss over his pointed comment.
Somboon takes a second to think back, adding up the years. “Before I learned of Erim’s friend, I thought the last one left us many centuries ago. There is only ever one at a time. We know so little because they are few and far between.” He rubs his cheek. “But I have sent word to Ilir with the hope that he has more knowledge to share.”
“He won’t even come out of Obscuri to help with what’s happened?” Sloane looks down at the tea specks in the bottom of her cup. “Even Sisiro came to my inauguration, and he’s the one in charge of the disordered souls. Why isn’t Ilir here?” Sloane realizes that her voice is louder than it should be. Even Preeda looks up with shock. Somboon watches Sloane levelly, waiting for her to finish. She sighs. “I’m sorry, Somboon. I know he was your mentor.”
“Anger makes our mouths work faster than our minds.” He nods with a faint smile. “Ilir has been in The Midst for millennia, Sloane. It is impossible to exist that long without seeing things that leave scars. Ilir is strong, but time like that takes a toll all the same.”
“You’re our leader in all the ways that matter, anyway,” Sloane says.
“I do not have seniority.” Somboon waves her praise away. “I have been in The Midst for only five hundred and seventy-eight years.”
“Only five hundred and seventy-eight years!” Sloane laughs at his modesty. She can’t even comprehend that many lifetimes. “Who were you before that?”
Somboon rocks back a little, like the thought of all those years weighs on his shoulders. “Just a simple novice.”
“It’s hard to imagine you being a novice at anything.” Sloane shakes her head.
He chuckles. “I was the youngest of twins. My sister Kwanji and I were born in a small valley in the country now known as Thailand. Our village sat at the base of a mountain that held a beautiful temple. Our father died before we were born, leaving our mother destitute. She could barely feed one of us, never both, so a decision had to be made. There was only one place that would take in unwanted girls; a place that used them badly. Instead of condemning my sister to that life, my mother left me with the monks to become a novice. I grew up studying in the temple, occasionally seeing my family during visits to the village.”
Sloane wonders if the market depicted on the hanging scroll was similar to the one in his village. “When I was ten, there was a great sickness.” Somboon continues. “Our temple opened its doors to the ailing, and my sister was among them. I cared for her as best I could until I, too, fell ill. I died first, and she followed two days later.”
The harsh end hits Sloane fast, unexpectedly. She had almost forgotten where the story had to end. The tea is cold now. Sloane is too distracted by the tragedy to notice that there’s no pain in Somboon’s gaze, no sorrow in his posture. He reaches forward and pats her hand. “Do not waste your energy lamenting the life of an old man, Sloane.” That makes her smile a little. Somboon meets her eyes intentionally. “We both know that your power could be focused on much more important things.”
VIGINTI TRES
When Rhuso said to expect him in the morning, he meant to expect him at a time that reasonable people still consider night. He presents himself at Sloane’s door before the sun has even risen, wearing his signature long-sleeved shirt and unimpressed expression. She had futilely hoped that he might forget or that he wasn’t serious, but a nagging logic reminds her she needs training.
Sloane retrieves Erim from his room, much to Rhuso’s chagrin. He takes them out to the secluded island and orders Erim to sit and watch. Hubble sits off to the side, and Rhuso’s falcon perches high in the trees above her.
Sloane and Rhuso face each other. “Hit me,” he orders with a hint of curiosity. He doesn’t have to ask Sloane twice. She walks straight up to him and throws her balled fist towards his face. He catches Sloane’s hand in the air and twists her arm away from him. He thrusts the heel of his hand into her shoulder, toppling her to the ground. “That was pitiful.” He sighs.
They remain in training the whole day, during which Sloane speculates Rhuso has developed an allergy to all words except “no” and “again.” “No” is his favorite. Sloane doesn’t hit with the right part of her fist, her stance is weak, she buckles her elbow, or doesn’t position her shoulders correctly. He corrects her improper movements roughly, with frustrated grunts.
Sometimes when he says “no,” Erim has to point out what she’s doing wrong as Rhuso is so frustrated he refuses to speak at all. When Sloane’s anger builds up enough to make her hold everything perfectly and deliver a satisfactory punch, she is rewarded with an “again.” And then something in her stance moves, and it’s back to “no, no, no.” Rhuso’s use of the word “again” increases incrementally throughout the day, but not much. By the time the sky turns dark, Sloane’s arms and legs are shaking from exhaustion, and her knuckles are bruised from the very few punches that actually hit their mark on Rhuso’s body.
The next morning, when they meet again, Sloane plants her feet, squares her shoulders, and slams her fist into Rhuso’s trunk. He deflects it to his side, but his frown lessens slightly.
“Again.”
Over the following days, training occupies all of Sloane’s time. Rhuso graciously expands his vocabulary to include the word “here” to indicate the body’s weak spots and where Sloane needs to improve. Dmitri joins the group a couple days in as Erim’s partner, so he can practice while monitoring Rhuso. Dmitri and Erim are pretty evenly matched, though their fighting styles are very different. Erim fights too clean, which is unrealistic for a real fight. Dmitri’s fighting style is more rugged and sloppy. He was taught war combat, so there’s no such thing as an underhanded move, just survival. Dmitri teaches Erim how to use his whole body, and Erim shows him how precision can speed movements. As Sloane’s chest wound heals, but Esht’s blade leaves a permanent mark on her chest. It’s a it leaves behind a dark spot, like a grey scar. From Esht’s blade Esht’s blade leaves Sloane’s chest wound for Esht’s
For Sloane, each day is a new skill; how to deliver different kicks, block, and get an opponent to the ground. Only after these have earned an “again” does Rhuso demonstrate combinations. Charlotte always comes to join Dmitri, Sloane, and Erim for lunch breaks. Rhuso sits alone, but he doesn’t eat, just waits until the rest of them are finished so they can begin again.
Sloane’s wound from Esht’s presentation heals, but his blade leaves behind a black spot, like a scar. She eases into her Arc duties; she’s asked to perform a couple of communications and does a few more evictions. In the late evenings after training, she visits her living people. Sloane visits Ches some mornings. There isn’t much of a morning flurry because school hasn’t started up again, so Sloane just sits with Ches while he eats his Lucky Charms. After that, he’ll usually move on to some recreational reading. Sloane
will follow along in the story as best she can, but Crime and Punishment and Moby Dick are above her reading level. As school gets closer, Sloane notices Elena trying to sell Michael on the idea of homeschooling Ches. Michael is finally beginning to cave, but Sloane knows Ches would hate it. He likes an audience to shine for, and his mom is not as appealing as a classroom full of less intelligent children. Adrian is usually still sleeping when Sloane has to leave for training, so she returns in the evenings to see him.
Other times, Sloane visits her family. Her mom and uncle have grown quite familiar with her communicating through Sofia. When her mom returns to teaching and Nolan begins flying again, Sloane is happy that they’re starting to move forward. But a sick anticipation hangs heavily over her, increasing with every day as a month crawls by. The agony of not knowing what Esht will do next is unshakable. He has been unnervingly silent, and they still have no more information than they did the day he attacked. Sloane smuggles a little chisel and hammer to The Midst from her pottery corner, and for each soul that she evicts, she puts a tick on the wall next to her bed. She hopes that by the time Esht strikes, the ticks on her wall will outnumber the souls he dissipates.
One morning, when Michael has already left for work, Ches and Sloane are on the couch, beginning The Lord of the Flies—like that book never scarred any children. Elena is at the sink washing dishes when a light knock sounds at the door. When his mother doesn’t hear it, Ches puts the book down—how, Sloane doesn’t know, because the story is so engrossing—and goes to answer the door.
On the other side stands a charming little girl in a red dress. She seems a little younger than Ches. She has dazzling blue eyes, and her hair is parted perfectly down the middle, pulled into two silky golden ponytails. By the time Elena notices, the girl has already made her way into the living room. Elena drops what she’s doing and rushes to Ches, scolding him for opening the door without her.
“Hello,” the girl says. Her voice is like the twinkle of bells. “I’m Mary Rebekah. My family and I just moved in downstairs. I heard there was a little boy who lived up here, and I came to see if he wanted to be my friend.” Her smile shows a row of perfectly straight white teeth.
“Mary Rebekah,” Elena exclaims with forced interest, “that’s an obnoxiously Biblical name.” Her derision takes Sloane aback. It’s not like Elena to be rude.
Mary Rebekah doesn’t seem to notice, just beaming in return. “Do you have any toys?” she asks Ches. His eyes bug out of his head that she’s talking to him. He loses the power of speech until he remembers the closest thing he has to toys.
“I—I uh, have some anatomically correct dinosaur models?” he says, like he’s asking if those would be sufficient toys. Sloane can’t help but grin. When Mary Rebekah nods cheerfully, he goes over to the shelf where he keeps the little figurines. He collects them in his arms and dumps them all in front of her. The two of them plop down, and Sloane is struck by the ease and simplicity of childhood friendships. Elena still looks skeptical, staring at Mary Rebekah like a hawk watching a mouse. Sloane cannot figure out why she is acting so strange.
“You can be the Velociraptor or the Stegosaurus,” Ches tells Mary Rebekah. “The Tyrannosaurus Rex is my favorite, and I prefer the Apatosaurus over the Brontosaurus, but I also have a Triceratops and a Spinosaurus—that one’s my brother’s favorite.”
Suddenly Elena seats herself in between them. Ches’s smile becomes painful; her irregular behavior is making him nervous. Elena pacifies him by handing out a grape Jolly Rancher, his favorite. “Would you like a candy, Mary Rebekah?” She offers the girl one.
Mary Rebekah looks up blankly. “No, thank you, ma’am.” She looks back down at the pile of dinosaurs. “Ches, which one has the most teeth?” She picks up the Spinosaurus, but Elena swings down rapidly, smacking it out of her hand. Ches and Sloane gasp together. His mouth hangs open in shock, and his eyes bulge out of his head.
Mary Rebekah simply lifts her eyes from her empty hand, staring at Elena.
“Ches, go to your room to get some more toys, okay?” Elena says. Seeing his mother’s anxiety, Ches rises and obeys. He walks to his door, looking back uncertainly.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Elena leaps to her feet and claws towards Mary Rebekah’s head. She clutches both blonde ponytails in her palm and drags the child towards the door.
“Elena, stop!” Sloane cries in horror. Her protestations do not stop Elena, the woman who started the multicultural club at Ches’s school to encourage inclusion. The woman who volunteers at the nursing home on the weekends and has the best cupcakes at every bake sale. The woman who takes in stray cats to find them homes and never says a bad thing about anyone. The woman who is now hauling a small child out of the apartment by her hair.
Somehow, Mary Rebekah doesn’t squirm or cry out. Elena slams the door when they’re in the hallway and throws the little girl to the ground. In less than a second, Elena’s on top of her, pressing an alarmingly large knife to her throat. “Elena!” Sloane screams. The lights flicker. Sloane has no idea where the knife came from; did Elena pull it from an ankle sheath? What is going on?
“You must have a death wish.” Elena seethes. “Coming into my house, speaking to my child.” Elena’s short hair covers her face, so Sloane can’t see her expression, but judging by her voice, she’s in vicious combat mode.
Mary Rebekah watches her, completely expressionless. “I’m not here for your son,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Bullshit!” Elena snarls. She puts pressure on the knife, and a thin trail of blood splits across Mary Rebekah’s porcelain skin.
The girl doesn’t even seem to notice. “We got the assignment from the Higher-Ups, and I decided to take care of this one, personally.”
“No one is touching my son!” Elena hisses, pushing the knife deeper.
“‘Take care of’ was a poor choice of words.” Mary Rebekah admits, suddenly wary of the blade. “I’m here to negotiate with you.” Elena pauses, lightning her grip on the knife for a moment.
Mary Rebekah takes advantage of it and kicks Elena right between the legs. Elena flinches, gasping, and the knife clangs to the floor, exactly where Mary Rebekah’s head was. The girl rolls out from under Elena and picks herself up off the floor. As quickly as Elena snaps back, Mary Rebekah has already bounded a safe distance away. Elena crouches, ready to pounce on her like an animal. How she does all of this in skinny jeans is beyond Sloane’s comprehension.
Mary Rebekah feels the cut on her neck and pulls back her hand, rolling her eyes at the sight of blood. “I’ll be back in two days, so we can have a civil conversation.”
“What?” Elena pants.
Mary Rebekah begins to walk away but then turns back. “You have a ghost, by the way.” She throws an accusatory finger at Sloane before vanishing down the stairs.
Elena looks in Sloane’s direction, seeing nothing. She huffs, snatches up her knife, and goes back into the apartment, closing the door.
“No, that’s fine. I love not knowing what the hell’s going on,” Sloane mutters. “That’s just perfect.”
Sloane follows Elena inside, where she dials a number and cradles her phone on her shoulder. She wipes her knife off with a flower napkin and sheathes it down next to her ankle. “Sofia,” Elena says, “there’s been an interesting development.”
Oh, Sloane can’t wait to hear the explanation for this.
VIGINTI QUATTUOR
“Dad, the fish is burning!” Sofia swipes up a tea towel and drags the pan off the heat, snapping the burner off.
Her dad slides into the kitchen. “Ah, sorry, hon.” He groans. “I was babysitting it until I got distracted babysitting Lyn.”
“What’s she into now?” Sofia asks.
“Countertops.” He scrapes the blackened salmon into the trash.
“Cement is for peasants, and granite is overrated.” Sofia opens the kitchen window to let the smoke out. “It’s all about quartz these days.”
“
Apparently, laminate is making a comeback.”
Sofia stops to eyeball her father. “So are mullets. That doesn’t make it right.”
“You really are my child.” He grins.
There’s a knock at the door, and Sofia goes to answer it. There are two men on the porch. One has blue eyes dimmed with age and a whiskery gray mustache. The other is much younger, a cute brunette.
“I’m detective Timmons.” The older man smiles curtly. “This is detective Breyer.” The young man nods. “Is Ms. Fallyn Rory here?”
Sofia’s dad steps up behind her. “I’m her brother.”
“We’re here to update her on the case,” Timmons says.
Sofia’s dad disappears into the living room, exchanging a few mumbled words with Lyn. “Come in,” he says as he returns. Sofia stands aside. “Can we get you guys anything?”
“We’re okay, thank you,” Breyer says, glancing at Sofia. She’s used to making people nervous. Sometimes it’s because of the supernatural stuff; people’s inherent fear of what they don’t understand. But as Sofia grew up, she realized that she makes people—men specifically—nervous just picking out grapefruits at the store. The look in people’s eyes is always the same, curiosity and a hint of fear. But there’s another element in men, a hunger to possess her, some subtle, others ravenous. She doesn’t enjoy inducing one kind of fascination more than the other; they’re both deliciously intoxicating. She can see the effects on detective Breyer before he even steps over the threshold.
Her dad shows them into the living room. “We appreciate you seeing us, Ms. Rory. We’re very sorry for your loss,” Timmons says, sitting in the armchair across from the couch.
“Thank you.” Lyn watches them stoically. Sofia and her dad sit on either side of her.
“Last few weeks, we’ve interviewed the Joiner boys and other witnesses at the park,” Breyer says. An involuntary flash of Adrian flickers in Sofia’s mind as she replays the undeserved rancor she showed last time she saw him. “We have some vague descriptions of the driver, but no one seemed to get a good look at him.” Breyer fumbles around in his briefcase. “We had a couple people work with a sketch artist.” He leans forward, holding out a paper.
Interitum Page 22