When the door finally clicks open, it startles everyone. They had gotten so used to the quiet, and everyone is still on edge. Somboon steps into the room, and everyone relaxes. “The convocation is ready for you,” he says.
As Somboon leads her along the watery path, Sloane’s anxiety builds. “How did it go?”
“As well as can be expected when faced with such a new challenge,” Somboon replies. Sloane can’t tell if that answer is more ambiguous than usual.
They approach the convocation door, black like Erim’s. Sloane swallows her nervousness and reaches for the door handle. Suddenly Somboon’s tiny arm shoots out and grabs her hand before it falls on the knob. For a second, he is silent, as if he’s not sure why he did so. He is searching for the words. “All tremble at violence,” he whispers, “all fear death.” It suddenly occurs to Sloane that trusting no one includes Somboon, and that seems backward. She squeezes his shoulder and gives him a smile. This appears to hearten him a little, and they go in together.
They step into a large circular room. The convocation sits around an oval table, each face tight and somber. Once Somboon takes his seat, Sloane is left with the one on the end, opposite Sisiro. She’s glad that her place is between Erim and Somboon; they are sure allies, at least.
“Welcome to your first convocation, Pontem Sloane. I wish it had been under different circumstances.” Sisiro adds regretfully. Rhuso shifts against the wall behind him, obviously just returned from his unsuccessful hunt.
“Why is he here?” Sloane asks levelly, nodding at Rhuso. “He isn’t a Soul Keeper or an Arc.” Her boldness sparks astonishment in a couple of people.
There’s a hint of amusement in the tilt of Sisiro’s head. “My son is an official; permitted to attend convocation.” Rhuso grunts at Sloane’s feeble attempt to have him removed. “You were uncommonly brave today,” Sisiro says, folding his hands like a CEO, “you should be proud.” The compliment doesn’t sit well with Sloane; the sound of Mina’s spine being split echoes in her mind. “Erim has told us that he was not privy to Esht’s words. We would appreciate hearing your account.”
Sloane nods, glancing over at Erim before she begins. “Honestly, I’m not sure what he was talking about most of the time,” Sloane says. “Most of it was gibberish.” That’s true. “But he made it clear that he wants control of The Midst.” A couple people gasp, though that part should have been clear enough from his demonstration in the clearing. “He said something about not liking Arcs.” This is where the lying comes in. “He doesn’t like us evicting souls or helping them Onward. He wants to control as many as possible.” Sloane attempts to keep her lines less rehearsed and robotic. She hopes it doesn’t sound too absurd. Then again, none of them should’ve been expecting anything sensible from Esht either. Many people are puzzled, but no one looks overly suspicious, which relaxes her only slightly.
Somboon, Ifede, and Kostya exchange a calculating glance. “We cannot break our oath and neglect our duties.” Somboon’s voice is definitive. “It would only further upset the balance of death.”
“Of course,” Sisiro says. “We could never give in to such demands.” Sloane feels some of her tension drain at that response. She had taken a risky gamble. Sisiro furrows his brow a little. “Did he say anything else? Do you have any idea why he targeted you?”
Sloane hadn’t expected this question. She pauses to pull something together, hoping for the illusion that it’s difficult for her to relive the experience. “I think because I’m the newest, he thought I would be easiest to intimidate,” Sloane replies.
Sisiro nods. “Well, let us hope he was wrong.”
“Do we have anything to protect ourselves?” she asks. People look to Sisiro for an answer, and he slants his chin in a negatory response.
“All of this is as new to us as it is to you.” Somboon reminds Sloane. “Weapons have never been an influence in The Midst. We do not yet know what all of this means or what happened to Mina. We simply don’t have the answers.”
“But we will do everything in our power to stop Esht before he hurts anyone else,” Sisiro assures everyone.
Sloane meets Erim outside once the convocation has disbanded. “All of those people, all that time, and we’ve got nothing to show for it.” She shakes her head.
“Isn’t that what Earth’s politicians are famous for?” Erim asks dryly. Sloane watches Rhuso’s towering frame depart into Aquae’s shadows. “C’mon,” Erim says, “I want to show you something.”
“I don’t think I have it in me for any more surprises.” Sloane sighs.
“You’ll like this one,” he promises.
Sloane follows him down to where his apartment branches off, but they turn under the opposite archway. The black door is identical to Erim’s but with a different plaque. Sloane reaches up and feels the icy marble panel with her hand, tracing the carved letters of Pontem with her finger. She takes hold of the silver door handle and turns it.
The door pops open and creaks on its hinges as she pushes it. The lights flare to life as they enter a cavern even taller than Erim’s, with the same gothic ceilings and expansive windows. To the right, there’s a little office space with a desk in front of the windows.
Ahead, up a couple of stairs, is a living area with two green armchairs and a sofa. There’s a wide bay window that stretches to the ceiling, with panels overlooking the rolling waves. The baby blue shade on her kitchen chairs is similar to her desk at home. In the back of the room, an open staircase curves up to the loft. Vines cover the entire staircase column like they’ve been growing for years. The dugout area under the loft serves as a little library, edged with bookshelves.
All the stone might have made the place feel cold if it weren’t for the cozy touches that seem like they were pulled from Sloane’s very imagination. There are tall candles in the library and a vase of flowers on the coffee table. Soft rugs scatter the floor, yellow plates brighten the dining table, and a little forest of plants lines the bay window. It’s perfect.
“Do you like it?” Erim asks.
“It’s amazing.” Sloane breathes, her eyes still drinking everything in.
When she turns back to Erim, he’s holding out a pineapple. “Housewarming gift.” He beams. An uncontrollable smile sprouts from Sloane’s speechless lips. She reaches forward and takes it. “Thank you, Erim, really.”
They sit at the kitchen table. Erim’s eyes scan Sloane’s windows, making sure they’re as alone as they think. Sloane retrieves Adrian’s sticky note and the silver key chain from her pocket and places them on the table. “I brought these back from Earth.”
Erim studies the objects, rubbing his chin. “Guess we’re really going to have to change your plaque.”
“Tell me,” Sloane pleads. She’s so tired of all the questions. Even one answer might be enough to help her sleep.
Erim nods like he’s been rolling the thoughts around in his mind. “There’s legend of an extremely powerful kind of Arc, the High Arc. This soul has special abilities between the two worlds. No one knows much about them; most souls don’t even believe they exist because no one’s ever really seen one.”
“But you have?”
Erim looks down. “My friend Renny. He could conduct other souls, like you.”
“And he disappeared?” Sloane asks.
“For years, I tried to believe that he just went Onward without telling me, but it never felt right,” Erim says. “And after what happened to Mina….” He doesn’t even finish the thought. He doesn’t need to. Sloane can tell by the doleful shine in his eyes that he thinks something similar happened to his friend. “But nothing’s going to happen to you.” Erim’s face darkens. Sloane nods, but she can tell in his voice that he’s trying to convince himself as much as her.
After Erim leaves, exhaustion overwhelms Sloane. She pulls her aching bones up to the loft, where there’s a little bathing pool of her own and a bed. She slides into the smoky blue sheets, reveling in the cushiony bliss, trying to
spread herself over every inch. Her eyes droop as she listens to the waves climbing up the sand.
Sloane is awoken in the dark by a feeling coaxing her to move. There’s a pull in her head and her chest. It’s so strong it feels like her organs might slip away on their own if she doesn’t get her body up to follow. When she tries to resist, it just tugs harder. She rises and splashes some cold water on her face. The nagging desperation claws her toward the shore.
Sloane looks out onto the water, the moon giving her enough light to make out a small white shape on the waves. She wades into the water, and as she gets closer, a shriek pierces her ears. The floating white bundle comes into focus as the crying gets louder. When she gets close enough, Sloane scoops the tiny baby out of the water into her arms. She is wrapped in a white blanket, only her face peers out, with wide light eyes and a tuft of brown hair. She squeals unhappily, and her name comes to Sloane.
“Shh, it’s okay, Reeva.” Sloane bobs her gently up and down. Sloane’s movement quiets her somewhat. She was born a few minutes ago, but the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, and the doctors are trying to get her to breathe. Sloane just… knows these things. The facts are dropped into her head as simply as if she saw it herself. Carefully, Sloane returns Reeva to the water, submerging her tiny form. The infant doesn’t struggle; in fact, she’s fallen asleep. The water doesn’t faze her. The eviction is fast and easy; Sloane is barely drained. She wishes Ches’s was so simple and peaceful. As Sloane steps back onto the shore, Reeva is placed in her mother’s arms, screaming her lungs out.
VIGINTI ET UNIUS
Sofia sits across from Adrian in heavy silence, studying him. His face is gaunt and turned down, his eyes bleak and shoulders slumped. His breathing is slow, his body slowly recovering from the excess alcohol and heaving out his stomach contents, not once but twice during the night. Sofia sat with him on the bathroom floor, rested a steady hand on his back, and handed him a glass of water when he was finished. She’s known her fair share of bathroom floors, certainly. She can feel the despair radiating off him like she felt the darkness on Sloane the day of the accident.
“I don’t drink,” Adrian croaks. “You know that.”
Sofia scoffs. “You were certainly never brave enough for my homemade cocktails.”
“I don’t even know why I did it, I just—” When he looks up, he pauses. Sofia is suddenly very aware of his eyes on the raw skin of her face, without a spot of makeup. He’s never seen her without her paint on, without the last line of defense for any stray emotions. She stands and turns her back to him, gracefully disguising the movement as a reach for the coffee pot on the back counter.
“Well, I suppose now we know why you don’t drink.” She fills a mug. “It’s going to take a CIA cleanup crew to get the smell of your stomach out of my bathroom.”
His face scrunches up like he might cry. “Sofia, I’m so sorry.”
She was trying to lighten the mood, but apparently, bitter quips aren’t the way to go with this one. She waves him away, unnerved by the reaction she caused. “It’s fine.”
“I’ve already put you through too much trouble.”
“I said not to worry about it,” she retorts, bothered by his unnecessary guilt. Excessive emotion always gets under Sofia’s skin.
She would never say it aloud or even think it directly, but she doesn’t want him to go. The awkwardness between them and his amusing, slight fear of her is so familiar. Being with him is like having a piece of Sloane alive again. But Sloane was always the glue that held them together. With her gone, they’re just two stray pieces.
He rises and collects his sweatshirt from the sofa. “I uh, I have an appointment.” His eyes shift down as he tries to justify his exit. Sofia has no tolerance for phony excuses. Someone avoiding her company is hardly new, but it still stings a little coming from him.
She seals her face to reveal nothing but a constant, knowing smile. “Oh, I’m sure. You do seem very busy these days.” She sips her coffee loudly to accentuate the sarcasm.
Adrian squints apologetically. “Thanks again, So.”
“Have a good ‘appointment.’” She smiles, snatching the mug out of his hand and sauntering into her bedroom. She waits to hear the twinkle of the bell over the front door. It takes longer than it should, like he was debating whether to go. He did, though. They always do.
It always takes her a few minutes of being alone to completely relax. She sits in front of her vanity mirror to put on her face. If she needed a reminder of why she wears it, Adrian just gave it to her. She blackens each lash line, winging the eyeliner out past her eyes. Then she dusts her eyes with a peacock collection of green, blue, and purple. It’s one of her more stunning looks that makes the green in her hazel eyes jump.
There’s a knock on the door; not one of her regulars, they just come right in. She opens the door to a woman and a little boy. She needs a moment to recognize Elena, but Ches is a pretty distinct clue. “Your son actually just left,” Sofia says.
“Yeah, I saw him leave.” Elena glances down the street he must have taken. “I’m actually here to talk to you.” She steps into the shop before Sofia invites her, impressively bold.
“Promise I didn’t take advantage of him in his weakened state.” Sofia puts up a hand to God.
“What a relief,” Elena grunts over her shoulder, clearly unconvinced that Sofia is a predator. She slides Ches’s backpack off his shoulders. Sofia eyes him suspiciously, unaccustomed to children in her Shoppe. He doesn’t look compelled to touch anything, but Sofia knows that children always find ways to break things. They’re also perpetually sticky.
“Ches, why don’t you go watch some TV while Sofia and I talk.” Elena looks at Sofia. “Do you mind?”
Sofia motions to the couch. “Cartoons are on 298.”
Elena lets out a brief laugh. “If only I could get him to watch cartoons.” She shakes her head. “It’s only the History or Discovery channel for him.” Sofia has no idea what channels those are on, so she just drops it.
“Thank you for taking in Adrian last night and letting me know where he was,” Elena says. “He was asked to go into the police station this morning to answer more questions and give a statement. He was obviously dreading it more than I realized.” She winces.
When Sofia realizes that her aggravation towards Adrian was unfounded, it’s unsettling. People rarely exceed her expectations. “You drove all the way here just to thank me?” she inquires.
Elena sits at her reading table, unusually comfortable with the space. People are typically unsettled their first time in the Shoppe. But not her, it seems. Sofia sits across from her. Elena waits to hear the TV volume from the next room and then leans in towards Sofia. “I’m about to have a pest problem.” She keeps her voice low. This is a first for Sofia; usually, she’s the one saying the crazy things.
“Elena, I don’t know what you think I do, but I’m neither an exterminator nor a rodent contraception provider.”
“My pest is more supernatural,” Elena says like that should have been obvious.
Sofia stares at her blankly. She’s only met Elena a couple times before but never would’ve pegged her as the supernatural type. “You have a… ghost?” Sofia fishes for clarity.
“No.” Elena sighs, tucking a straight strand of hair behind her ear. “What do you know about Innocui?”
The term isn’t one Sofia’s ever heard aloud, and it’s obscure enough that Sofia needs to dust off a few distant memories to place it. “More than most.” She leans back in her chair. “And less than enough.”
Elena’s gaze is piercing. “Tell me everything you think you know.”
“Ancient creatures.” Sofia pulls all the information she can remember. “I’ve only ever seen them mentioned twice, in timeworn texts. There isn’t a single photo or even a sketch. They were spoken about with fear, definitely dangerous, but their methods and victims were pretty mysterious. It’s easy to believe they were just legends becaus
e they were essentially invisible to all but those who were… Sighted.” Sofia shoots the word at Elena as an accusation. Elena lifts a brow at her pointed comment. “How many generations does your line go back?”
“All of them,” Elena says.
“Well, well, I’m impressed, Elena.” Sofia grins. “I would welcome you to the club of badassery, but it seems you founded it.”
A faint amusement paints Elena’s face. “Some Mediums have been known to smell death. Are you one of them?”
Sofia is used to being the one with all the knowledge. Elena’s question feels like a challenge for her to prove herself. A twinge of excitement flickers in her; she loves being underestimated. “People mistake the smell of rot for death.” She runs a finger along the edge of her table. “But the scents are entirely different. Rot is strong, clear, so pungent you can taste it. The eyes water, the stomach heaves. If you’re in a room with a corpse, you’ll damn well know.” Sofia reaches behind her chair and takes her shrunken Ecuadorian head off the shelf. “But the scent of death is much gentler, just a hint on the breeze. Then it’s gone so fast you wonder if it was even there at all. Except it mobilizes every instinct in your body that something’s wrong. You feel it almost like a slow throbbing in your gut.” She flings the shrunken head at Elena. Elena’s arm shoots out and snatches the head out of the air, right in front of her face. She chuckles at Sofia’s juvenile reflex test.
“The scent lingers on people who have escaped death.” Elena nods, turning the head over in her palm. “And Innocui can smell it, a hundred times stronger than the best Medium. They hone in on the scent of these survivors and track them down to balance the scales.” She rolls the head across the table back to Sofia. “They’re patient, efficient killing machines that can hunt across continents. Once they’ve found their prey, they stalk and study, choosing their moment carefully. They kill in obscure ways, and there’s never a single witness. They can blend into crowds and move around completely undetected. Most importantly, they’re nearly impossible to kill unless you have the right tools and knowledge.”
Interitum Page 20
