by Anna Elias
Link fought to step back. “We should go.”
Valerie rooted him. “Momma, please.”
“Go!” Rose yelled.
“Everything okay over there?” the neighbor called from under her floppy brim.
Rose gripped the phone and stared at Link until Valerie let go and allowed him to step off the porch. He hurried to the car, adrenaline gushing.
“Everything’s fine, Hillary,” Rose called out. “This boy is trying to sell me something I don’t want.”
“Don’t you come here,” Hillary huffed as Link unlocked his car. “I don’t want any, either.” She lowered her head and plunged the trowel back into the soft dirt.
Link jumped in and turned the key, fighting to control his shaking hands. Pistons fired, fuel pumped, and the engine rumbled to life. “What now?” he grumbled, then cleared his throat. Sorry. What do we do?
The Spirit blanketed him with warmth and forced him to take a series of deep breaths. His heart slowed. His muscles softened. We try again later.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AVANI
Avani whirled into a blur of light and wind at Prism Lake like Dorothy in the Oz tornado. Time unraveled and distance disintegrated.
When it stopped, she stood on a wooded bluff overlooking an endless ocean and the remains of a small coastal village. She hunched against the blustery wind, breathing in and out until her organs, bones, and muscles eased back into place.
Black-tailed seagulls circled overhead in the afternoon sun, riding the currents and mewing against a bright blue sky. Avani shivered. Minutes ago, she’d been standing under a full moon at Prism Lake.
Concrete rubble marred much of the village below, where houses and businesses had once stood. Trees hung, snapped in half or dead, with resilient saplings sprouting up in their place. The topsoil had been skimmed off, so the few remaining villagers grew vegetables and herbs in garden pots. The foreign, symbol-like writing on the signs confused Avani at first, but something rewired between brain and eye, and the characters became clear and easy to read.
The Spirit had spun them to Japan.
A feather could have knocked her over. Avani had never traveled outside the US before. She’d barely been beyond Texas or California.
The Spirit, on the other hand, vibrated with a keen sense of home.
Avani stretched and turned her head, testing her body. Villagers worked outside or biked to the few remaining shops, but these normal activities seemed strange. The reason was not clear at first, until the Spirit sharpened her eyes and ears. The villagers were middle-aged or older, and there were no sounds of children, babies, or laughter. The village felt dead.
Something devastating had happened here. What exactly evaded her at first, until images popped into her mind and the Spirit filled in the gaps.
A massive earthquake had shaken this place in 2011, followed by a giant tsunami. Avani remembered seeing bits of it on the news when she was young. The combined disasters had destroyed this part of Japan and left thousands dead, injured, or homeless.
A cold darkness bubbled up. That wasn’t the worst part.
The Spirit turned Avani around to see radiation warning signs dotting the landscape: bright yellow backgrounds topped with black trefoils that resembled three propeller blades around a small circle. The signs peppered a long fence around what had once been another village. The buildings were rubble and the land was barren and void of life, save a few checkpoint guards and workers wearing yellow HAZMAT suits. Her eyes lifted to the skeleton of a nuclear power plant haunting the coast about thirty kilometers farther south. The cold air wrapped Avani like an icy cape.
Fukushima.
The name struck hard, a torrent of misery. Despair seeped in as she thought of the wrecked land and the families and children who had died there—the busy streets, shops, and schools that were no more. The Spirit warmed to push the blackness away, then whisked them off again.
Avani reappeared inside the broken but functional nuclear compound, in a quiet back corner with no workers nearby to witness the strange arrival. Regrouping was easier this time, and the grim sensations threatening to swallow her moments before had vaporized. She adjusted her ponytail, squared her shoulders, and read the sign.
Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant.
She smiled. Instantly understanding a brand-new language was a superpower she’d like to keep.
The Spirit led them across a gravel lot to a larger building.
More gulls soared along the coast, and ocean breezes fluttered over the HAZMAT suits of young workers constructing new holding tanks. The oldest appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
“No young people in the village, yet so many here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
The young have been scared away. The Spirit’s kind, older voice replied in thought. She sounded like an elderly grandmother.
The voice startled Avani. To communicate without talking was unusual enough, but Avani couldn’t discern if the Spirit was speaking English or if she understood Japanese. Or both. She walked toward a distant building.
If young people return too soon, the Spirit continued, the poisoned earth and water will shorten their lives and the lives of their children. But the young who work here do not stay long enough to be harmed.
Doc had shared stories about New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and the devastation caused by that monstrous storm. But what if Katrina had been preceded by an earthquake and followed by nuclear fallout? Fleeing home to survive a natural disaster was horrific enough, but not being able to return home because of the impact manmade toxins could have on future generations was unconscionable.
A metal door slammed and an older man stormed from the building, wearing a white lab coat and knee-high rubber boots. Deep lines furrowed the corners of his mouth, turning his lips into a frown. He strode with purpose toward Avani, an authority figure sent to make her leave.
She wanted to run. The Spirit made her bow.
Fluent Japanese poured out in a mix of young voice and old. The man startled at first, then glowered at this foreign teenage girl, greeting him here where civilians were forbidden. Even so, his sharp black eyes softened slightly when she bowed again. He ordered her to wait and he disappeared back inside.
Speaking the language shocked Avani so much she had no idea what the Spirit said. The man did, because he returned moments later with a beautiful young Japanese woman by his side. Her long black hair was pinned back in a bun, and a similar white lab coat hung over black pants. The woman’s age was difficult to determine. She looked to be around thirty, maybe thirty-five, but carried herself with an older, wiser more mature countenance. The man spoke with harsh words aimed at Avani. The woman waited for him to finish, then bowed. He stomped away.
She stepped closer, her boots light on the gravel. “I am Minako Howard.” A soft Japanese accent tinged her English. “How may I help you?”
Avani had no answer, but the Spirit spoke out.
“You are Minako Taira,” she said through Avani, her accent thick around each word. “You were born in Kyoto and raised near Tokyo where your father worked as a doctor.”
“Yes,” Minako replied, her voice wary.
“You married a Navy captain ten years ago, moved to America, and studied nuclear energy.”
Minako took a step back. “My specialty is containment. They brought me here to assist with cleanup. Do you fear contamination reaching your shores? I can assure you the percentage of—”
“Your mother, Sachiko, bore one other child. A son. He died when you were five.”
Color drained from Minako’s face. “Who are you? Why are you here? And how do you know this thing my family has never discussed?”
Avani shuddered, but the Spirit’s love strengthened her. “I am your grandmother, Minako. You were named for me.”
Minako backed away, increasing the distance between them. “My grandmother died two years ago. And she did not speak to me for several years be
fore that. You must go.”
“I came to see you to mend our past.”
Minako’s eyes widened. “You must go. Please.” She rushed back to the building, lab coat whipping around her legs as she disappeared inside.
Avani’s stomach clenched, but the Spirit remained warm, unchanged.
Two young men stormed out, no doubt sent by Minako. The Spirit hurried Avani around a quiet corner and beamed them away before the men could catch up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE ROGUE
Flesh and mist swirled together until they painfully regrouped into Matheus’s sick and weakened body. He collapsed on a filthy sidewalk just off a back alley, organs sliding back into place, heart struggling to beat. Horns honked and traffic flew past while Eric waited for Matheus’s scrambled brain to fire up his parasympathetic nerves and bring things back online. Transport was as easy as breathing in a Vessel, but in an average human, especially one this feeble and infirm, it was like trying to hurl a tornado.
The nearby dumpster dribbled foul juices. Homeless people and prostitutes walked the dirty streets of gang-tagged stores, and a pawnshop’s neon sign flashed advertisements for slot machines.
Downtown Reno.
Eric recognized it from trips he’d taken in human life. He’d transported them here from San Francisco, targeting that new Vessels Program the Spirit Guard had mentioned. They must be close.
In India, where he’d entered this plane, the Program was based in an orphanage forty kilometers from the lake. Here, it must be that homeless shelter on the corner, the one with the soup kitchen entry on one side and the gated courtyard. All these Programs were alike—based in some kind of overlooked business that served others, near a lake owned by an indigenous tribe, and run by a bunch of do-gooders out to make the world a better place. The whole thing made him sick. Only the strongest, toughest, and most self-serving would survive, so why bother with anyone else?
Outside the shelter, a petite woman with wavy hair leaned against a SUV—a hybrid, of course, from the looks of it. She spoke to a thirty-something, blond man behind the wheel. The Rogue felt the tattoo around the man’s ankle, as well as his inner strength. This man was a Vessel, albeit newly marked, and he didn’t yet have the coin.
Perfect.
The Rogue forced Matheus up onto shaky legs and stumbled him toward a waiting cab outside the pawnshop. Emissions drifted from its exhaust as the driver idled behind locked doors. Matheus rapped on a window, his waxen skin and dead eyes reflecting back at him.
“Need a ride.”
The frightened cabbie pointed to the pawnshop. “Already got a fare.”
Eric’s Spirit forced Matheus to pluck the remaining bills from his pocket. He waved them in front of the glass.
The cabbie hesitated for a moment then unlocked the doors with a metal thud. Matheus climbed in back, struggling to pull the car door closed. He handed over his last dollars.
“Where to?”
Matheus wheezed through pasty lips. The Rogue lifted his arm and uncurled one bony finger to point at the SUV. “Follow him.”
The cabbie gulped and pocketed the wad of cash. He shifted into drive as an obese man exited the pawnshop.
“Hey,” the man yelled. “That’s my cab. I already paid.” He hustled over to grab the handle.
“Go,” Eric’s voice thundered through the zombie-like mouth.
The doors locked again and the terrified cabbie roared off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TAL
Mississippi was a furnace, even in spring. Tal wiped sweat from her lip and eyed the small, one-story, white clapboard farmhouse a short distance away. It was topped by a rusted tin roof and surrounded by acres of land. The large farmer, built thick as an oak and topped with a shock of reddish-brown hair, labored away the last hour of daylight with five black field hands. They worked in a distant section of the farm’s acreage, on a wide-open field striped with perfect rows of young cotton plants.
The men toiled under the farmer’s watchful eye as the sun set, repairing the football-field-length irrigation pipe meant to water this long, thirsty stretch of land. The farmer worked alongside them, but he drove them hard until dusk when the pipe worked and water rained out across the dry red dirt.
Tal gripped the wheel of her rented Prius, ghostly thoughts of slaves rising from the land. Her ancestors had come from the South, forced to work and die on fields like this since before the nation had been born. Now, centuries after abolition and generations after the start of Civil Rights, Tal knew her skin color would matter. And she worried it would prevent her from being an effective Vessel. Then again, maybe that was why the Spirit had chosen her.
The Spirit filled Tal with peace she could never have created in herself, and a ripple of affirmation on why she’d been chosen. Cicadas and crickets began to chirp, and a whippoorwill sang to the low-slung moon.
Tal’s fingers relaxed on the wheel. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
While the men worked the field, a raven-haired teenage girl weeded and watered the modest garden next to the house. She picked a variety of ripe vegetables from their vines before disappearing inside.
“To make dinner, no doubt,” Tal said.
The Spirit warmed her with comfort. At the same time, it surged with boundless love for the farmer, the girl, the field hands, this parched land, and even the humidity that thickened the air like soup.
We’ll come back later, the Spirit said, her thoughts sweet and soft in Tal’s mind.
“Your party,” Tal muttered. She drove off, giving the farmer and his daughter time to digest their meal before springing the news.
Tal stopped at one of the name-brand hotels peppering this exit off the interstate. She had no idea how long the journey would take, so she used the credit card Sam had issued to check in for five nights. The clerk pointed to a cart for her luggage, but Tal smiled, empty-handed, and left to find the elevator.
The fourth-floor room was decorated like most others, but with a few local touches. Pictures of magnolia blossoms and cotton plants filled two walls, while another was anchored by a vibrant watercolor drawing of hoop-skirted Southern belles having tea on a sprawling plantation lawn at the turn of the twentieth century. Their dresses were painted a spectrum of differing colors, but the skin on each girl was the same—milky white.
Tal’s stomach growled. Evidently, being filled with the Spirit did nothing to stop human hunger. She left the hotel and drove through the quaint town until the Spirit drew her toward a small local restaurant named, “The Soul Bowl Café.”
This one was my favorite.
“Oh, boy.” Tal had never tried Southern fare, but the Spirit made her mouth suddenly water for fried chicken, grits, turnip greens, and cornbread.
Tal parked in the dirt lot and walked inside the red brick building. Lacy white drapes accented two front windows and the door. A mix of black and white faces turned to watch her walk in. Several people smiled before returning to their meals. Tal nodded and found a seat.
It didn’t take long for the food to come once she’d ordered, and Tal ate with such relish that she didn’t remember swallowing. She sat back in the green vinyl booth and licked the last few crumbs of cornbread from her fingers. Even without the Spirit’s influence, she’d already planned to return tomorrow and expand her experience with country steak, biscuits, and fried green tomatoes.
The Spirit felt bright and airy inside Tal, like an ethereal smile.
Tal checked her watch. “Oh my God.” She gulped the last sip of sweet tea, plopped sufficient cash on the table, and hurried out.
She returned to find the farm, the house, the fields, and the surrounding woods awash in dazzling moonlight. An owl hooted from a distant tree, and the woods hummed with frogs, crickets, and a chorus of cicadas.
The Spirit vibrated at the beauty, but Tal prickled in the sticky heat. The television blared from inside and its glow cast odd shadows through the screened windows. The wooden front do
or hung open as if gasping for breath. Light spilled across the porch to the dirt drive where Tal stood.
She’d turned off the headlights before pulling in, and the engine had hummed a silent arrival. Those in the house had no idea someone waited outside. Well, two someones. Sort of.
I hope you know what you’re doing.
The Spirit warmed throughout Tal’s body, easing her fears.
Tal inhaled, sharp and quick, to gird her nerves. Okay then. Showtime.
She walked up the concrete block steps to the porch and knocked. The screen door rattled on rusty hinges. White paint flaked off.
“Who’s there?” the man bellowed over the TV.
Water ran at the kitchen sink. The girl turned it off. “I’ll get it, Daddy.” Her words were soft and meek.
He must have expected this response because he never moved from his chair.
The Spirit beamed as the girl flipped on the porch light. She appeared to be sixteen or so, a natural beauty dressed in jean cutoffs and a worn T-shirt. Her long black hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. “Can I help you?” Thick lashes framed her violet eyes.
The Spirit soaked her in, and Tal recognized the feeling at once—a mother’s love, unconditional and unstoppable, even in death. No wonder she’d picked Tal.
“You need something?” the girl asked. Her manners remained, but her tone grew guarded.
“Grace Watts?” Tal’s mouth delivered the words, but a sweet, higher-pitched Southern voice spoke them.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?” the farmer bellowed.
A breeze struggled to stir the muggy air. Breathe, Tal thought. In. Out. In. Out.
“Grace, honey,” the Spirit said. “It’s me. It’s your momma.”
The girl’s eyes flew open. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here but—”
“I’m Darleen, honey, I swear. I’ve come back to see you and Daddy.”
Grace turned as white as a sheet at the mention of her mother.
