The Imaginators (Of Stardust and Aether Book 1)

by M. K. Valley

  Despite the pain, I reach to scratch the itch. Imagining simple things like ink on paper doesn’t come with severe punishment. The pain shoots up and down my spine like a jolt of electricity. My fingers are numb, but I don’t care. Books saved my life a long time ago when the ideas woven into the ink taught me that there’s more, that I can be more, free. Books save my life now when I’d rather submit to the pain than plead for relief.

  I scratch my itch by imagining a book. One page at a time, one word per hour. Every effort makes me grunt or twitch in pain. It takes me twelve hours to make something resembling paper, ancient and fragile, about to crumble. Flawed, twisted by the ring. But I don’t care. It helps me concentrate, ease the cravings, believe I’m still in control.

  But control is such a fickle thing. I think about dropping my efforts more than once during those endless days and nights spent in the haze. By the time Twig gets me out of the cell, I’m drooling, blue with exhaustion and cold as ice, clutching the fragments of a book like it’s a lifeline. I remember him showering me and tending to my wounds. I take a whole week to sleep off the effects of the ring once they take it off. The haze will linger, but the worst is over.

  “I feel like I have to apologize,” Twig says amidst giving me an account of the events.

  He’s hunched in a chair across the room, and I shift under the blankets. His careful eyes examine every inch of my pitiful self, squinting at the bottle of fine Dionysian in my hand. “Don’t worry about breaking Samraha’s nose. We all know what happens to the proverbial messenger.”

  A tentative grin meets my smirk, and the mood lightens a bit.

  “When Illiran came, I didn’t put much thought into the details. I just had to get to the detention center and make sure you’re alive. Of course, they wouldn’t let me see you, so I spent a few seething hours wishing I had broken more than his nose. But then it hit me. He mentioned a mirror. Why would you imagine a mirror in such a moment?”

  My smile is mirthless, though I’m proud of him. I reach for the cup on my nightstand and pour him a glass. “You deserve that,” I beckon him, and Twig sits on the edge of the bed, swirling the wine around. “Hey, sprout,” I nudge him with my knee, his crestfallen face almost hidden in his shoulder. “You only did what I wanted.”

  “But it was horrible.” His voice is but a whisper. “I’m so sorry to have put you through this. I just… I had no other ideas. I failed you.”

  I sit up more abruptly than it’s reasonable and lean on his shoulder until the blackness retreats back to the corners of my eyes. “Twig, we haven’t had a viable idea since we returned to Ares. For me, it’s enough you picked up on what I was up to.”

  “I’m supposed to be the brains, Andria!” He winces, his watery eyes turning up to meet mine.

  “And I’m supposed to be the brawn, yet a bunch of cops handed me my ass.” He fights back a smile, and I slap him on the shoulder. “Besides, I knew what it would come to. It’s better than rotting in that cell indefinitely.”

  Though not much better. That mirror was Twig’s way to me. It cost him a significant amount of his intergalactics, straining ties already fraying due to the Contract on our heads. But he got the mirror, and that’s all that matters. It’s a makeshift recording device I came up with very young. It captured my arrest and my demand before those cops stormed the room. Once Twig had it in his possession, Zeus and Hermes couldn’t deny him access. The Consulate had to take it into consideration as evidence. They would’ve made me wish away the sword sooner or later, but it was crucial I was granted privacy. Twig has somehow argued the point, and so they made me do it. Alone, in a jammed room, where no other Imaginator could reach into. Somewhere out there is a record of my agony, but it worked. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here sipping on the best wine in the Infinite Universe straight out of the bottle, lucky to have made myself forget.

  Imagining under the influence of a psychic ring is hard enough. But to wish away your creations is even worse. Your very essence is against it. After the restrictions, to have been able to create only to destroy, it’s like breaking your leg when your ankle just healed. I probably didn’t realize that wasn’t my imagiSword once the tendrils of the Aether I wove into it were wished away. I can picture myself resisting as I used to when I was just a kid. I don’t need new memories to know what I’ve been through.

  You can’t quite resist the compulsion unless you’re willing to die. And that’s why I’m here, in the relative safety of my bedroom. Eventually, I must’ve buckled and tried destroying the sword. Only the creator of a thing can destroy it, remember? Thank the Infinite Universe for laying down some ground rules before letting loose.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay, though our problem hasn’t disappeared.” Twig plucks me from my thoughts, and I clear my throat, resting back into the pillows.

  “Any news from Samraha?” I ask, finishing off the bottle. The sweet taste sinking on my tongue peels off a layer of the tension coiling my guts.

  “He’s in his old den. Last contact was two days ago, sniffing for information on you.” Twig clicks his tongue and looks at me out of the corner of his eye, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. “The bastard’s either genuinely worried, or he’s terrified you’ll throw the blame on him.”

  “A little bit of both, I guess. Illiran’s missed a mole or two among his men. He must be pissing acid for making such a rookie mistake.”

  “I know who’s not pissing anything anymore.” Twig offers me his communicator, and I’m quick to avert my eyes. Murder is forbidden on Ares, but mutilation isn’t. “Want me to send him a message not to worry and to fuck off?”

  I snort, the lack of an immediate affirmation making him raise an eyebrow. The corner of my blanket finds itself pinched between my fingers as I turn the options in my mind. And before the decision turns me into a fidgeting wreck, I take it, pushing Twig aside and marching to the bathroom, stripping on the way. “Don’t send him a reply. I’ll pay him a personal visit.”

  “Let’s go together!”

  “Let’s not!” I slam the door in his face, muffling his protests. It takes me somewhere between forever and eternity to clean myself up between the ebbs and flows of pain and vertigo. When I come out, Twig’s still there, arms folded over his chest, an angry spark turning his black gaze into a churning storm cloud. “I have another job for you.”

  “Yeah? Would I have to drag you out of a detention facility again?”

  I shoot daggers at him, pulling a rumpled silk shirt over my head. “You go to the cosmodrome, prepare the cutter for take-off. Do pre-flight, arrange fuel and supplies, make sure no one’s meddled with it and there aren’t stray bombs or ammo rolling around. Wait for me on the ship. If there’s anything you need, get it now. Otherwise, it’s getting left behind.”

  “Are we… leaving Ares?”

  “With a bolt, if things go south. Can I count on you?”

  “Would you like to tell me the whole plan?”

  “There isn’t one. I’ll wing it.” I shoo him out of my bedroom with a wink. “Come on, get to work.”

  Twig leaves with a mix of worry and fear on his face. I can’t blame him. The moment we leave Ares, the whole planet will rush on our tails. And I’m not giving him much choice. But we can weather this storm only if we stick together. If either of us stays behind, they become a vulnerability for the other. I have to believe I’m doing the right thing. Another wrong step will only get me… or us both killed.

  My conviction withers with every step I take through Sicarius Prima. Illiran must know by now. What if he decides to use what I did to his advantage? How willing is he to test my limit? Clenching my fist, I swear I’ll kill him if he even entertains the thought of double-crossing us.

  I’m pleased that he pales when he sees me at his doorstep. A muted red lantern gives depth to the single-room apartment. Fitting, given it’s located in one of the most decaden
t parts of the city. Here, poor Herasians live with their large families, and underpaid Apollonian artists starve to death alongside Aphroditian prostitutes plagued by the Aether knows what. The least fortunate come to this corner of the Olympians to live out their days. He chose well, no one would come looking for one of Ares’ richest Assassins here.

  “I see you took it to heart when I told you to go back to the hole I plucked you from,” I say like I would ‘good morning’, if I ever said ‘good morning’, and his shoulders relax a bit.

  “I see they didn’t damage your inner bitch, Your Highness. Looking good.” Illiran tries a smile, but it falters. His eyes linger on the still-healing crack in my cheekbone. “I tried to convince Twig to tell me how you are, but it seems I worried in vain.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I put on a brave face, but air’s burning in my lungs, and my heart’s hammering from the walk here. Illiran’s eyes drift to my fingers, stiff on the hem of my shirt, and I curse for fidgeting so much. He hesitates for another second and invites me in. The place smells of petrichor and sandalwood, a stark contrast to the stench of the quarter. It’s neat and sophisticated, every trace of it ever being a hash den scrubbed clean.

  I take off my jacket and throw it over the back of the single chair before sitting on the edge of the double bed. Behind me, the door clicks closed and locked. The pause and the slight glaze over Illiran’s eyes give away some last-minute additions to the fortification being imagined.

  “Can I offer you a drink, Andria?” He tries to sound casual, dawdling at the cabinet across from me.

  “Water.”

  Illiran huffs but lets silence fill the crimson atoms between us. It’s not that bad now that I’m drowning in it. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, caressing the luxurious sheets imported from Athena, letting their whispers roll down my spine. Maybe I should’ve stormed in and tied up my loose ends before Illiran gathered his wits, but I’m so tired. My bones ache, my mind’s starved, and this bloody nebula feels like my only chance to get a breather, to leave the Infinite Universe on the doorstep and just dissolve.

  He shuffles closer, and I open my eyes to traverse his lean frame, all the way up to those midnight eyes. His fingers are warm against my icicles when I take the water.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” I whisper, drawing out a frown.

  And that gives it away. Illiran would never slip like that. Showing anger is always intentional with Illiran. He wants me to know he’s angry. With what I did, with me testing him right now.

  “You played quite the trick on me. Not many places to lay low on Ares. Even thought about leaving the planet.”

  “Oh?” I take a sip, the cold going straight to my gums. “But I see you’ve dealt swift justice, surely, there’s no need to worry about moles anymore, right?”

  Illiran bristles, but his infamous composure slams back into place as he sits into the chair, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. If I’m gasoline, he’s a match, waiting, biding his time, until he sees fit to set it all ablaze.

  “I hope you’ll hold up your end of the deal, Andria. I get to ask one thing of you when the time comes. The Chronicler was an unfortunate trap, but I think what you did makes us even. It’s why you’re here, right?”

  I take his measure – the hint of horns, the midnight eyes, the scars on display, and the soft, treacherous lips, and let the empty glass slip from my fingers with a thump. “It’s a reason.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, after all, what else is there? But my fingers fly to the buttons of my shirt, stiff and awkward, and Illiran bites his tongue back. For a few moments, the only sounds are Sicarius Prima’s noise pollution and my grunts as I kick off my boots and peel off a single layer of clothing. He doesn’t even lift a finger to help me, glued to his chair, afraid the illusion will disperse if he reaches out for it. When he finally finds his voice, it’s hoarse and cracks at the end.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  I straddle him and put his warm palms on my waist, shuddering. “You wanted to help, didn’t you? I have an itch that needs scratching.”

  He growls when I lean down into his lips, indignation turning the midnight eyes black. His fingers carve the beds of fiery rivers across my icy planes. Talented Imaginators can have the most exhilarating and unforgettable intimate experiences of all, an endless string of experiments and unbridled fantasy we can breathe life into. Some might even forget what it’s like to feel your partner skin to skin, breath to breath. Always some kind of creation fills the void between their atoms. When Illiran and I give into the screeching need, we only reach for each other. Never the Aether. We allow our bodies to be heavy and awkward, give ourselves the time to adjust and discover all the ways we can fit. And then, we melt into each other. Among the silken whispers and the deafening moans, we get a first and final taste of what it could’ve been.

  Hours later, when we lay exhausted amidst the ruined sheets and Sicarius Prima slithers in neon tendrils through the cracked window, I resurface from the haze.

  “You think he heard us, princess?” Illiran’s playing with one of my white locks, propped up on his elbow. The feline satisfaction in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.

  “His prison keeps his wails inside, and the outside world… Well, outside. So, no, the world will never learn of your triumph.”

  “Oh?” He pouts, eyes sliding back to mine. “Or the several yours. What a waste!”

  I twist and slide to the edge of the bed when he tries to kiss me again, making him mumble something indecipherable. He spreads across the pillows and watches me as I fumble with my clothes again.

  “What are you planning to do with him when I give him back?”

  “End this once and for all?” I suggest over my shoulder, and the silence that follows is almost ringing. It doesn’t take him long to connect the dots.

  “You’ll confront the imagiConsul. Does Twig know?”

  “We’re leaving Ares within the day, that’s all he needs to know.”

  “You’ll be dead in three! You’ve lost your mind, Andria!” He jumps to his feet, dropping the effort to bunch the sheets for the sake of modesty. “You have to tell him, you owe him that!” He tries to grab me, and I whirl on him.

  “And since when do you care about his feelings, hmm?” I snap, zipping up my jacket. “Drop the distraught act and just give him back!”

  Illiran freezes like a marble statue in all his naked glory. Even if he wants to look impressive and patronizing, butt-naked just won’t cut it.

  “Isn’t there another way, Andria?”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s pleading. “I wasted enough time searching for other ways, Illiran. I’d rather risk becoming space dust somewhere far from the Olympians than wait around here and become the new normieConsul’s pet Assassin.”

  He flinches, though he’s never been dominated by a psychic ring. When we first met, in those endless days and nights he had, clearing out the hash, I gave him a warning. Touched and twisted his vulnerable mind, sharing my own bitter experience. I exploited his abstinence to breathe life into the nightmares. I made sure the very mention of a psychic ring becomes a trigger for him and Twig – if you can’t fight, choose death over submission. They never mentioned it, though I’m sure they know I took away their choice. And thanks to that, Illiran doesn’t argue further, despite his irrational fear for my life. He pulls open a drawer on the cabinet and rummages through the silky contents, pulling out a small vial.

  “What if they just kill him once you release him?”

  I cup the vial and tuck it into a pocket. “They could, but it would be hard to pin it on me. It will go against every Zeusian instinct to blame me for a crime I wasn’t around to commit.”

  “That’s why you’re leaving.”

  I shrug. “While the Consuls are locked in a p
ower struggle, I prefer to chase the person behind it all. One way or another, I intend to… extract viable leads from the imagiConsul.”

  I try to brush past him, but he’s swift, catching my wrist. “Well, then, I hope they revoke the Contract before someone catches up to you.”

  I cut him a sharp glance and smile. “Hope is for someone who can’t imagine a big enough gun, Illiran.”

  He lets go. Of me, of another unfinished conversation piling atop the mountain of bitter farewells between us, and sees me out the door with a breathless ‘be careful’.

  PHASE SEVEN

  THE LONG GAME

  I waltz into the Consulate clad in Aether. A pull here turns my hair black, a tug there breathes color into my eyes and skin. I’m beyond caring about Ares’ rules at this point or what it would mean if I get discovered. Influencing biological organisms through imagining is a rare gift, its wielders either hide it or spend their lives chained with psychic rings. Of course, using camo tech to mask my appearance would’ve been easier, but I have no time to waste on the Consulate’s bio-scans.

  I don’t cower or hide my face from the cameras and the sec-drones. My back is a pillar of confidence when I walk straight into the Contracts department. It’s lively. A non-descript clerk guides me through the rows of desks. Around me, a thousand tongues and dialects click and rumble, roll and tumble off demanding mouths. No VIPs. Those go straight to the Consuls and their aides. No problem, I’ll work for it.

  My long, bronze fingers tap the polished surface of the administrator’s desk my guide leads me to. Within seconds of my arrival, a young Hermesian slides onto the cushioned chair across. They’d look almost human if it weren’t for the emerald, compound eyes. A thin, mirthless smile is all the preamble I get.

  “How can I be of service, miss Malva?”

  I flutter the eyelashes of the pretty Aphroditian who served us drinks in that hovel of a bar, whose image I borrowed for the occasion.