by Emily Shore
“I’d like to tell you a story,” Haven starts, her voice for once inviting. She strides past me, and I find myself staring back, puzzled. Considering how pointed, yet graceful her body language normally is, much like her jellyfish, as if she’s always ready to sting but can’t negate her body’s feline mannerisms, the casualty of her stride combined with her shoulders relaxing is uncharacteristic. Too uncharacteristic. As if on instinct, I sense Yang at my mental back door, ready to nudge if necessary.
I shake my head, internally sending the message. Not yet.
“A story of triplets raised in an orphanage.” After leading me into her bedroom to her dresser, Haven begins her story while taking a comb to her strands—a rake to soft black sands. “Raised by our grandmother, the owner, after our mother died in childbirth. She told no one we were triplets. Since we were fraternal, you wouldn’t know it just by looking at us.” It’s true. I knew there was a familial connection between them, but I wouldn’t have automatically guessed triplets. Rarities like them are considered valuable. Just like Bliss and me. Especially when they are not genetically engineered.
“Our birth names don’t matter, but the oldest and youngest were girls. Sibling bonds may mean little to you,” she hints of a sting but continues, working at a knot at the base of her hair, “but when you’re raised with nothing, they mean everything.”
Heaving a sigh, Haven places the comb on the dresser, snatches up a bottle of product, and coats her hair with it. “The youngest was the smallest of us. So, the oldest snuck her portions of her own food. Shared a bed with her whenever she was lonely or scared. When you’re a girl, there is much to be scared of in the outside world.”
After finishing with the product, Haven opens a top drawer and reaches in to remove a hair accessory, which reminds me of a sea urchin with sharp spikes. Only when she injects it into her hair do I understand it’s a BODY app device programmed to design Haven’s hair into her usual severe bun. Quite the contrast to my carefree curls.
“Now, the boy…he was different.” Haven wrinkles her nose. “He would sneak out like so many of the other boys. He would bring back stories of the Glass Districts, but especially Museums, goad us on because we could never be as pretty as the Museum girls. Not with our thin eyes and angular features.” The irony as her calligraphy eyes have earned her the rank of seductress but also assassin. “But we didn’t care,” she goes on, pursing her lips. “Us girls had each other. Sometimes, we would even sneak into the orphanage manager’s office when she was passed out from drinking. We’d use her 3-D printer to create our own Museums and see them come to life.” She pauses, licking her lips, her cheeks paling, turning whiter than a shell’s belly. Not once does Haven smile. Not even in the current of where she was happiest. There will always be a corner of her mouth that cannot lift, that remains in a permanent frown.
I can almost imagine Bubbles scribbling a design of her own Museum. It would have a dozen giant bubble rooms. Or maybe she didn’t like bubbles back then.
“I promised her we would stay in the orphanage forever.” I listen to Haven, recognizing her deep-water voice returning. A trench of mystery and memories. “That we would take it over and turn it into our Museum creations.” Haven looks down. Other than the brief times I’ve seen her tend to her work, it’s the only time I’ve ever observed her lowering her head. “I learned early on you should never make promises you can’t keep.
“He was always jealous.” She steels herself, voice turning salt sharp. “Jealous of our bond even if he could leave the walls of the orphanage. Even if he had a future we could never have. There were plenty of other orphanages. And our grandmother would never have said a word. But he spilled the truth to the Glass District manager.” Wrinkling her nose, Haven reveals the origins of the bad blood between her and Wylder. “All for a few credits that got him a night in the District with whatever girl he wanted. He’s hated himself and every girl since.”
Now, she stands, turning aside from the mirror as if she can’t face her reflection. “The manager tested our DNA, proved we were triplets. He didn’t want Wylder. Just us. Grandmother begged the manager to just take one. I begged to go. I tried to go.” Haven shakes her head, and I know full well who they took. “For the first time, I snuck out. I cut my hair, stole some of Wylder’s clothes, and followed the boys to the Glass District. When I saw her…” Her voice cracks, but Haven raises her chin, each vertebra in her spine tightening like a tiny fist, “I found the manager. I fought him. And I won. The first time I ever killed. I was still too late.” Turning to me, Haven informs me, “She was only ten.”
So was Haven, but I don’t mention that out loud.
“I took her back to the orphanage, but the Syndicate showed up the next morning. Of course they had footage of the District. It was Syndicate-owned. When I saw the men with the black gloves, I thought for sure they were going to kill me. But the man who came to me…he just patted my head and grinned. He said he had plans for me. Plans for us. And our grandmother agreed to his plans.” Another sigh this time. But her lips don’t press together. And she wanders back into the main room toward her jellyfish tank. “Why wouldn’t she? He took the three of us, and he arranged for the orphanage to be fully funded for the next ten years. My sister went into a Temple orphanage until she could start “working”. Wylder started his modeling career. And my assassin training began.”
Approaching her from behind, I observe how she bristles but doesn’t turn her head once. Tense now but not in attack mode. “My father.”
“Director Force,” Haven confirms, eyes like black sea glass as they stare at her ghosts—the ones in the tank and the ones from her childhood. “I did whatever I had to, killed whoever was necessary, to earn favors and keep my little sister away from Temple work.
“I have something else to show you.”
After traveling to the desk in the corner of the room, a desk similar to her office one, Haven taps the air above it to reveal security footage of Bubbles on her way to my prep room. I notice the time stamp in the upper right-hand corner and tense—the night she was killed. The night I found her. No, not her. Her corpse. I bite down on the inside of my lower lip as she opens the door and turns on the giant bubble tech. I bite down harder, enough to draw blood, when I see the far-too familiar figure follow her, enact the screen shield. Because Bubbles’ smile slips from her face even before the figure charges at her.
She knew it wasn’t me.
She knew it was Yang.
And Haven’s voice dips low, almost a whisper, “Tell me, Serenity, what should stop me from snapping your neck here and now?”
My body shakes. My eyes twitch. Haven steps toward me. I tense more until every vertebra in my spine puckers like a puffer fish. She latches onto me, sucking me deep inside. And I let her. I sink low while she rises.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to blame Serenity.” We grin, acting on the offensive as we lurch for the director, careless of how our cheek knocks against hers.
Caught off guard, Haven pauses, though she doesn’t retreat. For once, it’s a pleasure to have a worthy adversary. She tapers her brows. Her eyes are downright unfathomable. Black as the inside of a whale. And just as formidable. Let’s see if she can swallow us this time.
No doubt observing how our expression has changed, Haven confirms a moment later, “Yang.”
We sway past her, fingers gliding along the edge of her desk, trailing up the length of her arm. A sleek curve within that bodysuit of hers. “You’re quick. Quicker than anyone else.”
“Why her?” Haven demands, shifting her body so she faces us again.
We frown. “I am Serenity’s coping mechanism. That little strumpet shouldn’t have monopolized her so much. Serenity will know better now.”
“I’m certain she will. But we both know she’s not fit to control you.” Haven pushes her shoulders back, chest rising. We love a good buildup to a cat fight. And she’s just prompted our claws.
We hiss, taking our
stance on the opposite side of the desk, “Do not underestimate Serenity, Haven Graves. She is more than fit to control me. She simply doesn’t want to for the present. She is under my protection. I am what she needs.”
“If that we’re true, you wouldn’t have killed Bubbles,” she counters, fingers curving just underneath the lip of the desk. Oh, yes.
“Heat of the moment. Crime of passion.” We wave off the act, remembering the energy coursing through our body like a riptide, drowning every last breath of Bubbles until her skin could no longer dance. “I couldn’t allow Serenity to have an alternative coping mechanism. Until she’s out of this Aquarium, she needs my protection. And if you did your job as director and controlled your rapist brother, your sister would still be alive!”
Haven reacts, grabbing the desk and pitching it to the side. Laughter swirls around and around inside us, corkscrewing upward even as she charges for us. Her brows lift as soon as we thwart her first punch. Those delicate lips parting is even sweeter after we’ve shoved her back, overpowered her enough to put distance between us. We do so love the art of the steal. Stealing her breath when we knock the wind out of her. Stealing her words because it’s abnormal for her to be on the floor while staring up at an opponent from the flat of her back. We drag it out longer. The immortal treatment will heal any bruises soon enough. And we’d like to see what Haven is really made of.
She’s good. Our body must work harder, muscles retrieving every defensive memory they can muster. Serenity thinks too much. It’s why she can never do this. Her lightning prompts nothing but chaotic teeth and nails. Anything else and she must think through each move to try to predict which one she must use next. Her reflexes are not as quick. I’m simply borrowing her mind but hijacking her body. It remembers better.
Finally, we steal Haven herself when we pin her to the floor, hand imprisoning her neck. Leaning down, we whisper cooing words into her ear, reveling in the irony, “If you ever insult Serenity again, if you so much as breathe into her ear, I’ll see to it that you meet the same end as your sister. Now, I’d like Serenity to enjoy a bit of this.” We wink and snap back, regurgitating the lightning princess.
The feeling of my hand on her neck is foreign. My father never required me to get so close. Whip them and be done. He was the one who personalized everything. Only one time was it personal. One night in the Breakable Room with him. But it’s not my hand, it’s her eyes. The first time I’ve ever sensed any fear inside them. It reminds me of my own when our positions were reversed, but it was Wylder on top of me and not Haven.
It only lasts a moment because she recognizes it’s me and pushes me off. Rising, I give her a gap of space, a bit of a berth. She simply jerks her head to the door and says, “Get out.”
I make my way over, feeling more like a crab-less shell more than ever. Yang’s hollowed me out a little, shaved off some pieces. Just before I leave, I turn to see Haven with her back to the jellyfish tank, eyes closed. Against their backdrop with a soft glow around her and the rest of the room bathed in silhouettes and shadows, Haven looks like her namesake. And then, I understand.
“She’s why you’re Haven,” I murmur the words, making note of how she squeezes her eyelids down harder as if trying to expunge the memories. “Every time you killed, you thought of her. She was your safe space.”
“I think I prefer your little friend. She isn’t so damn perceptive,” Haven tries to stab me with her insult, but it doesn’t penetrate.
I don’t tell her I’m sorry. Never before were two words so useless and empty. Anything like “she was my friend” belittles the magnitude of her loss. So, I just step outside the door and whisper, “Goodnight, Haven.”
On my way out, I almost collide with Wylder in the hall. His fingers light on my elbows. All at once, I sense Yang twirling up like a roused sea serpent, but as soon as I take stock of his defeated expression, I know I can put her back to sleep. Tonight, he’s not ready for a fight. And Haven has told him nothing regarding Bubbles’ killer. I resist the urge to shrink when he gazes down, when his eyes hold, try to become a prison. Instead, I match him, iron for iron, standing my ground but not challenging because I’m not here for a fight either.
At first, he parts his lips as if he wants to say something, but then, he just shakes his head, drops his hands to his sides and strides past me. Shoulders sinking as if he knows tonight will be worse, he enters Haven’s room. Tonight, she will punish him for the night he revealed their secret. He will take it because it’s the only way to be part of her world even if he’ll always envy what she and Bubbles had. And he will punish every other girl in return.
Both shaped as much by their environment as any.
* * *
I find the dark alcove where I first summoned Yang and brought her to life. The hallways are just as dark and empty as before. Like tunnels hollowed into some underwater cavern. Countless passageways where a predator could be. Except, I am not prey anymore.
When not threatened, Yang is like an app I must turn on and off, but there is a bridge between us. A way I can access her. Dipping the sleeves of my shirt down so it exposes much of my chest, I rub two fingers down the center below my collarbone. Just as they crest my cleavage, my head snaps to the side, my eyes narrowing. But unlike when I fade into the background, I still have full control over my body and my facial expressions.
Hmm…someone is not happy. Why are you glowering, Serenity?
I growl, lightning stoking my blood. It’s like her energy but not as calculating. “It’s a lie. It has to be.” I scan through options. An illusion of some sort. But Haven is not manipulative. There was no mistaking her body language. Studying my hands, I try to conjure up any memories, but there is nothing from that night. It couldn’t have been me.
It wasn’t you. It was me.
“It’s not possible. I couldn’t have…”
Let me? she challenges. Yes, you could have. Our agreement was for me to protect you. To defend you against any threats.
“She wasn’t a threat,” I scream at the window. I slap the glass, glare at Yang. But I start to rub my eyes, considering how ridiculous, how impossible, this is. Yang’s not real. She’s not real. Not really real.
And I look up to see her balking.
If I weren’t real, you would have felt Wylder’s sick body on you again. And again and again.
“She was my friend!” I lash out, punching the glass with more force, feeling the weight of it pound my hand, bruising knuckles and rocking my arm. “She wasn’t a threat!”
Anyone who interferes between us is a threat. She was giving you a false sense of security. Your guard was dropping.
I shake my head. My fingers travel up to my temples, rubbing the flesh there, trying to deny what Haven showed me.
I did it for you.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” I shout in denial, throwing my frustrated hands back to the window to plant them there and stare back at my twisted reflection, meeting my evil twin in a stalemate.
No, it’s what you needed. You put me in charge of that, remember?
I shake my head, lower it to the window, and whisper, “Not anymore.”
I don’t open my eyes, but I still hear her in my head. You can’t get rid of me anymore, Serenity. I am a part of you now.
Snarling, I start to march away from the window. “But I’m still in charge.”
True, Yang agrees. But I’m better at it. Apart from mothering, I’m better at everything.
Siphoning off what energy I can, I shove her back down into my core, harpooning her in the dark pits of my insides. Caught in my net, but I want to release her where she can never haunt me again. “Get out,” I command, but my insides are a cage. Trapped, Yang is a wild thing. Nothing in her but violence. And I don’t know how to destroy her. I don’t know how to open the cage door so she can fly away once and for all.
You’ll always need me to protect you.
They are her last words before everything around me is qu
iet. In the halls and in my head.
On my way back to our quarters, relieved there are no more outbursts from my disturbed id, I bump into my husband accompanied by a familiar passerby on the staircase. It doesn’t surprise me they left our quarters. After the incident with Bubbles, Sky contacted Tristan, hoping to expedite our departure. Our only regret was disturbing Neil and Lindy since Haven ordered me to her room. But given how Lindy had jumped at the chance to watch the twins even as they slept, our regret was short-lived.
Normally, it would be dangerous for Tristan to come to our floor. Safer for us to meet him at his resort when these floors are for exhibitionists like us and employees. However unorthodox this meeting, I know nothing will matter to Haven. Due to Bubbles’ death, I doubt she’s even bothered to monitor Tristan, which I’m assuming has worked in our favor. I only hope the Syndicate agreed to expedite the process.
I pause before the moving walkway, judge Sky’s expression from his neutral brows, relaxed eyes, and almost imperceptible smile. No complications then. I accept my husband’s embrace while nodding to the Temple emissary. “Tristan…”
“Everything is on track,” he reassures me, touching my arm. “Syndicate will be sending armed transports by tomorrow morning. Both by ground and air. The board will be on standby. Haven will attempt negotiations first. But she isn’t prepared for the full force of the Syndicate. There won’t be a struggle.”
Especially not with her haven gone.
As if sensing my thoughts, Tristan’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry about your friend. Sky informed me of what happened.” Only what he knows. What will Sky think when I tell him the truth? Will he even trust me with our children anymore? Can I trust myself?
