“You’re psychotic.” Sloane seethes.
“Yes,” he murmurs wistfully, pondering her diagnosis. There’s a flicker of sadness in there, or maybe disappointment. But it’s gone in a moment, and all that’s left is the lunacy. He straightens, and his expression sours, mouth curling into a sneer. “There could have been a place for you in my world. A very… prominent position.”
“That world’s not coming,” Sloane says.
“Not for you.” Esht shrugs, lifting his weapon. “Maybe the next one will learn faster.”
He lunges towards Sloane, and she loses her footing over the body on the ground. It’s enough to nullify Esht’s calculations, so his sword only slides along her ribs. She gasps as searing agony opens up along her side. Esht coils his arm back for the second, final blow. Her free arm flings out in front of her as if that would stop his strike. Suddenly, Rhuso is above her, catching Esht’s sword with his own just above her head. Sloane uses the extra second and squirms out from under the two.
“Stay out of this, nephew.” Esht grunts. Sloane doesn’t have time to be dumbfounded; the two are already brawling. If there was ever an even match for Esht, it is Rhuso. They are a tangle of swords and fists, yet each move is precisely executed. It’s a deadly dance of savagery. The two hulking forces clash against each other, and Sloane feels the ground quiver every time a blow lands. They move inhumanly fast; it’s difficult to see what is happening.
Sloane slides her arms under the unconscious man’s arms and pulls him away, so he isn’t crushed. The gash in her side splits even further, and the ripping shock burns through her middle. Her eyes are so blurry that she can barely see, but she doesn’t stop until she’s dragged him out of the way. As Sloane watches the two blades collide again, she knows that she needs a weapon of her own.
With a thought, Sloane lands in Sofia’s Shoppe. The sudden silence is jarring, but her urgency is still fresh, adrenaline raging. Sloane clamors around, digging through the shelves. Each breath is agony, and she curses when she can’t find what she needs. A glint catches her eye, and she leaps over to retrieve the two daggers from under a pile of feathers. They’re the best weapons she can locate quickly.
Knives in hand, Sloane reappears in the courtyard, where the scuffle has kicked up the dust. One of her hands is so slippery with plasma, she almost drops a dagger. She locks quickly onto Esht’s distorted shape. He has Rhuso pinned up against the stone wall, his sword under his chin. The blade is cutting into Rhuso’s throat. A white trail winds its way down his neck—his plasma isn’t black but a pearly light shade. His teeth are gritted, and his face is animal. Sloane can see the rampage in his eyes. His breath is heavy, like an angered bull.
Sloane clamps her grip on the daggers, and her feet thrust her forward. Esht is too distracted by Rhuso to see Sloane coming. She is light and quiet on the sand before bounding into the air. She poises her blades correctly and brings them down into Esht’s back with a glorifying crunch. He howls and flings his blade towards her; the edge catches her shoulder. She flies back and cracks into the wall. The impact sends a hollow echo through her body, and everything becomes hazy, melting together.
Through half-lidded eyes, Sloane watches Esht stumble backward. She expects him to go down, but instead, he reaches back, grasps both daggers in one hand, and pulls them from his back. He yowls as they are retracted, hissing at Sloane violently. Behind him, Rhuso rises to his feet, ready for a second onslaught. Just before Esht attacks again, a chorus of footsteps approaches. Unwilling to be outnumbered while injured, Esht spits that he’ll return for Sloane and vanishes.
Then Rhuso is at Sloane’s side. Her eyelids are heavy. “It didn’t kill him.” She wheezes. There’s a warm rush of plasma down the back of her neck.
“Using your powers is foolish.” He shakes his head. “You expose yourself to risk every time.”
“You’re welcome,” Sloane says through her teeth.
People flood into the courtyard. First, the young boy who led Sloane there, followed by Erim, the Arcs, and a couple of Soul Keepers. They’re all pretty fuzzy. Ifede kneels to tend to the young man on the ground. Kostya sits with the little boy, attempting to calm him. Erim rushes over to Sloane with Somboon on his heels. As Erim crouches down next to her, his mop of dark curls provides relief from the painful brightness of the sun. He squints at her; it’s half concern and half admonition for her wandering off alone. He doesn’t ask if she’s okay, which tells her she must look rough. Somboon patches a remedium leaf on the back of her stinging head.
Erim turns to scowl at Rhuso, who is swiping the plasma off his collarbone. “What happened Rhuso?”
“I walked into Esht’s trap.” Sloane winces as her lungs expand. “Rhuso saved me.”
Erim practically ignores her and stands up to face Rhuso directly. “Why is it that every time something bad happens to her, you’re in the middle of it?” Rhuso clamps his jaw shut, folding his hands into fists. He’s still so raw from the fight and looks seconds away from hitting Erim.
“This environment is aggravating her wound,” Somboon interrupts at the perfect time. “She should be taken back to Aquae.”
Rhuso bends to pick Sloane up.
“I’ve got her,” Erim snaps, elbowing between them. Rhuso growls.
Sloane’s had enough of it. “Hey!” she barks. This stuns them both, and they finally look at her. “Neither of you are touching me!” She looks back and forth between them. “I’ll leave on my own two feet because I can. Lots of people don’t have that luxury today.”
Somboon helps her stand slowly and provides support when she stumbles a couple times. They leave the courtyard and wind their way through the dorms until they find the main road. Many people are still being bandaged by volunteers. Sloane notices that there are piles of ash where people used to be when she passed by earlier. She is more than ready to get out of this sandy crypt.
That night, Sloane can’t get comfortable in bed. Her side throbs angrily, and her head is too loud with the screaming and crying of Harenarum’s souls. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Esht standing atop a heap of burning bodies. Each face is twisted in horror and agony, and his insane laugh rings out.
So, at an ungodly hour, Sloane finds herself rising from bed, leaving her room behind, and knocking on the door across from hers.
VIGINTI SEX
A bump in the night. The twinkle of chimes.
Though never having heard that particular sequence of sounds, Sofia’s ears notify her, and she wakes instantly. The first sound alone shouldn’t be too alarming, and the second even less ominous, but paired, they mean bad news. Something living made the sound in the Shoppe, but the chimes are only swayed by the movement of otherworldly energy.
Sofia is alert and on her feet in seconds, wrapping her slim hand around the bat Adrian gave her. She is silent upon her smooth wooden floors, sliding expertly around all the squeaky places. She presses her back against the wall next to the doorway to the shop. The blonde curls hanging in her face sway with every breath. She peeks around the door.
A man sits at her reading table, reclined in one of the small wooden chairs. His white hair glows in the dark. His forehead is long, eyebrows sunken. His eyes are dark, intense. She can’t quite make out the color.
On the table are two daggers, the ancient pair that she bought at auction two years ago. One of his arms is black and sharp and hanging harmlessly at his side. Sofia curses in her head and leans the bat against the wall. There’s no mistaking him; he looks exactly as Sloane described. The bat will offend him at best, irritate him at worst. Sofia prepares herself for an entirely unfamiliar situation before stepping into the room.
The man looks up, his eyes measuring Sofia. “I’m here to inquire about your return policy.” He gestures to the knives on the table.
Sofia lifts her chin. “I appreciate your patronage, but we’re actually closed.”
The man chuckles, a rough edge to his voice. His posture is non-threatening, s
teadying Sofia’s heartbeat as she pushes unease to the edge of her senses. She knows she wouldn’t still be alive if he just wanted her dead. Her confidence in that logic allows her to sit opposite him at the reading table.
“It’s Esht, right?” She’s never encountered a spirit like him. He carries himself not like a docile guest on Earth, but like he owns the store and the ground under their feet. He is something entirely different. Sofia is intrigued. “What kind of name is that?”
“Not one given to me by my mother, but one that was forced upon me.” He points to the daggers on the table. “What is your connection to the fire-haired girl who wielded these weapons?”
Sofia crosses her arms. “If you don’t know that, how did you find me?”
Esht lifts his weaponized arm, and Sofia resists the instinct to step back. With the narrowest edge of his blade, he flips a thin string over one dagger’s handle. Sofia’s Shoppe logo flares out in twirly font on the small tag.
Sofia looks back up at him. “She’s my cousin.”
His brow shifts with intrigue. “You are kin?”
“Yes.”
“But you share no blood.”
“How do you know that?”
“Do you care for her?” he asks, looking down.
“She’s kin. Like you said.”
“Kin means nothing. I asked if you care for her.”
“Yes,” Sofia whispers.
He nods pensively. “She stabbed me in the back.” There’s amusement behind the words like he’s impressed.
Sofia shrugs. “If it makes you feel better, all humans get a good dose of that in high school.”
Silence. He must not have gotten the joke.
Sofia leans forward, inspecting the dirtied daggers. “Sloane did this to you?” If Sofia allowed raw emotions on her face, she would be proudly grinning from ear to ear.
“She hates me.” Esht frowns.
“Can’t imagine why,” Sofia replies. “She likes pretty much everyone.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I do not frighten you.” It’s less of a question, more of an observation.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Sofia says. Esht stares at her quietly for a moment, captivated by the idea. Sofia leans forward. “You could reach across this table and snap my neck with one hand without even getting up from your seat.” She spreads her burgundy nails out on the soft tablecloth. “If you wanted me dead, I would be.”
Tremors resonate through his head. “Would you believe that I’m sorry for what I’ve done?”
“No one wants your apologies,” Sofia retorts. “They just want you to stop.”
His chest rises and falls slowly. “I have tried.” He winces, shaking his head. “I—I can’t stop him.”
“Who?”
“The monster inside me.” His voice catches for a moment. “I did something unforgivable, long ago. I betrayed someone I loved.” His brow caves, ashamed. “I was locked up, punished for what I did. I was beaten, violated, starved, day after day after day for millennia.” His voice trails off, and he looks so distraught he might not continue. His next words are uncharacteristically quiet. “Something else began to fester inside of me. My soul diverged in two.” He straightens in his chair. “I am the one who made that mistake all those years ago. I was the one imprisoned. I have a family. But the beast Esht, he is dark. He is the one who terrorizes people.” His lip tenses with disgust. “He romanticizes pain and wants the world to feel the same suffering we have. He likes to play cruel games, with no care for the souls he wrecks.”
Sofia is uncomfortable feeling conflicted about him. She didn’t know she could feel pity for this creature, but he sits so damaged in front of her. “He is in control now,” Esht whispers. “He has been the demise of so many souls through my body.” Sofia knows what it’s like to have no control, to be flung around by unseen forces failing to grasp anything solid. “I have tiny moments of control sometimes, like now.” Esht looks around at the Shoppe. “But then I sleep for so long, and every time I wake, there’s a little less of me.”
His eyes fall back on Sofia with a new realization. “He came here to kill you tonight.” Sofia’s not surprised. “But he didn’t anticipate me taking control when we arrived. Earth has always had a way of clarifying things for me.” Esht looks out the window at the lightening sky. “The fresh air creates a fog in my mind that obscures him for a moment. But it will not last long. Even now, he is trying to resurface.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Sofia asks.
His gaze falls a little like he hasn’t considered it. His lips part as he thinks. “This will be my last night. I can feel it. His hate, his anger is stronger than me. Next time he takes over, I will be no more. After tonight, it will just be the beast.” His mouth curves into the ghost of a smile; relief. He won’t have to wake up to the destruction his hands caused anymore. He will be free. “I suppose I wanted someone to know, someone who isn’t afraid of me.” His eyes rest in hers like a tired man sinks into a soft bed. “You’re my sole confidant on this, the last night of my miserable existence.”
“Why don’t you just put those to good use?” Sofia nods to the daggers on the table.
He laughs gently at her proposition for a merciful death. “The blades can injure, but not mortally wound.”
Sofia shoots him a dubious look. He reaches forward with a sigh to grasp a dagger. He watches Sofia closely to see if she flinches, but she doesn’t waver. The blade looks like a cute little butter knife in his fist. He brings it up to his neck and punctures the side of his throat, dragging the knife deeply across his skin. He grimaces as silvery plasma flows down the front of his chest. It’s not the volume that seems appropriate for the wound; it’s certainly not enough to kill him. He finishes the cut to his ear, having slit his own throat. Then he turns the dagger over in his hand.
“As much as Esht wants to create pain, he doesn’t know what it feels like. He’s numb to it. Our pain is mine to bear and mine alone.” He sits back. “But you know, it’s become warm over the years, like an intimate friend.” His eyes soften, looking down at the blade. “I think I’m scared of letting it go.” He flips the knife towards himself, offering Sofia the hilt.
Instead of taking it, she stands and goes into her apartment. She returns with two glasses and a bottle of the good whiskey. Esht’s neck is almost healed. She pours him a drink and holds it out. He’s surprised when she doesn’t recoil as their hands graze, transferring the glass.
“Do you mind if I stay a little while longer?” he asks. “It will be dawn soon, and I haven’t seen the sun in so long.”
Sofia nods. “To you.” She lifts her glass. “The real you….”
“Seth,” he whispers. “My name was Seth.”
VIGINTI SEPTEM
The sand gives beneath Erim’s feet with each step. Nim gallops next to him, splashing in and out of the water. Running always helps him clear his mind.
He never thought he could miss the tedium of his days before all this. Since Esht, these jogs have turned into sprints, like he can outrun the dark cloud of dread following him. It’s the only time his mind stops churning, and he can leave his cares behind in the dust. But today is different. He’s not just running away from the bleak thoughts; he’s being drawn towards something new.
As his quarters appear on the horizon, the wind carries the not-so-subtle notes of Ben’s shrill voice. He speeds up. Passing through his door, he stumbles at the transition of sand to the smooth floor. Sloane’s back is turned to him as she makes a beeline for the door, violin in hand.
“Don’t go,” Ben whines after her, rushing out of Erim’s bedroom. Of course, it’s Ben. Sloane doesn’t run from anyone else.
“What’s going on?” Erim asks, startling Sloane. Her hand drops from the door handle. Ben cracks into laughter at his glare.
Sloane turns around. Her gaze trails down Erim’s chest for just a flicker, slacking her violin arm slightly. Then she shifts her shoulders away from him, avo
iding his eyes. Erim morphing into a shirt seems to relieve her, but not in an offensive way. She fiddles with the strings of her bow as her gaze slowly returns to him.
“Ben?” Erim puts some sternness into that one.
She rolls her eyes. “I came to get you for breakfast and found her in your bed.” She whips out a wicked grin. “I was just trying to introduce her to our frequent flyer program when she tried to leave.”
He slants his eyes at her and turns to Sloane. “She was here when you woke up?”
“In the bed next to me,” Sloane says through a tight smirk.
Erim drops his head and sighs. Ben’s never been one to respect boundaries. Encroaching on personal space is a special kind of sport to her. “Yeah, we’ve been working on that.” He turns to Ben. “We’ve talked about knocking, right?”
“We haven’t discussed the two of you knocking, no,” Ben responds, irritated. “I’ve been waiting to get details out of this one for a good half hour.”
Erim takes her shoulders and gently guides her to the door; she protests all the while. “Make yourself useful and grab me this week’s ledger so I can check it before it’s shelved.”
“Whatever, Abercrombie.” Ben huffs as he shuts the door. Erim doesn’t know what the nickname means, but he rarely does. He once asked for nickname clarification years ago, and the teasing was relentless. He’s never made that mistake again.
Erim turns around to Sloane. Her eyes are on him, one mossy and the other ashen. Her apricot hair is a little rumpled from sleep, giving it a charming flare.
“Sorry about that.” He smooths the nervousness from his voice with a chuckle. “I was always meant to have a sister, can’t get away from it.”
“Glad to know I’m not on her blacklist anymore.” She smiles.
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