by J. Gertori
“This is perfect!” yelled Ellis, rushing forward. He flattened Sam’s arms to his sides, shaking the fleshling as he spoke. “Give me an exclusive, and I’ll replace my theories with the actual story, no questions asked. I can’t believe this!” Ellis ruffled his thick locks. “This story will make my paper the news source on Trida.”
Mild rumbles shook the room, followed by a screeching racket like twisted metal. Ellis displayed a look of dread, and Sam could’ve sworn he heard a gulp. Sam walked toward the tall glass doors, focusing on the surrounding haze of dark blue. An underwater force, like the rippling clouds after an explosion, pushed the fish away. From the shadows came an enormous octopus straddling a glass box.
“Nope—nope—fuck that,” said Sam, tripping as he rushed backward. “Gnome people? Sure. Giants? Bring ’em on. But this is where I draw the line. I don’t do sea monsters—nope.” He jogged toward the stairs, but Ellis gripped his shoulder.
“You’ve made it this far,” said the reporter, with an unflinching glare. “It’s not an easy trip from Middleton Medical. I’ve taken the bridge plenty of times, and I’m still here—about to score the story of the decade.”
The tone of his voice gave Sam the impression this was either a nudge for help or an underhanded dare: I dare you to get in that glass box, and I dare you to dig yourself out of this mess you’ve started, and I dare you not to soil yourself in the process. Then again, the closest Sam had to a “lead” was that Mack died while cooking a counter curse.
“I need to get to Okra because Mr. Gaspare might be there. Could’ve sworn I saw him at the top of these steps,” said Sam.
“Knew you were messing with me when you called out his name! Sir Gaspare only comes into Okra during Creature Introductions Week. That’s when all the news outlets write about the newest extinct animals added to the sanctuary. I sell a ton of subscriptions that week.”
Sam’s nervousness morphed into anger. Was the giant’s mind that fuzzy or was he so secluded from everything that he genuinely didn’t know? Whatever the case, Sam had ventured from the caves to Lixferg to this “bridge” without getting any closer Gaspare.
The room vibrated with the clinking glass. Sam shuddered at the sight of the giant octopus, whose pink suckers offset its dusky complexion. With each movement, the surrounding sea life scattered, and fine dust showered the glass. Sam approached, his lungs working double-time. Ellis shuffled behind with his shaky hand still on Sam’s shoulder.
“It’s a slow trip, at first, but Gixxer speeds off once we’re mid-way,” said Ellis.
The doors pushed open as they approached the transport cube. Sam stared at the bottomless ocean beneath, and his shaky legs became much heavier. The dark octopus settled atop, its beak scared Sam into the corner. “Shit, shit, shit,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
Ellis entered and repeated a phrase of his own: “Be steady, be calm. Be steady, be calm.”
A glare appeared at the opening—glass sealed them in on all sides. Lining the inner roof were a marine life resembling barnacles, which spewed a mist that smelled like rain and fresh air.
“Off we go,” said a voice identical to Sam’s.
Ellis fiddled his fingers and twisted the shell where his suit-button should’ve been. His expression was that of a stomach ache; he didn’t enjoy these trips, and it was safe to assume he’d rather be doing anything else. On the bright side, the sea monster’s pink suction cups illuminated the interior.
“Yes, I’ve been fine, Gixxer. Thanks for asking,” mumbled Ellis. “Um, yeah, I’ll let them know you said hello.”
“What?” said Sam. Ellis didn’t reply. Instead, he stood in the corner nodding. Sam watched the glass chamber fade into a blur. A screeching sound accompanied each gentle sway of the cube. If he weren’t so focused on the monster, Sam might’ve succumbed to seasickness.
“Hello. May I ask your name?” said the voice like Sam’s.
“Who said that?” said the fleshling.
“I am Gixxer. I manage the bridge to Okra.”
Sam grimaced at the gigantic beast. Its tentacles were as wide as the glass walls separating them. “You sound like me.” He turned to Ellis. “Doesn’t he sound like me?”
“I can’t hear what Gixxer tells you,” said Ellis. “He speaks to you using the voice in your head.”
Can you hear me? Sam thought to himself. The similar voice didn’t return.
“Oh, him? He’s Sam McQueen, our new reporter at Tattersall Press,” said Ellis. “We need to talk to Laura.” Gixxer’s beak snapped, but Sam heard nothing. “Well, where’d she go?”
The beast’s gelatinous body sunk, and his rounded-rectangle eye inspected Sam. His tentacles became translucent, and the hazy outlines of fish were visible. They had ventured far enough for the Lekly side of the bridge to disappear, yet the creature didn’t move any faster. Gixxer’s face squished against the glass, fixated on Sam.
“You have the eyes of a newborn,” said Gixxer, utilizing Sam’s conscience.
“Well, I’ve been around the block.”
“By this, I mean, your eyes show a world of possibilities—life reinterpreted.”
Locked in an unnerving staring contest, Sam wondered if octopuses blinked at all. He turned to the wall not enveloped in the creature’s tentacles and caught sight of a yellow glow approaching them.
“What the fuck is that?” said Sam, smashing his finger against the glass.
Gixxer’s spun, forcing the cube into an extreme angle. The yellow streak collided with the glass where the octopus had rested his eye.
Dark swirls wrapped around Gixxer. It took Sam several seconds to realize he no longer stared at the octopus but rather an ink projection. The real Gixxer floated feet away, going transparent, but not before another streak burst onto its gummy body. A bright blue splash melded with the dark water, and the sea monster disappeared with a swooping wave, leaving the bumbling duo with the cracked glass, which spread like a spider web.
To Sam’s surprise, the cube didn’t sink without the support of Gixxer. Three rails hovered above their head, keeping them in line. “A plan would be nice!” he shouted. “I don’t wanna swim with the fishes. Especially if they’re as big as that octopus.”
“That thought isn’t helping! Just stay calm—this glass is enchanted.” Ellis flicked his wand straight; beads of water drenched its feather. “Scalpo.” A volatile flame sizzled on its tip, but the bright reflection made it harder to see. He moved forward, squinting while assessing the damage. A single chip of glass dislodged from the crack and the salty water spat at Ellis. “Then again, I’ve been wrong before—”
“Screw it,” said Sam, pulling the rogue wand from his pocket. He pointed at the hole. Get us out of here, he thought, concentrating so hard his temple stung.
Ellis shrieked in an attempt to stop Sam but failed. An ethereal orb shot from the bootleg wand. It ricocheted on every side of the cube until it connected on the crack, puncturing it further. The once-small hole crumbled into a vortex of glass and pouring water.
Ellis tossed Sam his handkerchief. “Find my vial; it’s bright green.”
Sam snapped his wand shut, and shoved it deep into his pocket, half embarrassed and half scared out of his mind. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he said, waving the cloth.
“Bunch it up!” Ellis spewed another incantation: “Integro.” The outer cracks reversed, but water continued to pour into the central hole. “Integro,” he shouted again—no luck. Shards of glass broke into the cubicle faster than his magic could fix.
As the water rose to their ankles, Sam crumpled the handkerchief, but nothing transpired.
“Gixxer, come back!” Ellis screamed. “I don’t understand. These walls should withstand any spell.” He pantomimed what he meant by “bunch it up.”
The surging water crept to Sam’s knee and threw him off balance. He scooped the handkerchief with the open ends peeking out the top of his balled fist. With a sudden pop, the cloth gain
ed weight and plumped at the bottom. He unraveled it to find Ellis’ personal scraps: a tortoise-shell wallet, pieces of wrapped candy, and an assortment of colorful vials, one of which shined a radiant green.
Sam reached the bottle toward Ellis, but the spraying hole knocked it out of his hand. It may have floated if it weren’t for the spatter of water that shoved the vial below. Ellis grabbed the handkerchief of items which vanished with a whip of the cloth. The water rose to their stomach and Sam held his breath before diving under.
The ocean water tingled his eyes, but the task injected him with enough adrenaline to stay focused. The green vial illuminated the floor, and the reporter came to his tippy-toes. Sam dove to the bottom and cupped the potion. Its glow subsided, and the fear of being in open water struck the fleshling like a boxer’s heavy punch. Then he saw a pinkish haze in the ocean’s abyss. The water beneath the cube darkened, and the pink dots scattered like stars in the night sky—Gixxer swam full speed toward them.
Sam expelled his breath in a string of bubbles, and doggy paddled to the surface. Ellis bobbed near the top. His wand dropped mildewed ashes, which swam circles near their necks. In seconds the cube would be filled with water—thud.
“Gixxer!” screamed Ellis. The octopus’ tentacle shattered the hole even further but created enough of a seal to keep the glass jail from filling.
“Here,” said Sam. He lifted the vial from beneath the water. The incredible gravity sapped all his energy to keep afloat. Their heads were close to the barnacle-like creatures, which now sprayed into their hair. Ellis waddled, both arms in the small pocket above water.
He dipped his wand into the green vial; it slurped the potion until the bottle emptied. Powdery grains fell from his feathered stick. Ellis pulled on Sam’s collar and circled the pair. A gust breezed behind Sam’s ear, and trickles of green ushered his eyes out of focus. When he snapped out of the trance, he felt free and weightless. The men were no longer in the ocean deathtrap. Instead, they stood in a wooden room with buffers on all sides.
FIFTEEN
Home & Office
“Mavis!” yelled Ellis, stomping in his drenched clothes. A leaky pen came flying into the doorless opening, and a clumsy notepad floated behind. “Title: Attack on Ree Waters,” he said, wasting no time describing the little details, at least how he saw them. Although, there may have been confusion about who fetched the green vial at the bottom of the cube.
Ellis’ cadence peaked and fell, and he leapt into an over-exaggerated reenactment. The words flowed fast and free from his mouth, painting himself as a distraught soul trapped in Okra’s turmoil for being an extinct species activist, and Sam—well, he hadn’t mentioned Sam much, aside from a brief description involving the words “clammy” and “blubbering mess.” All of which were scratched from the article after Sam reminded Ellis of his fleshling status. The pen raced through the pages of the notepad, stopping when Ellis caught his breath.
Sam’s eyes burned as though he’d rolled his eyelids onto a bed of salt. His soaked garb dripped a steady stream onto the gray tiles, and his shirt clung to his body. A round knob stuck from his chest pocket—the shrunken helmet survived the trip.
“Cliff, print this ASAP. If another paper beats us because you’re making origami with my stories, Sam and I will have ourselves a nice bonfire tonight,” said Ellis, guiding the notepad along. “You alright, Sam?”
“What the fuck man? None of that was good. All of that was bad,” Sam said, sniffling. He had trouble breathing, and tears beaded in his corner ducts. “Hope your story was worth it.”
“I’m only reporting the gist for now. I’ll take a Reminder Unwinder later and bang out another article about my recovery. But a helluva story, right? Right place, right time!”
Sam wasn’t as enthused. He collapsed to his knees, wringing more water onto the ground. “Everywhere I go, someone’s trying to kill me.”
“You? A bit self-centered, don’t you think? The attack was on Gixxer.”
“Are you high? The glass shattered with us inside. We could’ve died.”
“And who’s fault was that?” Ellis laughed as he shook the water from his hair. “We were caught in the mix. It’s the truth, and exactly what I’ll tell the mages if they come snooping around. Although, they can read it for themselves when the story publishes in thirty minutes. I’m so glad I went to Ree Bridge as early as I did!”
“You’re fucking crazy. There were two shots. One hit us dead-on, the other missed.”
Ellis adjusted his soaked suit and re-buttoned the shell. “Two shots is right. But the first one missed, the second didn’t. The attacker aimed at Gixxer.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gixxer told me when he came back. And good thing he did, or we might’ve been case studies for first-year elixir nurses.”
“We should go back and help. That octopus is creepy but—”
“Gixxer’s a big boy, old as dirt, too. He can handle himself. You think he would’ve returned if the attacker was still after him? He probably strangled the bastard.” Ellis signaled to the pen. “Mavis, make sure to send a thank you note to Gixxer. Oh, and a barrel of Lumpy Lucy’s Crab Claws—he adores those.”
Sam stood dumbfounded.
“These sorta things happen when you’re deep in the trenches of journalism, Sam. Once, I did a story about a rogue slinger of lala roots. Her Enhancement Brews were so addictive that four-out-of-ten Cruimlud players were using. And that’s a real statistic. I ran it myself. Of course, the sample size was only ten people but—”
“Ellis.”
“I’m saying I didn’t leave that report unscathed. It took me seven healing solutions and a full day at Evander’s Pipe Room to get better. But you’re nose deep in this case. A few scrapes and scratches make the tale worth telling.” The floating pen looked as if it were nodding. “Speaking of the rogue market—that wand of yours—”
“Wait, go back to the ‘pipes.’”
“You a smoker? I might have one around here somewhere. Supposed to make you hear music in your head every time you enter a room. Haven’t tried it myself, but the reviews are—”
“No, no—the Pipe Room, who runs it?”
Ellis angled away. “First of all, it’s called Evander’s Pipe Room, and it’s a chain. The owners are Evander Poe and Gibb Knottley.”
“Gibb. That guy took the ingredients list.”
The reporter leaned closer to the pen and whispered, “He’s a curious interrupter, eh?”
Sam winded his arms. “You got anything for sore muscles? I’m feeling my late twenties.”
“Got just the thing. But first—” Ellis leaned past the exposed wall and retrieved a bottle with holes on top. He squeezed it, and a flurry of tan dust showered the air before him. Ellis tossed the bottle to Sam and strolled through the floating plume. As he did so, a shriveling noise echoed through the room. Once the dust had cleared, Ellis stood in the center, dry as a bone. “I’ll search for some muscle stout,” he said, ascending the stairs.
Sam doused a small amount of the powder on his arm. The surrounding liquid evaporated in an instant. Thrilled with the spectacle, he shook a larger cloud of solution into the air. He raced forward, but his violent coughing masked the shriveling sounds. The powder dried Sam’s mouth, and it took him all of thirty seconds to regain moisture.
“Sam, join me when you’re ready.”
The lower floor looked like a log cabin composed of homey decorations and a gorgeous array of potted plants. The steep stairs were a white stone which contrasted the oak walls. Sam arose in a spacious loft with grandiose windows and a wooden staircase that split the space at its center. Ellis appeared in a nook which worked as a kitchen.
“Welcome to Tattersall Press. Soon to be Lekly’s number one news source.” The dapper gent crouched behind the kitchen island but popped to his feet with excitement. “Found it!”
Sam stood beside a long hallway, admiring a painting held by a crooked nail.
> “Beautiful, right?” Ellis said. “It’s enchanted to move, but I swear I’ve spent an entire hour not breaking eye contact—nothing.”
Sam swiped the jar from Ellis; honey-colored liquid filled to its brim. He stood in awe at the shelves of books and labeled newspapers cascading the wall.
“Pretty cool, right?” said Ellis, stopping beside Sam. “Arranged it myself. First by color, and then—after pulling my hair out—by name.”
“Any chance you’ve got spellbooks in here. Preferably with old hexes.”
“Whoa, that’s a dark path you don’t want to—”
“Too late. That ingredients list Gibb took from me—I stole it from Mack’s table before the mages found his body.”
Ellis distanced himself.
“Oh, relax. I didn’t kill the guy. I told you I was with Dara Avabelle yesterday. We found Mack dead, but also enough evidence to place him as the manor attacker.”
“Hmm. ‘Manor Attacker’ has a simple ring to it. Where were you when I wrote that article?”
“Wait, do you remember when your story went public?”
Ellis scoffed. “Yeah, I remember—got beat by Wombat Chronicles West. I don’t know how those guys got the scoop so quick, but Tattersall Press first reported that Mack got sent home, and the female guard was Dara Avabelle. And they say we’re a gossip column.”
Sam’s brows collided. “The killer might’ve seen your write-up. You updated them about Mack’s release.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“The killer came back for Dara. Luckily, we left the hospital.”
“ Okay . . . less proud now,” uttered Ellis. “Don’t put all the wrongdoing on me. You went and stole evidence from a crime scene.”
“Mack cursed Dara, but somebody killed him. The mages probably think I did both, and while they’re hunting me, I’m on the real attacker’s trail.” Sam yanked a thin novel from the bottom shelf. “You don’t need to remind me I made a shit move. I just thought if I could solve this myself maybe the mages wouldn’t send me back.”
