Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  Sloane’s hand trails up the essentia stain. “I can’t get out of it,” she grumbles.

  “I’ll help.” Ben skips forward, running right into Erim’s blockade of an arm.

  “Nope.” He spins her around the way she just came in. “You won’t be able to morph that,” he tells Sloane from the doorway. “Gifts from The Midst are immutable, just as anchored as a tree or a rock.”

  Sloane nods. “Coming off the old-fashioned way, got it.”

  Erim pushes Ben into the next room. She swats him off and scowls. “Who the hell was that guy?”

  “I don’t know.” Erim digs his nails into the back of his neck. “Just a soul escaped from Obscuri.”

  “Oh, just that?” Ben laughs. “Here I was looking for an answer that wasn’t completely insane.” Erim shrugs, out of words. Ben steps a little closer, lowering her voice. “So, what did he want with her—besides the obvious?”

  “Obvious?” Erim slows.

  “Yeah, what you want to do with her, what I’d do with her.” Ben jams her elbow into his ribs with a grin. Erim winces, more from her words than the gut punch.

  Sloane returns in a loose sweater just as the door opens, and Somboon steps in, looking tired. “We’re ready for you,” he says, cupping Preeda in his little hand. Erim and Sloane rise, but Somboon puts out a hand to stop her. “Erim only, please, Sloane.”

  She freezes, shooting Erim an uncertain glance. “What?”

  “She has a right to be there.” Erim crosses his arms.

  “You are not being excluded,” Somboon clarifies. “After we confer with Erim, you may join us. You have just been through quite an ordeal, and it was suggested that you take a moment to rest, collect yourself.” It’s an innocent enough idea that no one would think to be suspicious, but Erim knows what it really means. They’re being separated to see if their stories align.

  “Somboon, I’m fine,” Sloane protests. His pointed gaze zeroes in on the wide green bandage peeking above her shirt. “Really,” she insists, crossing her arms.

  Somboon’s features soften. “If the body is not kept in good health, the mind cannot be kept strong and clear.” That’s his kind way of saying he stands firm behind the decision.

  Erim can’t deny he likes the idea of keeping Sloane out of the convocation as long as possible. Every moment she’s under their scrutiny increases the risk. He doesn’t know from whom. Erim molds a warm smile onto his face and nods to reassure her. Sloane concedes with a frustrated sigh, and Somboon does a slight bow, thankful for her compliance. “I will return for you shortly. In the interim, Ben here will keep you company.”

  Sloane looks back at Ben, who lounges in a chair, seemingly without a care in the world. “I don’t need a babysitter.” She huffs, flopping down into a seat.

  “Believe me,” Ben says, dropping her feet onto Erim’s coffee table, “I have better things to do with my Saturday night. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are.”

  “Hands to yourself,” Erim reminds Ben on his way to the door.

  “As if.” She snorts.

  Somboon and Erim walk wordlessly down the hall towards the convocation room. Monthly convocations are trivial, just logistical updates. Erim’s never been to an emergency convocation; he’s not sure any of them have. Somboon stops before the door, inhales deeply, and exhales fully. “If the problem can be solved, why worry?” He looks up at Erim. “If the problem cannot be solved, worrying serves no purpose.” He’s not just speaking to Erim; he’s trying to calm himself. It’s an ominous sign.

  As they go in, the clamor hits Erim’s ears. He’s never heard such an uproar from a convocation before. The ceilings are high, but the room’s circumference is only big enough to hold the oval table. The noise makes the room seem much smaller. Soul Keepers and Arcs sit around the table talking over each other, arguing about plans of action, asking questions no one has answers to. The creaturae are restless. Nim finds Monty, who’s shuffling anxiously behind Casper.

  “Quiet all, please!” Sisiro calls. The crowd traces his gaze to Erim, taking his seat. Their shouts simmer down to fevered murmurs. “How is Pontem Sloane?” Sisiro asks, leaning forward.

  “She’ll be fine.” Erim nods.

  “Good.” There’s a small sigh of relief among the others.

  “What happened?” Ophelia asks, folding her hands on the table.

  “The three of you just disappeared!” Kazue sputters.

  “It was him—Esht,” Erim says. “He conducted Sloane and me to Earth.”

  “How is this possible?” Ruusa directs the question at Somboon.

  “He’s the Summum.” Erim jumps in before Somboon can answer. He looks around the room at the Soul Keepers, the brothers and sisters he just lied to.

  Nafisa glares at him. “The Summum Ponti is a myth.”

  “Not anymore.” Erim stares right back. “Only someone with that kind of power could escape Obscuri’s soul shields.”

  “What suddenly makes you the expert?” Nafisa leans back in her chair like she’s waiting to be entertained by his explanation.

  Erim has to pause before he answers. This part is somehow harder because it’s the truth. “I knew a soul years ago who had these abilities.” A few Soul Keepers gasp.

  “Who?” Somboon leans forward.

  Everything in Erim resists dredging up this part of his past. He has to fight to overcome the guilt of giving up his friend’s secret, but Renny is gone, and this is the only way to protect Sloane. “His name was Renato Souza.”

  “We did not know of him,” Somboon says.

  “That’s how he wanted it,” Erim says, still conflicted about revealing Renny, even after all this time. “He didn’t want to be an Arc, so he kept it hidden.”

  “How convenient.” Nafisa sighs. When Erim was calculating how this inquisition was going to go, he forgot to factor Nafisa into the equation. He’s been on the receiving end of her potent animosity ever since the Claimant House. They were very close once, but after they fell out, Nafisa’s made every interaction frigid.

  “Is this an interrogation, Nafisa?” Erim looks at her before scanning the room.

  “Of course not, Erim,” Kazue says. There are sounds of agreement.

  Nafisa shrugs. “I’m just making sure Erim knows exactly what he’s saying, that he’s not feeling too… disordered.” She drags out the pause before the last word. Her poorly veiled insult surprises a few faces around the table. Others pretend that her choice of words was a coincidence. Erim’s fists clench at his sides. Usually, he would ignore her insult, but the longer he can drag this out, the more time he can give Sloane. Just as he’s planning the words to provoke Nafisa further, Ophelia speaks up.

  “You have our full confidence, Erim. Isn’t that right, Nafisa?” Silence is her reply.

  “What did the soul say to you and Pontem Sloane?” Sisiro asks, cutting the tension in the room.

  “I don’t know what he said to her.” Erim shakes his head. “He wouldn’t let me close enough to hear.”

  Sisiro nods thoughtfully. “Well, thank you for your candor, Custos Erim.”

  “What are we going to do about him?” Erim asks.

  “My son is searching for him as we speak, and when he is apprehended, he will be returned to my care in Obscuri.” Sisiro nods curtly. “Now, let’s discuss how we may calm everyone during this uncertain—”

  Erim feels a question nagging at him. “How did he get out?” His words echo across the table. Sisiro pauses like he didn’t hear him correctly. “Who was watching him?” Erim repeats. “Did no one report his escape?”

  “Show some respect for once, Erim,” Nafisa snaps.

  “It’s all right, Custos Nafisa.” Sisiro puts up a hand to quell her. “There are many mechanisms of escape prevention in Obscuri. This particular soul was under constant guard, and where there are human souls, there is inevitably… human error. Rest assured, it will never happen again.” His confident smile bolsters the room’s hope, but Sisiro can
tell the answer isn’t satisfactory to Erim. “You’re uneasy, Custos Erim, with good reason. He’s a dangerous soul with frightening abilities and unknown intentions. Only one person might have some clues as to his purpose.”

  Erim feels his plan backfiring. “I don’t mean—”

  “No, of course, we should know the full story. It’s only logical.” Sisiro’s eyes shift over. “Somboon, if you would be so kind as to fetch Pontem Sloane, perhaps she can enlighten us.”

  VIGINTI

  Sloane drums on the arm of Erim’s chair in boredom, watching her fingers rise and fall on the padded fabric like hammers on piano strings.

  Erim’s fear surprised her. She never considered that he’d have no frame of reference for what happened to Mina. But when she thinks it over, it makes sense that he’s never experienced the uncertainty that mortal people face every day. She wants to respect his caution, but defiance is nagging at her. Revealing herself would be cleaner; she could face whatever sentence awaits her head-on. But her powers won’t be able to help anyone if she’s destroyed. Erim’s plan seems the safest, for now.

  She could delude herself that withholding information isn’t technically lying, but it’s a thin argument. She will have to lie. The fabricated story should be as similar to the truth as possible, but Sloane has no faint clue what the truth is. Not who Esht is, what he wants, or why Sloane is involved in his plans. All she knows is what she saw, and that’s a weak base.

  Mina’s face appears in her mind, wide eyes filled with terror and confusion. The blade sticks out of her chest, fused to Esht’s arm. The sick feeling in Sloane’s throat gives her tingles.

  “So, you finally got me all alone.” Ben slides onto the couch next to Sloane, an impish look on her face. “What do you wanna do?”

  “I want to go see Dmitri and Bastian,” Sloane says, lifting her head.

  “Aw, no can do, kiddo,” Ben replies. “We’re staying here—strict orders from the ‘rents.” Sloane groans. Ben lounges over the arm of the couch. “If you’re really that bored, I can think of one or two activities.”

  Sloane gets to her feet. “I don’t need your permission. I’ll just go on my own.”

  “Try it, and I’ll knock you on your sweet ass.” Ben bats her eyes at her.

  “What are you, twelve?”

  “Sixteen, plus many years on the fun side of the grass, which makes me… plenty older than you.” She takes out her box of candy cigarettes. She pulls one out, taps it twice on the box, and wraps her lips around the end.

  “Don’t those just taste like chalk?” Sloane asks.

  “Yep.” Ben’s agreement deflates the insult.

  “So why—”

  “Because I miss the feeling of black lungs.” Ben lolls her head towards Sloane. “Yeah, I miss the crackling you get with every charred breath, the coating of tar down my throat.” She looks serious.

  Sloane sits back down. “Sixteen’s a little young to be smoking.”

  “Started at eleven.” Ben winks at her. Erim’s right; she feeds off the shock. Sloane can see the gleam of pleasure in her eyes. She fiddles with the cigarette in her mouth, staring at Sloane thoughtfully. “Where you from?”

  “Hawaii,” Sloane says.

  “No, like, where is your family from?” Ben asks.

  “My mom is from Ireland.”

  Ben points the cigarette at her. “Ah, see, I knew I saw something familiar about you. I’m from your Scottish sister nation.” She holds out her arms. “Crazy, we’ve got so much in common: ethnic plaid, dazzling good looks. Let me guess, you’re an only child too?” Sloane lets out a dry laugh and rubs her temples. “What was the name of your first crush?” Ben inches closer.

  Sloane is weary of Ben’s pursuit but sees an opportunity for distraction. She’ll do anything not to be dragged back into gloomy thought. “Who was yours?” Sloane blurts out. Ben leans back, surprised at her retort. “For every question I answer, you have to answer one.”

  Ben laughs. “That’s not how this works, lovebug.”

  “Alright.” Sloane crosses her arms and sits back. A few moments creep by.

  “Shelby Fraser,” Ben says. “She was the prettiest girl in my primary class. We both liked playing with the blocks.”

  Sloane nods. “See, there we go.”

  “How many people have you slept with?” Ben’s eyes dig into hers.

  Sloane scoffs. “Pick another question.”

  Ben smirks. “No, that’s okay. I have my answer.”

  Sloane’s chest heats up, preparing her next question to be on par with Ben’s nerve. “How did you die?”

  Ben sighs pleasantly like it’s a fond memory. “Got bored of it all.” She shrugs. “I got high, took a stronger hit than usual, and just went to sleep. Nothing to it.”

  Any follow-up Sloane had prepared dies in her throat. She’s not sure why she thought the answer wouldn’t be tragic. Ben seems totally indifferent to the sadness of her end—the one she chose. She acts like her life didn’t matter at all. It only makes Sloane regret asking more. “Ever had your heart broken?” Ben raises an eyebrow.

  “No.” Sloane’s answer is robotic, still trying to process Ben’s last answer. She reminds herself to go easy for the next question, trying to shift the focus from her last one. “What did your parents do?”

  Ben’s entire posture becomes rigid, her eyes darken, and her smile disappears. Silence permeates the room, thick and final. “I’m done,” she mutters.

  “Do you want me to pick another question?” Sloane asks, confused.

  “No, I want you to shut up.” Ben’s voice is tinted with venom. “Pretending to care about your crap is so exhausting.”

  Sloane feels like Ben just slapped her in the face, blindsided by the sudden hostility. “Ben, I’m sorry—”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and stands.

  Sloane finds her voice by the time Ben reaches the door. “Where are you going?”

  “If I could kill myself again to end this conversation, I would.” She draws out her words. “But no such luck, so I’m taking you to see the boys.” Sloane scrambles out of her chair and jogs after her.

  Dmitri and Charlotte’s room has been designated as the make-shift hospital. It’s quiet, the lights are dimmed. Everyone’s resting. Ben sits at their small dining table and pulls out a book that she stole from Erim’s room. Her eyes pass over the words, and her fingers turn the pages, but Sloane can tell she isn’t really reading. It’s just a front.

  The layout of this room differs from Sloane’s dorm, with a large bed for the couple instead of bunks. Bastian is asleep on the couch with half his head wrapped in green. Ringo is nestled between his chest and the couch cushions. When Sloane and Ben first enter, the little wallaby lifts his head to see who’s there and places a protective hand over his hominum’s chest. When he sees that it’s safe, he lowers his head again.

  Bastian looks feverish, deep in a tumultuous sleep. He frowns every so often, his head tosses back and forth as he mumbles incoherently. His long blonde hair looks dirty, his forehead beaded with sweat. Sloane takes a handful of water from the room’s pool and spills it over his head. The coolness gives him some relief, and he settles. That relaxes Ringo, whose posture softens, his long legs stretching out behind him.

  Dmitri lies on the bed, bare-chested and enveloped in remedium, just like Bastian. His eyes are open slightly, and they follow Sloane around the room. He doesn’t speak for fear of waking Charlotte, curled next to him, as close as she can get without pressing on his injury. His arm is curled around her tightly. As Sloane moves to his bedside, her foot pulls something on the ground, and she bends down to pick up his crumpled shirt. As she holds it up, the gloomy light shines through the slash in the side. It’s a clean cut, the work of a very sharp blade. Sloane folds the shirt gently and puts it on the nightstand.

  She sits on the edge of the bed, and Dmitri smiles faintly. His nose is swollen, dark bruises splotch his face and ribs. “I suppose,”
he says quietly, wincing when the words cause pain.

  “Don’t speak.” Sloane eyes the gash on his side.

  He disregards her suggestion, swallowing the pain. “I suppose it is my turn to thank you.”

  “Call it even,” she whispers, hoping this will keep him from speaking. He gives a slight nod, content with that agreement. Charlotte stirs, and Dmitri holds her closer, bringing his lips to her forehead. Sloane leaves them alone, taking a seat in a chair across from Bastian.

  Time passes. Sloane’s not quite sure how much, but it feels like a while, like they’re frozen in a quiet, dim capsule while the world spins around them. Ben’s face is an emotionless sheet as she pretends to be engrossed in her book. Sloane feels like she should apologize, but she suspects that wouldn’t be appreciated. On the sofa, Bastian’s sleep has become agitated again. He looks so small like that.

  Sloane tries to keep her mind off the convocation. She’s relieved when Charlotte wakes and decides that it is time to change Dmitri’s leaves. Charlotte must be shaken after what happened, but she puts on a convincing face, trying not to let it show. Sloane studies closely how she bandages Dmitri so that she can replicate it on Bastian. When Sloane kneels next to the couch and peels the leaves away from Bastian’s head, they are sticky with plasma. She wipes the green paste from his hairline and folds it into the old leaves, then combs the damp stray hairs away from her area of work. After cleaning the wound with water, she reapplies fresh remedium, first the paste and then the leaves. It feels good to be of use to somebody.

  Bastian mutters softly as she works. Sloane can only catch the word “mantle” a few times. He whispers it like a secret, his eyes darting under his lids. She tries not to wonder what it means; that seems like an invasion of privacy. His forehead is still overly warm, so Sloane cages a handful of remedium paste and lowers her hand into the tub so the cool water can mingle with the leaves. It keeps Bastian’s head cool for longer. As Sloane sits with him, she slowly perfects her story.