Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  “Erim.” He could make a run for the door, but he’s sure it won’t be open.

  “Ah, Aquae.” Intrigue grows under her smile. “Yes, I remember. You were the scandal those few years back.” Erim’s ears burn. “As I heard it, the promising, favored, senior candidate was passed over for an unruly, unwilling child chosen in his place. It was quite something.”

  “I was of age,” is all Erim can say. The rest is undisputable.

  Stephyn shrugs like she doesn’t mind either way. “Well, you’re certainly not a child anymore.” A smile rounds her cheeks as her eyes trail up him. “You’ve grown into quite the young man.” She takes a step closer, her words spilling out slowly. “What business do you have with my husband?”

  “He’s been implicated in the release of Esht.” Erim hopes that shocks her.

  She does pause; not like she’s upset or even surprised, but like she’s dangling on Erim’s every word. “You are hardly in a position to be making such accusations of the Head Soul Keeper.” Her smile widens a little, sparkling her pearly eyes. “We have been keeping the good souls of this world safe for longer than you can imagine.” Stephyn advances, sly as a cat, each movement calculated to inch as close as possible without alerting the prey. “He would never disgrace his sacred duty.”

  Erim folds his arms between them. “Yeah, I thought the answer would be something like that. I assume you know nothing about my Arc’s disappearance either.”

  “Such a tragedy.” Stephyn pouts her lips. “My husband and I hope for her swift and safe return.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Her chin lowers, enlarging her expectant eyes. “If you truly believe he has wronged you, why not take your revenge?” Stephyn fills the rest of the distance between them, rolling the scent of roses over Erim. Not fresh flowers, but the dried petals sucked of life that gather dust in bowls. Erim steps back, his shoulders pushing against the wall.

  Stephyn grazes her body against Erim’s with a hunger that he’s never seen so close. He knows what it is. He was created with the same synthetic human hormones, equipped for situations like this. But being flooded with primal messages is only a liability now, as his body reacts without thought and not the way he wants.

  Erim is so appalled at another’s aequalis pressing up against him that he freezes. Icy fingertips slip beneath his shirt as Stephyn’s sigh warms his neck. “How will you make him pay?” Her knee pushes up the inside of his thigh, accumulating enough disgust in Erim to snap him into action.

  He grabs her wrist; it’s so small his fingers wrap past themselves. “Stop.” He growls, forcing space between them.

  Stephyn’s face tames as the lust relaxes away to her frigid sly grin. “Normally, it would be a relief to know that Sloane is not in Obscuri. Pretty thing that she is, she wouldn’t last long.” She brushes a hand along her cheek, pensively. “She could last a long time wherever she is, with a creature who would peel off his own skin just for a laugh.” She slants her head towards Erim. “Imagine all the things he’s doing to her. Doesn’t it just tickle the imagination?”

  That does it. Erim spins around and slams her against the wall, his forearm barring her shoulders back. Stephyn’s elated laugh rings out, and she pulls his hips closer, groaning. Erim shoves away from her, not stopping until he almost stumbles into the cor’s black frame.

  “So, you are still just a boy.” Stephyn laughs, straightening her dress. “And trying to conceal your true nature.” She circles a finger towards him. “I see it in there, you know, all that darkness.”

  “I’m going to find her,” Erim says.

  “Do come back if you don’t, Erim.” She gives him a gentle wave. “You would fit in well here.”

  TRIGINTA SEX

  Sloane’s muscles tremble with exhaustion as her steel grinds against Bahram’s. Her back presses flat on the ground, her blades crossed over her chest, catching Bahrain’s sword in the crux. He presses down, hardly straining at all, allowing the point to hover just above Sloane’s face.

  “Transfer the pressure point,” Bahram grunts. Sloane jerks her head to the side and releases her force upward. Bahram’s sword slides forward, piercing the dirt where her head used to be, and Sloane takes advantage of his momentary loss of balance, driving both feet into his chest. He stumbles off her, and she rolls away, cutting his sword away from her in the air.

  She crouches to her feet, watching Bahram for his next move. Her eyes trace his sword through the air, focused on the glint of the edge like a hawk. He lunges at her. She parries his jab but misses the movement of his feet, which slide forward to topple her to the ground. Before she can recover, he slaps her blades out of her hands with his own. They clatter to the ground, and he raises the tip of his sword to her face.

  “You rely too much on your swords.” His breathing is a little labored, and a curl dangles down his face, breaking his perpetual image of composure. But his voice is calm as ever. “Don’t let steel make you forget that your body is the best weapon. They are only meant to be extensions.” Sloane nods, panting. “That’s enough for now,” Bahram says, walking to the door.

  “No, I can go again,” Sloane insists, collecting her blades and snapping them back into one. Bahram was the one who showed her that the blade is actually two. They can be split and reunited by a small interlocking mechanism on the handles.

  “We’ve been at it all morning. You can take a brief break to eat.” Bahram chuckles. “You’ve improved greatly these past few days, azizam.”

  “You almost make that sound believable.” Sloane grins.

  Despite their days of sparring, Bahram still never lets his guard down when opening her door. His eyes never leave her until he’s on the other side. She hands him back her weapon through the slats, their usual protocol.

  “Did I do well enough to get an answer?” Sloane asks, poking her face through the posts.

  Bahram shoots her a side-eye. “Choose it carefully.”

  Sloane slides down the slats, stretching her legs across the floor. She’s learned that he won’t answer any questions of real value, so she’ll have to be crafty. “Who’s the woman on the walls? Is she some kind of angel? Only angels have wings like that.”

  He smirks. “That was two questions.” Sloane groans at him dramatically. He puts up a hand to placate her. “Alright. She is our protector. The one who conceals us, watches over us.” He’s good. Sloane can’t discern any more about their location from that answer.

  “Any chance she’s flying around in here at night?” Sloane asks. He chuckles lightly. “I mean it, Bahram. Sometimes I hear wings beat at night, and I know there aren’t any birds here. Maybe it’s her, flying around.” Sloane waves her hand through the dry air, a grin stretching over her face.

  Bahram pauses and looks at her, his lips pursed in amusement. “I’m afraid you’re out of questions.”

  A sudden sharp bolt of pain embeds in Sloane’s thigh. She gasps and scrambles away, the movement revealing a leggy black creature where she used to be. It darts towards the wall so fast Sloane barely sees it. With a flash of metal and revolting crunch, it’s ended by a bladed star that impales it to the ground. Sloane’s eyes flick to Bahram, his arm outstretched, still fresh from the insanely precise throw. His eyes are wide, feverish.

  “Your leg, azizam!” It’s the first time Bahram’s raised his voice at her. She’s still too stunned to move, so he reaches through the fence. She’s just close enough that he can grab her ankle, and he pulls her across the floor until her hip bumps the posts between them. He flicks out a small dagger from his side. Sloane didn’t know he had weapons on him. He’s kept them hidden. “I need to see.” He points to the fabric obscuring his view, his glance questioning. It’s a request, not an order, but it’s insistent. Sloane gives a slight nod, and one pant leg is slashed into shorts in a quick swipe.

  Bahram scrutinizes the mark, brushing a finger across. It’s irritated already, the skin graying slightly where the small black mark was left. “Just
a pinch.” Bahram relaxes. “Not a sting; the skin is unbroken.” He pats her knee reassuringly and sits back, drawing a grateful breath.

  Sloane looks back at the creature twitching with the last spasms of life. “Is that a scorpion?” She breathes through the disgust.

  “A serket,” Bahram says. “Old-world creatures. Instant death for the living, and very dangerous even to our kind. They used to be guardians here.” Sloane pushes herself off the ground, keeping weight off the bad leg. A numbness radiates out from the spot. Sloane limps over to the creature that’s much larger than any scorpion she’s seen, with spindly legs and thick sharp pincers. It’s black with delicate patterns of brilliant gold splotched on its coarse, segmented body. The stinger is rolled out, looking much less threatening but no less painful than if it were poised up. Bahram reaches through the slats. “My weapon, please.”

  “Oh, I’m not touching that, Bahram.” Sloane shakes her head.

  “Come now, azizam, I must prepare.” He keeps his hand out, eyeing her inflamed leg.

  “For what?” Sloane asks. He doesn’t look up at her, clearly reluctant to share. “What’s going to happen?” He sighs, straightening to leaning against the slats.

  “Soon, the numbness that you’re feeling is going to spread throughout your whole body until you’re unable to move. Then the toxin’s going to burn its way through you, and it’s going to be very painful. Your temperature will fluctuate drastically, and then the hallucinations come. They’re said to be so terrifying people have begged for death just to escape them. The only semblance of mercy is that the last stage steals your memory of the visions. You were only pinched, but had you been stung, the last stage would likely drive you entirely mad. There’s little assurance of anyone surviving that.”

  Sloane’s heart pounds in her chest. She can barely hear through the rush of panic in her ears. She takes a breath, forcing herself to calm. Setting her jaw tight, she pulls together a tough face. “That’s really going to throw a wrench into my evening plans.”

  Sloane’s ability to minimize the situation with humor is soon very impossible. The beginning numbness isn’t too unpleasant. It feels similar to the laughing gas from her wisdom tooth removal a couple years ago. Bahram sets her up on her cot, sits next to her, assuring her calmly. Sloane suspects that the onset of her paralysis allows him to lower his guard as escape becomes impossible.

  But the next phase is so horrendous, Sloane wishes it was the one wiped from memory. She can remember it too well; in fact, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forget the pain. At least women in labor have the epidural; Sloane doesn’t get that luxury. The searing pain is like every cell is lit with napalm. It’s accompanied by a fun tearing sensation like her internal organs are being ripped apart. She can’t even separate from the pain enough to hear her own screaming echoing off the stone walls. Her body bends and writhes uncontrollably, keeping her in agony for what feels like hours before she slips away from it.

  It’s the cold that wakes her next. Her whole body is trembling violently, shivering. The pain is gone, but the frigidity isn’t exactly a relief. The only thought circulating is how much Sloane wants to kill whatever entity decided to synthesize these particular sensations. Next comes a sweltering heatwave. That’s when Bahram restrains her to the cot. It had to be done for the final stage, but he ends up doing it early to prevent Sloane from ripping off her clothes, which are drenched in sweat. The next thing Sloane remembers is blank nothingness.

  She wakes the following day to Bahram, smiling down at her. She’s exhausted at first, but her body is so silent, so at peace, that she feels deliciously light. Bahram unties her wrists and ankles from the cot. Her straining drove the fabric tightly into her flesh, so it’s a relief to finally be free. Bahram helps her sit up a little and feeds her.

  Her mind is inexplicably heavy. She can’t remember any hallucinations but feels oddly like their trauma is still hidden somewhere just beneath the surface. She wonders what she saw; if it was really as horrifying as Bahram said. He whispers to her how well she did. That first day, her throat is so raw from screaming that she can’t speak.

  The next morning, she finds her strength restored with surprising potency. She doesn’t just feel back to her old self; she feels better, fresher. Her body hums with an intoxicating new invigoration that she thinks might be a severe episode of stir-crazy setting in.

  “How about some sparring?” Sloane asks Bahram after breakfast.

  He comes from the temple carrying something in his arms, but she can’t quite tell what everything is. “Not now, azizam. Please put your books through the fence.”

  Sloane collects her modest ever-growing pile of books that Bahram adds to every week. It’s an odd little collection; clearly, Bahram doesn’t have access to a typical selection. There’s a book of Aesop’s fables, a chemistry textbook, an autobiography of a once-famous homemaker, and a Magic Treehouse book. Twenty-eight days in, Sloane has read each more than once. She avoided the chemistry textbook for a long time. Eventually, she became desperate enough to skim through it, rationalizing that it might contain something useful for escape. But as she learns, her explosive options are minimal without some pure rubidium to combust with water. She’s searched every page of every book for ownership stamps or any writing in the margins, but Bahram was meticulous enough to rip out the few pages with anything identifiable.

  Sloane slides her books through the posts. One by one, they plunk onto the dusty stone. She knows better than to ask Bahram why. She’ll either see soon, or he won’t tell her at all. He crouches down and piles up some small twigs. He uses a sconce to light a tiny fire and sets a teapot tripod over it. Stretching his arm through the fence, he pours dried herbs into Sloane’s palm. She brings them up to her nose; they’re infused with the instantly relaxing aroma of Bahram’s tea.

  “Brew it, please.” He gathers her books and stacks them against a column far from reach. “Don’t want this kindling to be too tempting.”

  Sloane rolls her eyes. “Master plan foiled.”

  “I’ll return shortly. Please have the tea ready.”

  “Sure.”

  He leaves, and she wraps the herbs in their small burlap satchel, securing it with the small string. She plops the tea in the boiling water.

  Ten minutes after Bahram leaves, when Sloane is sure he’s gone, she tears the tarp off her cot. She wraps it around the base of one of the posts and adds the few twigs that haven’t been consumed by the fire. She wishes she still had her wooden cot; it could’ve been broken down to build a better pyre. Bahram replaced it with a metal cot week three after she broke the legs apart to sharpen and try to cut through the posts.

  With a small branch that she’s able to pull through the slats, she lights the tarp. It catches easily enough; the flame’s black jaws eat their way through the white fabric. Sloane stands back and watches, the heat pulsing against her face. Despite her best efforts to suppress expectations, a fever of hope rises in her chest. Bright orange flames lick the bottom of the post, though she had hoped they’d be blue. As the tarp writhes and crumples, the smaller kindling burns away, revealing the post. It is only blackened; the fire burned too fast and not hot enough. The spark in Sloane’s throat fizzles with the embers of her dying escape attempt.

  The next thing Sloane feels is her hands wrapped around the cool metal of the cot, beating it against the beams over and over. Reverberations of the impact send shock waves through her body as the lingering smoke fuels her tantrum. The posts are uncaring and unshaken. Sloane flings her useless instrument across the cell, attacking the wood with her fists. She kicks at the beams, trying to loosen them, clawing and slamming them with her hands, furious tears running down her face. She sits back against the stone wall, her breath heavy from the fury. The post was slightly charred, but it’s still as solid as the day she arrived.

  She’s not sure how much time passes as she sits there, eyeing the steam rush out of the teapot on the other side of her encl
osure. She’s never been so envious of an inanimate object’s freedom.

  She doesn’t hear Bahram’s footsteps approach, only his sigh of disappointment. “Oh, azizam.” She rolls her head towards him to complain. The sudden sight of Charlotte’s limp figure in his arms shocks her out of her daze.

  She’s on her feet in an instant, slamming her body against the posts between them. “What the hell, Bahram?” she yells. He isn’t surprised by her volatile actions, still analyzing the scene of her escape attempt. He looks up at her, his expression level as usual, then lowers Charlotte to the ground gently. Sloane crams her arms through the posts as far as they will go, the wood digging into her shoulders. She tilts Charlotte’s face towards her, trying to support her head off the ground. Her face is relaxed in sleep, but the familiarity of her features is enough to drug Sloane with conflicting excitement. “What’s going on?” Sloane glares up at Bahram.

  “A few days ago, you asked me if your psychological health was as important as your physical safety.” Sloane wracks her brain, barely remembering the snide off-hand remark made after losing yet another round of backgammon. “Well, I think it is. And after your illness, I figured you deserved a visitation privilege.”

  “Bahram, you can’t just kidnap people to come visit me like a zoo animal!” He ignores her, pouring the tea into its small cup. “Bahram!” Sloane shouts, trying to grab his attention so he can see how furious she is.

  He won’t have it. He crouches over Charlotte, tea wafting in hand. “Do you want to wake her, or shall I?” he asks, his face resolute. This will happen with or without her approval.

  “Bring your bedroll here,” Sloane orders grudgingly. Bahram hands her the cup of tea and fetches his bedroll from the wall across Sloane’s enclosure where he sleeps. He lifts Charlotte onto it and slides the mat against Sloane’s fence so she has more dexterity over her. Bahram obeys Sloane’s vehement direction to back off as she wafts the tea fumes under Charlotte’s nose. The brimstone spasms Charlotte’s chest a few times as its poison is pushed from her lungs.