Then, blinding white light showers over her. Heat swarms down, eating up her startled gasp. A rush creeps up in her ears, whispering voices, indiscernible, pouring through the bark. Magnetism lifts the loose strands of her hair. There’s a sudden cool prickling on the back of her neck. She lifts her chin, staring up into the blaze; the strain pulls tears from her eyes. Her arms fall, and lungs swell, releasing the pressure from her knees. Warmth swirls around her. Her shins, then toes, graze the moss as she’s lifted higher into the white hollow above. The whispers meld together into a rush like water, reaching a deafening crescendo. Then the power’s cut, every sense is flung into a vacuum; no light, no sound, weightlessness gone.
Sloane opens her eyes, feeling moss between her toes again. An electric residue flickers across her limbs as her breath settles. She tests a few movements, sensing the current fade across her palms. When she stands, her knees still a little shaky. She stumbles as she steps out of the hollow.
“I got you.” Erim grabs her hand, stabilizing her.
She breaks out into an uncontrollable smile, her body still tingling. “Thought I was a goner in there for a second.”
Erim shakes his head. “Feel for yourself.” He guides her hand to the back of her neck, where the skin is raised in a circular pattern like a scar. The Midst’s mark. “Welcome home, Pontem Sloane.”
Applause, carried on a cool breeze, awaits Sloane as she emerges from the sanctum. She’s immediately encircled with smiling faces, congratulations, and outstretched hands. The group escorts her back to the gathering in front of the stairs. Somboon steps up with her and turns her to face the crowd, holding her hand in the air. “Souls of The Midst!” he announces, “I present to you, Pontem Sloane Lloyd Rory!” The group erupts, not only with cheers and applause, but the creaturae add howls, chirps, and every other animal sound. Flower petals fall from the overhanging trees as if on cue, but really because the gorilla is pounding the ground with his fists. The cavern vibrates with celebratory noise. Even a displeased Rhuso stands within the ovation, though his hands stay clamped by his side as his eyes lock with Sloane’s above the crowd.
Most people depart for the celebration area, and the leaders line up to introduce themselves. Sloane didn’t notice before, but each Soul Keeper is wearing the symbolic color of their terrarum. Nubibus’s Soul Keeper Nafisa dons a delicate pink suit, quite the contrast from her intimidating wolf Riggs. Arborum’s color is brown, represented by Aditi and Socrates. The massive gorilla, Monty, belongs to Animalium’s Soul Keeper Casper, who represents his terrarum in a pale orange dress shirt. Unsurprisingly, the color for Nivis is white, and Soul Keeper Mathias embodies it completely, except for the furry sash wrapped around him, his sloth Casca. Sloane greets Ruusa again as Abner dangles off her purple blouse. The green on Herbas’s Soul Keeper Ashana matches the eyes of her leopard, Render. Lapidis’s Soul Keeper, Kazue wears a crisp gray blazer and has an otter Kit. Soul Keeper Ophelia of Harenarum stuns in an elegant yellow gown, accompanied by her alarmingly large python Veneno.
The Arcs step up as a group to congratulate Sloane. Each wears two colors, representing the two terrarums they serve. For Ifede, it’s a smoky white and gray dress, Bastian charms in a dapper brown suit with a yellow tie, and Kostya is dressed like cotton candy in a purple vest and pink bowtie.
The last introduction is Head Soul Keeper Sisiro. He sways up to Sloane in flowing robes, black for Obscuri. His nose is straight, his lips thin, and his eyes dark gray. He’s at least double Rhuso’s age but with the same ghost-white hair that’s tamed back neatly. A slender dog, Sinabu, stands at his side with a narrow snout and pointy ears that are ever-alert. Sisiro is likely taller than Sloane, but a bend in his back lowers him to her level. His son stands docile behind him. Sloane sees him flinch when Sisiro takes her hand.
“My dear, you look absolutely lovely,” Sisiro says, straightening into a smile. “Please accept my most sincere welcome to our Midst.” His voice is naturally dry.
“Thank you, Princeps Custos,” Sloane replies, hoping that she pronounces his formal title correctly.
He pats her hand. “I so look forward to working together in the future.” He turns back to Rhuso. “I understand you’ve met my son.”
“Once or twice.” She nods, enjoying how livid Rhuso looks.
Sisiro must sense the dislike leaking through her smile because he leans forward to whisper, “Forgive him. He doesn’t get out much.” He cracks a grin, and Sloane tries not to laugh. “My wife Stephyn so wished to be here today, but unfortunately, she had to stay and supervise the terrarum as my Auxilium Anima. She sends her warmest greetings,” he says.
“Thank you,” Sloane says.
Sisiro nods. “Enjoy the festivities, my dear.”
The dining area has been completely converted into party central. Lights and streamers lace the trees, and the dining tables have been set up in a large ring around the glade for space to dance in the middle. A quartet plays lively music in one corner, making Sloane wish for her violin. People are feasting, drinking, laughing, and dancing. The atmosphere is pure euphoria. Sloane sits at the Arc’s table to eat, listening to the stories of their own inaugurations.
“I could barely see anything,” Kostya says with a laugh. “I was crying with joy the whole time.”
Ifede pats his arm fondly. “At least you didn’t almost fall backward off the altar—twice.” She taps her stomach. “This and kneeling don’t exactly mix.”
They turn to Bastian. “Oh, don’t look at me.” He puts his hands up. “My inauguration was awesome. Only messed up my lines twice, didn’t get booted Onward, and the party….” He tilts his head back with a grin. “Booze, dancing—you know three women followed me home?” He clicks his teeth. “Talk about a long night.” He leans towards Kostya. “One of them, Morgan, gorgeous girl, had the most amazing ti—”
“My friend,” Somboon clasps his shoulder, “thank you for reminding us that there is nothing stronger than the power of silence.”
“Just trying to live a life of service.” Bastian shrugs. “Speaking of my services,” he stands up and whips off his jacket, “care for a dance, new girl?” Sloane conjures herself up a whiskey sour at the thought. “Mamacita?” Bastian turns to Ifede, rolling up his sleeves.
“Ah, on these feet, I think Kostya will be more my speed.” Ifede smiles. Bastian sashays off like it’s their loss, and Kostya takes Ifede off to dance, leaving Somboon and Sloane alone at the table. He shows Sloane the mark on the back of his neck, the same one she has now. It’s a ring with a line emerging from either side. One half of the ring has little interior hatch lines, and the other half has circles encompassing the outside. The skin is raised, scarred whiter than the rest of the skin.
Somboon watches the party with a wistful joy. As Sloane sips her drink, she realizes how out of context he looks here, his shoulders barely as tall as the backrest of his chair. But then, Sloane supposes, everyone landed here out of context. She is growing to love this new mosaic world of hers.
Erim walks up with suspicious eyes. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
She looks at him defiantly. “Please, my family’s Irish. There’s no such thing as a drinking age. I’ve been legal for…” she looks at an imaginary watch on her wrist, “nineteen years.” She enforces the statement with another sip. “Besides, I know for a fact I’m more qualified to drink than you’ll ever be.” She doesn’t even realize until she’s said it that she may have gone too far. But Erim smiles.
“Fair enough,” he concedes. “Would the very old, very legal drinker like to dance with me?” He stretches out his hand.
Sloane snickers at the question. “Super tempting when you put it that way, but I’m not nearly drunk enough for that.” She shakes her head.
“Well then,” Erim says, “as entertaining as it would be to watch you try, you should know there’s no getting drunk here.”
Sloane looks over at Somboon, who confirms with a nod. Her smile drops, and she slam
s the worthless beverage down on the table. “And there’s not even an HR person to complain to.”
Erim smirks down at her pitiful, sober self. “Trust me, you want to dance with me.”
“Oh yeah, why is that?”
“Because Ben’s looking for you.” Erim raises his brow. Sloane snatches his hand and pulls him out onto the floor.
Then she gets a lot less confident. “I should warn you that my generation’s version of dancing isn’t even real dancing,” she says.
“Good.” Erim turns and takes a step towards her. “I wouldn’t want to be the only one looking like an idiot.” She looks around, still unsure. “You won’t look silly.” Erim grins, putting up a hand in oath. “Cross my heart.” The tension in Sloane’s stomach eases a little, and he sees it. “May I?” She nods, and he wraps his right arm around her waist to rest his hand at the small of her back. In one swift motion, he pulls her to his chest. She rests one hand on his shoulder and the other in his waiting palm.
Slowly at first, their feet begin to move. Sloane winces every time her weight brushes over his toes, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. It’s like he anticipates each of her steps and corresponds his movement to fit. So much for his promise that she wouldn’t look silly. When she finally glances up from their feet, Erim’s eyes are settled on her. His gentle black gaze dips into hers, filled with amusement and fascination.
“You did great today,” he says softly.
“Oh, come on.” Sloane rolls her eyes.
“What?” Erim asks through half a laugh.
“Inauguration hook-ups must be like your prom nights, right? You’ll brag about it in the Soul Keeper locker room the next day?”
His chest shakes as he laughs. “You’ve been spending too much time around Ben and Bastian.” Then his grin wavers, and his movement slows to look at her clearly. “But if you’re uncomfortable, we can sto—”
Sloane shakes her head. “How could I be uncomfortable with my mindset of mental superiority?”
“And the student becomes the master.” Erim chuckles, swaying again. Sloane’s breathing slows as her cheeks heat. But it’s true; her nerves aren’t the uncomfortable kind. It’s a different feeling. The party seems to fade away, and for the next few seconds, they are just content to be two souls trying not to step on each other’s toes.
Suddenly, Adrian’s voice echoes into her head. “Sloane,” he says, low and cracked.
Her heart falls heavily; he sounds terrible. “Adrian,” she breathes
Erim pulls back to look at her. “Hm?” She steps away, pushing him back without meaning to. Confusion flashes over his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” Sloane closes her eyes and zeros in on Adrian.
Sloane warps into the dark, all the light and music and movement suddenly gone. She’s standing over her gravestone, which sits gray and solemn in the dark.
“Sloane!” Adrian calls again. She turns to see him stumbling up the hill, his steps jumbled by alcohol. The rain begins to pound down, ricocheting off gravestones. Adrian slips on the grass, landing roughly with a giggle. Sloane’s mind races, brainstorming how to get him the help she can’t give.
In a moment, she jumps across town to Sofia, who’s lounging on her couch with some Chinese food. “Adrian, graveyard, now. Quick,” Sloane says. Sofia throws off the blanket, slips into some shoes, and grabs her car keys.
Sloane returns to the cemetery, where Adrian is staggering around, slurring her name. Eventually, he comes upon the correct headstone and makes a triumphant sound. “There you are,” he murmurs, plopping down on the new rectangle of green turf in front of the stone. He picks at the ground, fiddling with blades of grass. Sloane sits next to him, wanting so badly to hug him, fix him. He takes a couple swallows of beer. “Miss you.” He sniffs. “Every second.”
“I miss you too,” she whispers. They sit in silence for a while as Adrian tries to steady his swaying head.
“I’m scared—” He runs his sleeve over his face. “I think the best part of me died with you.” Sloane can practically feel her heart crack in her chest. “But I never told you.” He pounds the grass with the bottom of his bottle, sloshing the beer. Then he reaches forward, stroking the letters of Sloane’s name. “And now you’re never going to know.” Sloane’s mind takes quite a few seconds to fully comprehend what he’s saying. Her eyes well up as he lets out gut-wrenching sobs. “I just kind of always thought we’d figure our thing out one day,” he says with his next full breath. “I don’t know what I was waiting for.” He jerks a fist into his temple. “Stupid!”
“Adrian, please,” Sloane cries. She doesn’t want him to be in pain anymore.
A beam of light lands on them as Sloane hears Sofia calling Adrian’s name. Sloane waves her over. She must have run every single red light to arrive so fast.
“Sofia!” Adrian gasps with muted excitement. “Sloane look, it’s Sofia.” He pats the top of the gravestone.
Sofia clicks off her flashlight, embracing the wet darkness of the field. “What are we drinking?” She sits next to Adrian.
“It’s beer, I think.” He squints at the bottle. Sofia holds out her hand. “You want some?” He gives it to her.
“I don’t drink anything under seventy proof,” she says, tossing it away without a glance. Adrian makes a sound of sadness as the rest of his liquid courage waters the weeds.
He looks back at Sloane’s gravestone. Barely any light permeates the clouds. The only sound is the pattering of rain on the stones. “Do you think she knew, Sofia?”
Sofia’s eyes are locked on the grass under her legs. “If she didn’t before, she knows now.” Her voice is flat, definite.
“You sure?” Adrian croaks.
Sofia nods, looking up at Sloane. “She knows you love her.” The words are pulled into the swarm of conflicted thoughts in Sloane’s mind. But she doesn’t want to think; it’s too raw. Adrian nods, his breath heavy. Sofia tucks her heavy wet curls behind her shoulder. “Hey, Adrian?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m kind of cold. Do you think we could get out of the rain?”
The slightest sound of her discomfort breaks Adrian out of his despair. “Yeah, of course.” He pushes to his knees. “Let’s get you inside.”
“Thanks.” Sofia watches him struggle to find his feet and then helps him down the hill. She tucks him into the back seat of her car and returns to retrieve her flashlight. She looks tired in the low light. “He can sleep it off at my place. I’ll call Elena and let her know where he is.”
“Thank you, Sofia,” Sloane replies shakily.
“Sure.” Sofia gives her a weak smile. “He’ll be fine. It just takes time.” Sloane’s already tried to convince herself of that, but she doesn’t believe it anymore. “Looks like a hell of a party,” Sofia adds with a wry smile at Sloane’s dress.
Sloane grinds her teeth as she watches them drive away. She turns to her headstone, cursing the damned thing and all it represents. Something glinting in the grass catches her eye, and she bends down to pick up the little violin key chain Adrian left behind.
When Sloane returns to The Midst, the party is in fuller swing than when she left. Most people have taken to the dance floor. Erim is at her table, immersed in conversation with Somboon. She hears a loud giggle over her shoulder. Charlotte’s teeth flash through the crowd as Dmitri swings her around.
Sloane wipes her face and decides to slip away while everyone’s distracted. Unfortunately, the dorm path is across the clearing. She slips through the dancers, trying to get through invisibly. Just before she reaches the edge of the group, the little girl Ches liked steps in front of her. The girl stares at Sloane like she isn’t going to move.
“Mina, right?” Sloane asks, crouching down.
The child nods with a shy smile. “I like your dress. It’s pretty.”
“Thanks, I like yours,” Sloane says. Mina grins bashfully.
“Are you leaving?” she asks, furrow
ing her brow.
“I think so. I’m a little tired.” Sloane nods. “But it’s a secret, okay? I want everyone to stay and have fun.” Mina nods at her and brings a finger to her lips to show she won’t tell.
Suddenly, there’s an unfamiliar wet crunching sound. Mina’s eyes widen with shock. Sloane stares down with horror at a black blade thrust into Mina’s back, shredding through her chest.
OCTODECIM
Screaming. People are screaming.
Shapes and colors fly around Sloane as people flee in a panic. She can’t move. Not when Mina’s plasma spatters her face, not when the sword is pulled out of her back, and not when she dissolves into tiny pieces that litter the floor.
A figure stands over Sloane, tall and dark. He wears a crazy mane of tangled, dirty white hair. His crimson eyes are hard, and his lips curl back into a cruel smile at her expression of alarm.
Then she’s sliding back across the floor as someone drags her away. Erim pulls her to her feet within the crowd of onlooking Soul Keepers and Arcs. The creaturae are in distress. Monty pounds the ground with his fists, and every animal is in defense mode, protecting their hominum. Most civilians have fled, but a few clusters are cornered, cut off from any exit. Dmitri shields Charlotte within the group.
Everyone is silent, watching the man as he paces back and forth, like a wolf deciding which sheep to devour next. He wipes Mina’s plasma off his blade with his free hand, and to everyone’s horror, licks his fingers clean. He isn’t just holding the black sword; it is his arm. Just below his right elbow, his arm blackens, and his skin changes to a rocky substance. The end tapers to a deadly point, stretching down almost to the ground.
“Subjects of The Midst!” The man roars. Everyone grimaces as his voice assaults their ears once again. Sloane stands to watch him. “I thank you for such a gracious welcome,” he sneers, bowing slightly. He points his sword arm up to the blue decorations. “The streamers are a festive touch.” He pauses as if waiting for them to laugh at the joke.
Interitum Page 17
