by Sarah Noffke
His eyes flick up to the ceiling as he fucking thinks, like a special needs ferret that ate rat poison. “Oh!” he says, the information apparently sawing through the thick walls of his dumb brain. “There was this dinner party a few months ago, prior to my election.”
“You weren’t elected,” I remind him and then wave him forward. “Go on, moron.”
“Well, there was a man there. An investor. He was willing to give me campaign money, but wanted me to hear his idea for a security upgrade. I heard the idea and thought it would be really cool. Upgrade the Pentagon in all the right ways,” he says.
“Name. What was the man’s name?” I say.
He scratches his wrinkled forehead, which is overly tanned from the dumb spray-on formula he no doubt uses as an attempt to cover his age spots. “Honestly, I don’t recall. That was a while ago, and I’d had a few martinis.”
“Send over a guest list for that party. I want it within the hour,” I say, pushing away from the desk and the disgusting ape’s foul breath.
“I don’t know if I can track it down that fast,” he says.
“You’ll do it, or you’ll be impeached for some heinous crimes. Do you understand me?” I say.
“Right. Yes, of course. I’ll have the list cross-referenced with the list of campaign supporters to help you trim it down,” he says, nodding his head now.
I give him a look of sudden astonishment. “Wow,” I say with no enthusiasm. “Look at you not being a complete dumbass, for once in your life.”
“Thanks,” Douglas says a bit sheepishly, sliding his hand along the side of his head.
Chapter Sixteen
The light from the banker’s lamp on my desk isn’t cutting it. Or maybe it’s my eyes, which have read thousands of words of text. Maybe it’s the reflection of the green glass shade off the stainless steel wall behind it. I twist around to realize that the Institute staff took heart to what I said and removed everything from my room but my bed and dresser and desk. I had everything related to Dahlia emptied from the room, including the sunlamps that she had strategically placed around the space. Maybe a bit of a premature move on my part, but I’m trying to remain focused at this time and not get swept away by emotions. Everyone wants me to grieve. Needs me to. But what those imbeciles fail to understand is that the moment I do that then I’ve given power to the idea that Dahlia is actually gone and there’s no way to get her back. I won’t do that.
I twist back around, my eyes taking a moment to adjust from the dark at my back. Pulling the book in front of me closer, I squint at the sea of words. They blur before taking shape. With a quick glance at the text I then return to taking notes, my hand sketching out the words in long, flowing cursive, an art form that will die soon.
Consciousness constructs reality. Without that and there is no experience. Stars aren’t consciousness just light and fire and energy, just as souls are. But combine consciousness with a soul and you have a person.
I pause, my senses picking up on something strange. Turning my head to the side, I expect to see someone standing beside me, but the space is empty. Then I turn back to the book, but again, I get that impression that something or someone is lurking at the corner of my vision. Blowing out a hot breath, I return to my notes. The ballpoint pen makes a scratching sound as I write.
We know that consciousness can exist outside the body.
I pause again, but this time because I’ve lost my train of thought. Lately, I feel like I’m in the field of nowhere and on the edge of something. It’s like I’m in that transitional moment when everything is leading up to something important and yet it seems that nothing is occurring. I’m stuck in an in-between moment. The one that precedes a great epiphany. And I know it and yet, I’m impatient with the process.
I redirect my focus to the large book in front of me: Socrates and Philosophy in the Dialogue of Plato. I tap my silver ballpoint on the leather-bound volume. “What is it that I need to know?” I say to myself, to the book.
Aiden has his challenges trying to find a way to open wormholes between the dimensions, but I’d happily exchange jobs with him. I know what I need to do and yet I don’t. I know what I’m looking for when I enter the Land of the Soul and yet I don’t. I have a plan and yet no map. I’m lost but I know where I’m going. It’s confounding. With such certainty, I know my soul will exist when I enter the third realm, but I don’t know any more than that. And Dahlia’s soul. That’s another complication I’ve yet to understand.
My eyes fall on two words. A name. Platonic soul.
The pen is back in my hand and sketching out the words as my eyes seize them out of the book.
Three parts to the Platonic soul. Logos, Thumos and E—
I halt. Certain again that something has just flickered in my peripheral. With a deliberate focus I turn, expecting to see a projection or something. Not Dahlia. She’s not a ghost and that’s not what I’m wishing for. We ensured that she moved on completely, knowing that she couldn’t get stuck in this world. I needed her to move straight to the Land of the Souls.
Once before I spied a person dream traveling in the physical realm. It should be impossible, but there is one thing that flexes that law. Emotions. Twenty years ago when I brought Trey his children, the ones I’d rescued from Allouette, there had been great emotion around that event. That’s the reason that I was able to spy Roya in the dreamscape. She’d dream traveled back in time to witness that moment, to comfort her father when he found out that Eloise, his wife, had died. It was the great weight of emotion and stress during that time that pulled back the sheet between the physical realm and dreamscape and allowed me to see Roya. And now, I think a similar cosmos is working and for the same factors.
“This is a great trespassing and if you don’t leave now then I’m going to go back in time and take your mum out before she has a chance to birth you into this world,” I say to what appears to be an empty room. And in the physical realm it is vacant. However, I sense the person in front of me with such certainty. And then I don’t and know that I’m once again alone.
Six minutes pass before I hear the knock at my door that I expected.
“Come in, you little repugnant witch,” I say, my back to the door as I finish writing my last sentence.
I turn as Adelaide sends the door into the recesses and stands looking at me, guilt covering her face. Because I know how dumbasses think, thanks to years of preventing their mistakes, I knew that Adelaide would come straight to me after her trespassing. She’d feel the sick need to apologize.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” I say, swiveling around and crossing my arms in front of my wrinkled dress shirt.
“You’re working on something,” she says, standing just inside the room. With a cautious look at the hallway at her back, she sends the door shut, giving us privacy.
“I’m always working on something. That doesn’t answer my question,” I say.
“It’s not a case for the Lucidites,” she says, like she’s caught me in a lie.
“No, it isn’t,” I say.
“Well, I was spying on you just now because I wanted to know what you’re working on,” she says.
“I really don’t have to tell you that it’s none of your business,” I say.
“It is my business because you’re my—”
“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want to lose several thousand brain cells,” I cut her off.
“Ren, it isn’t fair that you demand to be so secretive. That you don’t allow anyone in. That you keep me at a dis—”
“Take the word ‘fair’ out of your vocabulary, Addy.”
She sizes me up with her large green eyes, which I know see more than most. Observe the world with a superior knack for analytics. My daughter is both a curse to me and a blessing to this world. “I know what you’re doing,” she says, sounding smug.
“Stomaching you? Yes, it’s quite difficult and I do feel the co
ntents of my stomach pushing to the surface as we speak,” I say.
“You’re trying to bring her back,” she says, ignoring my cunning quip. I hate it when people do that.
“No, it doesn’t sound like you know what I’m doing.” I point to the door. “Get out and I don’t want to see your face for a while, so keep your distance.”
She dares to walk forward, her eyes on the stack of books on my desk. “Then if you’re not trying to bring Dahlia back…” she says, her gaze roaming over the volumes that to most would offer meaningless insights, but to Adelaide are probably telling her the full story. Then she gasps. “You’re going to go after her.”
“You’re grounded. Forever,” I say, crossing my ankle over my knee and leaning back in my desk chair.
“I saw you write something about the Land of the Souls,” she says, trying to look over my shoulder at my notes.
“I saw a future where I strangle you,” I say.
“You can’t take a consciousness into the Land of Souls without destroying our world. You taught me about the laws of the universe. About time and space,” she says slowly, as though trying to recall that specific lecture. “And anything that breaks laws will make the earth destroy itself with natural disasters and catastrophes.”
“This world is shit. Who cares,” I say.
“I care. And you do too. You’ve spent the better part of your life trying to protect this planet and now you’re going to destroy it, all so you can be reunited with the love of your life? You should care about what this could do to our world,” she says and now she sounds angry, but she has no idea who is better at this.
I stand at once and thrust a finger in her direction. “Don’t tell me what I should care about!” I yell, my voice echoing off the stainless steel walls. “And don’t you propose to think because I’ve bestowed a bit of knowledge on you that you know how this planet works. You’re a fucking grasshopper who thinks because she understands a few laws that she’s got this whole bloody world figured out. Well, you don’t. You’re an ignorant little shit that needs to mind your own business,” I say, all the repressed emotions bursting to the surface finally.
“That’s not fair,” she says, her fists by her side and her mouth hardly parting for the words.
“What did I tell you about using that word?” I say, my chin low and eyes smoldering.
“Why should I listen to a damn thing you say? You save this world and then when you see fit, you opt to destroy it for your own selfish gain,” she says and I never realized that my daughter was a humanitarian. I thought she was just an annoying little git. There might be hope for her after all.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say.
“So journeying to the Land of the Souls won’t hurt the physical realm?” she challenges.
“It might, just a bit. Depends,” I say, now feeling more even-tempered.
“Depends on what?” she says.
“On how fast I can reconstruct my soul and get us the hell out of there,” I say, all of this actually dawning on me as I speak. The text from Plato instantly took shape in my head during this conversation, as though this argument was the catalyst I needed to see what I was missing. Bloody brilliant.
“Well, that doesn’t sound hard,” Adelaide says, her voice overflowing with sarcasm.
“It should be easy peasy,” I say.
“And then what?”
“Then I take Dahlia to the dreamscape,” I say, waving at the door. “And now it’s time for you to leave.”
“What? She can’t go into the dreamscape. She’s a Middling,” Adelaide says, rudely ignoring my dismissal of her.
“She was a Middling. I fixed that,” I say and yet again I point at the door. “Leave. Looking at you is robbing me of my soul and I’ll apparently need it for where I’m going.”
“But if you…” She trails away, her eyes studying the wall behind me. “That means…” Again, she doesn’t finish her sentence. Her mind is constructing the newest reality. “You’re not coming back, are you?”
“I don’t really see how I could,” I say, casually taking a seat again, my voice cool.
“But Ren—”
“I’ve made up my mind. This is not up for discussion, especially with a little sneak who refuses to leave my chamber after you’ve been dismissed several times,” I say, and spin around, putting my back to her.
“Ren, I don’t want you—”
“Get out now, or there will be no formal goodbye when the time comes,” I say, my voice bordering on hostile.
Her feet hesitate. I hear it in the way her clothes shift, like she’s taken a step forward and then paused. And then she retreats and I know she’s gone when the door slides shut with a gentle swooshing sound.
Chapter Seventeen
Soon werewolves will be prowling the streets. And soon is a relative term here. It could be in a year or a few. It could also be in only a few months. It’s hard to tell since we’re still lacking in the news reporting department. We have no idea who we’re up against and our best guess is that it’s an invisible mastermind with an unhealthy desire to produce creatures out of horror films.
Well, that’s my best guess, but everyone else at the Institute is in denial. There isn’t enough evidence for Trey or Trent to believe that all the clues point to the creation of a werewolf population. However, I think they’ve buried their heads because they don’t want to believe the truth. They haven’t recovered from the last battle and the idea of badass werewolves tearing people’s throats out before we can see it in the news reports is too much for the wimps. They should face the fucking facts, though, so we can actually take the advantage, which unfortunately, I’m not certain what that could be.
We’re a step behind this mad scientist. Just yesterday a dozen men from various walks of life went missing and they were on the list from the database that was stolen from the Pentagon. Most wouldn’t connect the abductions, but the Lucidites have ways of spotting these correlations. In less than a few hours, each of these men vanished in a similar fashion. There was no indication of an attack or a struggle. No one saw a single thing that gives us any clue who took the men or where they are being held. If I didn’t have more pressing matters then I’d be working this case from every angle and harassing the news reporting department to do their fucking job.
But what the hell do I care if a bunch of werewolves are unleashed on society? I mean, we don’t have to jump to the assumption that this is totally a bad thing. Maybe some good could come of it. Maybe the men were willing and are submitting themselves for the purpose of science. Not that I totally buy that. I actually just don’t give a damn. Breaking into the realm of the dead is kind of monopolizing my free time and head space lately.
The voices in Aiden’s lab make me pause because one of them I don’t recognize. The other one is undoubtedly Aiden’s nasally voice, which usually makes me cringe due to its overly happy tone.
“I think the first strategy for finding a wormhole is simple observation,” the stranger says.
“Hmmm,” Aiden muses. “How do you suppose we go about that?”
“It’s fairly straightforward. Wormholes are pretty unmistakable. They are bright around the circumference and then dull in color in the center,” the man says with a thick German accent.
A laugh follows his words. “Pretty unmistakable, huh? So you’ve seen a wormhole before?” Aiden says.
“No, actually I haven’t, but the research on what they’d look like is rather extensive,” the stranger says.
“Under different circumstances this might be a good strategy, but I think this approach will be too slow for Ren’s timeline. He’s kind of the proactive type and I think he’d rather we create a way to find these transports rather than go and discover them by searching,” Aiden says, and at the mention of my name I round the corner and march straight into the lab, stopping only a few feet from the stranger. He’s wearing a long white and gray beard and the
buttons of his shirt look close to popping off.
“Who the fuck are you?” I say.
The man narrows his eyes at me behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Who are you?” he dares to fire back at me.
“Ren, this is Professor Alexander Drake. He’s one of the world’s experts on wormholes, as well as many other unrelated subjects. I brought him in on this project to advise since I’m hitting a few walls,” Aiden says in a rush.
I revolve in Aiden’s direction. “I told you this was to remain a private matter. Now I must kill you both,” I say, with a tired sigh.
Aiden laughs because he doesn’t think I’m serious. “Well, it was either bring in a fresh thinker on the subject or not progress at all with the project. I figured you’d rather we were actually successful after how far you’ve come.”
I look at the man who resembles Santa Claus, but without the cheery demeanor. “Alex here is ancient. I fail to see how he’s going to offer anything fresh or new,” I say.
The German coughs loudly. It’s his way of telling me my insults aren’t appreciated. I don’t trust Germans, mostly because they eat too much saturated fat and clog up the streets of London on holidays with their fat asses and bad attitudes.
“With all due respect, Mr. Lewis, I’m reasonably certain that I can offer some valuable insights on this project based on what Dr. Livingston has shared with me,” he says, indicating Aiden.
“It’s true,” Aiden chirps. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure that as much as I wanted to believe it, that wormholes were real or that we could access them. However, Alexander has convinced me otherwise.”
“Call me Drake. Alexander was my father’s name,” the old man says and I just get a hint of bitterness in his tone.
Too curious not to ask, I say, “Wouldn’t Drake be your father’s name too?”
“No,” he says, that resentment again in his voice. “I changed it to my mother’s maiden name many decades ago.”
Most people wear their traumas like pendants around their neck. However, this man isn’t meaning to. Whatever has made him so angry at his father is still boiling under the surface. It’s an uncontrollable anger. A dangerous one.
