Lyn shakes her head, refusing to take it, so Sofia does. The black and white sketch displays even-centered eyes, symmetrical nose and lips, wispy hair. The face is wholly average and ridiculously indistinct. He might as well have handed her a picture of a stick figure.
“That looks like anyone.” She almost laughs. “Sure hope I’m not the murderer.” Breyer looks down like a scolded little boy, and Sofia tries to reel back her temper. “Can’t you just run the license plate?”
A blaring alarm suddenly fills the room, startling everyone. Sofia pulls her phone out, knowing exactly who she set the obnoxious ringtone for. The timing isn’t ideal, but that’s to be expected. “I have to take this.” She stands and leaves the room.
On the other end of the line, Elena’s tone is level as she explains that the Innocuous revealed itself and will return. Sofia agrees to be there. She slips back into the room just as her dad is going into his more conspiratorial theories.
“… thinking that maybe the car malfunctioned, and that’s why the driver lost control,” he says.
The cops look dubious. “The car was checked for faulty mechanics, and it works fine,” Breyer tells him.
“So, you’re saying it was intentional?” Sofia asks, sitting back down next to Lyn.
“Oh, no.” Breyer’s eyes widen. “We have no reason to believe that. The vehicle was stolen from a different crime scene a few hours before the accident.” A shocked silence follows his words.
“Wait, another crime scene?” Sofia’s dad sits forward.
“We can’t comment on that,” Timmons interjects, splintering Breyer with a glance. “But we can say that forensics revealed nothing relevant in the car.”
Sofia looks back and forth between the two. “So, you came here to tell us you’ve got nothing?” Lyn puts a quieting hand on Sofia’s leg.
Timmons turns to look directly at Lyn. “I promise, we’re doing everything we can to find this guy.”
She stares at him vacantly. “It doesn’t really matter. Nothing will bring my daughter back.”
As Sofia’s dad shows the detectives out, she returns to the kitchen to scrub off the fish skin welded to the pan. She feels her dad watching her. “It’s Wendy’s for lunch since you murdered the fish,” she says, slamming the charred pan down on the stove. They could have their pick of the pity casseroles packed into the fridge, but Lyn won’t touch them.
Sofia’s dad walks up silently. Sofia won’t turn to him, even as he wraps his arms around her. “My tough girl,” he murmurs. He’s always been a hugger, but he’s always respected that Sofia’s not. It’s too much breach in emotion for her, but she never feels safer than when he holds her. He kisses her head and releases her, returning to his sister.
Sofia grabs her keys. She’s eager to get out of the house; the walls are saturated with grief to its very frame. The electricity of it prickles her skin. Even when she steps out onto the front porch, her tension begins to unwind.
“Boo.” Sloane pops out from behind the door.
Sofia snorts. When she sees how disappointed Sloane is, she puts on her best sympathetic face. “Oh sweetie, the only thing scary about that is you thinking it would scare me.”
Sloane rolls her eyes. “Where are you going?”
“Wendy’s.” Sofia walks towards her car. “Want some?”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Sloane asks.
Sofia stops and turns around, eyebrows raised, expecting more information. When Sloane doesn’t provide any, Sofia sighs loudly, sifting through her brain for something relevant. Her mind is still a jumble of frustration from the cops, and the stench of emotion from the house is even more maddening.
“Deal Mart is having a sale on peaches.” Sofia shrugs smugly, spelling out that she doesn’t know what Sloane means.
Sloane narrows her eyes, unimpressed, and Sofia reflects the same. “I was just at Adrian’s apartment, where I think Elena’s been replaced with a child-hating ninja,” Sloane says each word slowly. “You maybe want to weigh in?”
Sofia sighs. That situation had completely slipped her mind. This new unpredictable version of Sloane is new to her. “There was no need to worry you,” Sofia says.
“Well, I’m a little past worried now, Sofia,” Sloane admits shrilly.
“Elena and I have it handled.”
Sloane plants her feet and crosses her arms. “Out with it.”
“Ches is being hunted by murder-y janitor children,” Sofia blurts out. “See? No big deal.”
Sloane gawks at her. “I’m going to need you to run that by me again, but make it sound real this time,” she demands sternly.
A neighbor taking out the trash shoots Sofia a suspicious side-eye, clearly disturbed at her conversation with no one on the front lawn. Sofia swerves around Sloane and gets into her car. Sloane appears in the passenger seat.
“They’re called Innocui,” Sofia says. “When someone escapes death, it’s an Innocuous’s job to clean up the mess. They find them, and… kill them.”
Sloane shakes her head. “Why would they come for Ches? My life for his should’ve settled the balance. The system wasn’t cheated. They got a soul.”
“Not the right one,” Sofia says. Sloane tucks her hair behind her ears and sits back, taking a breath. “That wasn’t a little girl in Elena’s home. It’s not human, never was. It’s a lethal creature that has killed countless people.”
“What are we going to do?” Sloane groans.
“Elena’s going to kill it,” Sofia says, impressed by the mere words. “Good news is that they’re solitary creatures. Each one is focused on only one hunt at a time.”
Sloane is still in disbelief. “So, Elena’s just been a secret badass this whole time?”
A smile swells across Sofia’s cheeks at the thought. “Elena is Sighted. She can see through their camouflage. The gift is passed down through her family. They’ve hunted Innocui for centuries.” Sofia feels a fire of excitement ignite within her. “Elena’s one of the most successful in history. She’s killed four since she came of age; that’s basically a world record.”
“You should be president of her fan club,” Sloane mutters.
“She retired when she married Michael. But after the accident, she knew one would come for Ches, so she came to me. We’ve been preparing for its arrival, planning different escape routes from the apartment, and putting safe houses in place. She didn’t teach me how to kill them, but I know some weaknesses and what signs to look for.” Sofia lets the arrogance show in her voice. In her head, she’s basically Elena’s apprentice. “The one thing we couldn’t have anticipated is that we’d get an Innocuous who wants to chat. Elena’s never heard of anything like it.”
“You think it wants to negotiate?” Sloane furrows her brow. “Will Elena go for that?”
“She might have no choice.” Sofia shakes her head. “She’ll do anything to protect him.” Sloane sports a withdrawn smile like she knows the feeling. “Hey, I’m protecting your investment now.” Sofia leans forward. “He’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah, I know he will be.” Sloane’s face warms. “Thanks, Sof.”
Sofia brainstorms something to distract her with. “Want to hear something funny?” She gasps dramatically. Sloane rolls her head towards her. “Cian and Riona reached out to your mom. I saw a letter.”
Sloane sits up. “Seriously?” Sofia understands the surprise. She was just as shocked. Their grandparents never earned a thought from either of them. “What did they want?”
“I don’t know, maybe to make reparations or something.”
“Offload their guilt, you mean.” Sloane’s face crunches with disdain.
Sofia only met them once when she was little, and Sloane never did. Cian and Riona wanted nothing to do with Lyn after she got pregnant, wanted even less to do with Sloane. They came from old money—lots of it—back in Ireland. Sofia’s dad told her they were descendants of royalty way back. The family holds high status in the communi
ty; they have an image to maintain that neither Lyn nor Sofia’s father fit into it. They were both shameful disappointments to their parents, and their daughters, by association, were no different. Sofia’s dad was “too gay,” Sofia was “too weird,” Lyn was “too pregnant before marriage,” and Sloane was “too much the child of some unknown man.” But the four of them made each other completely content on their little island of misfits.
“After all these years, they only want to be a part of our lives after I’ve died? That feels personal.” Sloane scoffs.
Sofia shrugs. “Well, you being born out of wedlock was kind of the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“Oh, please.” Sloane crosses her arms. “It was your adoption that weakened the camel’s back, to begin with.”
“Weakened the bloodline, definitely.” Sofia stifles a laugh into her hand. She gasps at a new thought. “Maybe now that you’re dead, I can finally be the Irish princess I’ve always dreamed of.”
“Hilarious.” Sloane rolls her eyes. Suddenly she bolts upright in a panic. “Oh no, I’m late! I’m so late!” She vanishes without another word.
Exhausted, Sofia groans and reclines her seat all the way back, deciding that she deserves an extra box of nuggets for her trouble.
VIGINTI QUINQUE
Sloane arrives in the training area, already apologizing. “I know, sorry I’m late. I had something to deal wit—”
She stops when she realizes that she’s talking to no one. The island is vacant. “Hello?”
An uneasy feeling creeps up on her. Rhuso would never miss a day of practice, and Erim and Dmitri should be around somewhere.
A hand grabs her shoulder. Without a thought, she clamps down on the hand, spins around, and wrenches the arm back, sliding her leg around to flip him over her knee. Erim smashes to the ground, his legs flinging up into the air. He grunts. “Erim! Oh my gosh, are you okay?” As the pain recedes from his face, he begins to laugh; his stomach jumps with every breath. “Are you okay?” Sloane asks again. His endless laughter makes her smile despite her concern. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Well, now I’m offended,” he says through gasps. “Help me up.” She takes his outstretched hand, and he yanks her, so she tumbles down beside him. He recedes back into laughter and Sloane giggles next to him.
“Where have you been?” Rhuso’s shout thunders across the water, making both of them flinch. He storms into the clearing, heaving with rage.
All their mirth is sucked away as Sloane and Erim stand to take their lecture. “I know. I’m sorry,” Sloane says.
“We have been looking everywhere. You cannot just wander off with Esht out there!” Rhuso bellows. The diversity of his words leaves Sloane a little shocked. Dmitri trails in behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Sloane repeats, more slowly, so he knows she’s genuine. Rhuso bores into her face angrily, his mouth twisted up into a scowl.
“Take it easy, Rhuso. She gets it.” Erim frowns.
“No words from you!” Rhuso snarls at him. He turns and stomps away.
“Hey, what about training?” Sloane calls after him. He doesn’t answer, just stalks off.
Dmitri, Erim, and Sloane train on their own, not wanting to waste the day. Sloane realizes how much stronger she’s become since she first started. If her synthetic body could show change, maybe Sloane would be rewarded with some muscle tone.
The following morning, Sloane is still in bed when Erim bangs on her door. He calls her name frantically through the wood. She knows what that kind of urgency means. Sloane’s body rocks with trepidation; it’s too soon, she’s not ready. They have no information, no weapons, and the marks on her wall are not nearly enough. When she opens the door, Erim’s face is fraught with dread. “He’s hit Harenarum,” he says. “It’s bad.”
Aquae is a blur around the two of them as they race towards the cor. Hubble and Nim keep up with them easily, making Sloane wish she had twice the feet. She can see the tree now in the distance. A few people are already gathered there. Each one has a greenpack of remedium over their shoulder.
Erim reaches the cor just before Sloane and hands her a leaf. They leave Nim and Hubble in Aquae. Sloane whispers to the leaf and looks down to see that the frame is now filled with sand.
She steps out of the sanctum, cringing as the screams and sobs pierce her ears. The world is brightness and dust. It’s as though they’ve stepped right into the desert; there isn’t a single patch of grass to be seen. Most of the terrarum is lifted into the dunes. The gathering spaces are shielded from the sun by spires and domes carved artfully of sand brick. It resembles a majestic Middle Eastern city.
There are bodies scattered across the plain in front of them, souls that didn’t quite make it to the cor. Each fallen person is being tended to by a medic. Sloane thinks she sees Charlotte’s silhouette hunched over someone. Piles of gray ash and puddles of black plasma mix to mark a soul gone. There are too many to count.
Somboon runs up and thrusts a greenpack into Sloane’s hands. She slings it over her shoulder and searches for a body without a caretaker. There’s one at the edge of the buildings, leaning against a dormitory wall. Sloane runs to her, a muscular woman gripping her arm, the plasma blackening the length of her blue tank top. Strands of brown hair defy her tight bun, her eyes flare wide and strained. Her teeth are clenched hard in her jaw, the veins in her neck swell as she concentrates on controlling her breathing. When Sloane kneels next to her, the woman peels her hand off her arm, wincing. It’s a deep cut, jagged and to the bone. Plasma still flows freely; she must be in more pain than she shows.
“He came out of nowhere like a goddamn one-man army.” Sloane scoops some remedium paste out of the bamboo cup and applies it to the woman’s shoulder. She sucks in her breath violently at the sensation. “He popped up in the square and just started cutting. Ophelia brought up a sandstorm and tried to disorient him, but it didn’t stop him. When there was no one left on the streets, he went from room to room, slaughtering everyone inside. Two tours in Iraq, and I’ve never seen anything like it. He cut down anyone who tried to stop him.” She shrugs, indicating herself.
“You’re safe now.” Sloane pulls some leaves out of her bag and holds them against her arm.
The woman chuckles gruffly. “Nowhere is safe.”
Sloane feels a gentle tug on her shirt and turns to see a little boy, maybe only seven, with dark hair and pale green eyes. “Please, my brother is really hurt. I don’t know what to do. Please help.” He tugs her hand, trying to make her come.
“Go,” the woman orders. “I’ll manage.”
Sloane nods and instructs the woman to keep pressure like she doesn’t already know that. “Take me to him.” The boy leads Sloane through the maze of houses. People lying in the streets are being tended to. The sand is wet, clumped together with plasma. It’s difficult to comprehend that one man could do this much.
The boy pulls Sloane around a corner, and she has to duck under a beam crosscutting the alley. As they weave deeper between dwellings, the spaces seem to get narrower. The loose sand plumes up behind them as they excite dust that is normally left undisturbed. He tugs Sloane faster until they slip between two walls into a small courtyard.
There’s a young man face down in the dirt with a gash in the back of his head. His hair is soaked with plasma. Sloane releases the boy’s hand and pastes a bandage on his brother’s head so she can turn him. She’s sliding her hands under his chest to roll him onto his back when there’s a clinking sound of metal on stone.
She whips around to see Esht emerging from behind a column. For a long moment, the two of them just stare at each other. His glare is fixed and hungry; feverish movements twitch his head. His breath is quick, fluttering his lip like he’s running on vapors from a rush.
“Bastard.” Sloane fumes, every part of her electrified. “If you wanted me, you should’ve just taken me. You didn’t have to do all of this!”
“Naturally.” He nods, dra
gging a finger across the blade’s edge. “I never have to do anything.” He flicks his head at the child. “Well done, boy.” The boy looks down, avoiding Sloane’s face.
“What do you want, Esht?” Sloane stands to face him.
He leans against the column. “Testimony.”
“What?”
“Your testimony.”
“Okay.” Finally, something she can work with. “What do you want me to say?” A chortle rattles in his throat, making Sloane’s veins boil. “Esht, what do you want me to say?” she yells.
His eyebrows jolt up, impressed with her volume. “Who killed you?” he whispers.
“I told you, I don’t know.” Sloane shakes her head.
“Liar!” Esht bellows.
Sloane dampens her temper, not wanting to set him off. She lowers her voice, employing a pleading tone. “Esht, please, just tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it to whoever you want.”
“No!” He snarls through a wicked set of teeth. “You do not see.”
“Explain it!” Sloane feels him slipping.
“You cannot trick me!” He screeches, smacking the side of his head.
“What?” Sloane is horrifically confused, unable to restrain her temper anymore. “You massacred all these people, and for what? You don’t even know why you’re doing this?” She screams.
Her fury pleases him. “Of course, I do.” He tilts his head at an unnatural angle. “Testimony to pacify the sheep, so I can bring about the old world, the true order.”
“Your world,” Sloane breathes, dropping her gaze to the boy on the ground. That is Esht’s world. A world of unending death where plasma flows like black rain. She grinds her foot into the sand, her nails dig into her palms. He can’t be reasoned with.
“You have a saying on your Earth.” A grin leaks across Esht’s lips. He pauses to get the wording exactly correct. “Some people just want to watch the world burn.” Embers blossom in his ruby eyes. “My dear, I want to be the one to set it ablaze.” He gives her an odd look as if imploring her to understand it, to sympathize with his mania.
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