“Maybe he’ll drown,” Erim suggests. He knows Graham won’t. Based on Erim’s monitoring, Graham is a strong swimmer and knows the port well.
“If only I was that lucky.” The boy sneers at Erim like he’s brainless. “You heard him squawking. Someone will fish him out before hypothermia can get the job done. I was going to get in a good concussion on the way down. He wouldn’t have even felt the drowning.” He sighs and takes his glasses off, cleaning the water droplets off with his sweater. It’s an action better fitting an old man exhausted from corralling mischievous grandchildren. Erim tries not to stare, but the boy doesn’t seem to care either way, solely focused on his next play. “At least no one will believe his ramblings until I can get to him.” He looks up at Erim finally, squaring his glasses back on his button nose. “What do you want, anyway?”
“Not trying to interfere,” Erim lies, “just came to offer you a job.”
The boy scowls at him. “Job?”
“Tracking someone.”
“I’m not some bloodhound.” He scoffs. “And I don’t work for your kind, Soul Keeper.” He turns toward the empty street, lifting his chin haughtily. “I answer to a higher power.”
“Who do you think sent me?” Erim says. The boy stops and turns around tentatively. Sofia mentioned they were territorial political creatures. Erim needs to play to this one’s ego, so it doesn’t have time to scrutinize his lies.
“The Higher-Ups sent you?” The boy looks dubious. “But the protocol—”
“It’s an exceptional case. They wanted it delivered directly,” Erim says. “Look, I know it’s weird, but this is a very unusual soul we’re dealing with. Probably not going to see another like her in our careers.” The boy still looks unsure. Erim shakes his head. “I don’t blame you for hesitating; it’s a complicated assignment. I’ll let them know you aren’t up to it, and I’m sure they’ll find someone else. Maybe someone more seasoned would be better suited.” Erim shrugs.
“There is no Innocuous more swift or cunning than I!” he snaps, stepping forward. “Who’s the target?”
Erim holds out Sloane’s inauguration dress. “The girl who wore this.”
The boy runs his nose across it and then inhales the open air deeply. “Yeah, I may have something.” Erim’s heart rate spikes, but he fights down the thrill to keep up the act. “What did she do?” the boy asks, a curious glint in his eye.
“She’s been causing a lot of trouble in The Midst. Now she’s trying to hide from the consequences.”
“On Earth?” The boy narrows his eyes.
Erim shrugs. “She’s an Arc. Thinks she’s untouchable on your side of the veil.”
“We’ll see about that.” The boy grins, his eyes gleaming with the rush of the hunt.
“Once you’ve found her, you can send word through a Medium,” Erim says. The boy nods. Erim prepares one final nail for his ego coffin. “What name should I give when asked who accepted this crucial mission?”
The boy straightens proudly like Erim is about to bestow a medal. “I am Moses Ishmael.”
TRIGINTA OCTO
“All I’m saying is that if Rostam had befriended the dragon instead of killing him during the third labor, the other four would’ve been way easier.” Sloane is unapologetic in that opinion.
A couple of days ago, she complained to Bahram that one could only read Aesop’s fables so many times before going completely insane. So, he offered to share the stories from his country with her, the way his mother told them to him.
“It wasn’t the type of dragon you befriend, azizam,” Bahram says, moving the last checker off the Backgammon board. Sloane curses. She didn’t actually do terribly at that game. But now that it’s over, they can get to her favorite part of the day.
“Practice time!” She claps, standing to stretch.
“Azizam….” Bahram’s voice drags out. He stares up at her, remorse on his face.
Sloane’s heart plummets. She knows that look, apologetic but set. “No, Bahram, please.” She drops back to her knees, grabbing his hands through the fence. “Please don’t take this away from me. I’ll go crazy, I will.”
He brings his warm brown eyes to her face. “The serket venom has made you faster, stronger. I cannot risk your escape with sparring anymore,” he says softly. “It has become too risky.”
He’s right, of course. Just yesterday, a shove from Sloane sent him hard into a wall, knocked the air out of him. And she’s faster now, certainly; her reflexes have sharpened. Over the last few days, Bahram has had to limit the sessions to once a day for only fifteen minutes. His confidence in his ability to contain her must be too low for comfort anymore.
She stands up and shoves away from the fence. “I’m going to rot in here,” she swears.
His brow sinks at the sight of her misery. “Azizam, I will tell you something now that I have never told anyone before.” Sloane crosses her arms, determined to be unimpressed by his justification. “You remember Zal and Rudabah from my stories?” He lowers his eyes. “You remember how Zal fell in love with Rudabah, and they would sit on her roof and talk all night? No one understood, and their families didn’t approve, but Zal always returned to her because he loved so deeply.” His tender gaze becomes far away.
This is the first time Sloane has felt like he’s telling her something real, something important. “I remember,” she whispers.
“Just as he did that for his Rudabah, I do this for mine.” Bahram nods slowly. The relief of telling his truth eases his shoulders lower.
Sloane sighs. “You swore this oath to the person you love.”
The mere thought of Bahram’s person brings a faint smile to his lips, lifting his eyes back up to their familiar angle. “That is why I cannot fail.” He reaches forward through the bars. “Do you understand?”
Sloane’s pacing slows as she stares at him for a moment. He’s quiet, searching her face for any kind of understanding or absolution. It’s easy for Sloane to believe that Bahram loves someone that profoundly; he’s always been so caring with her. She falls back against the wall of her cell, sliding down to the ground. He awaits her words patiently as she collects her thoughts.
“The souls in The Midst are the ones who will pay for your oath if I’m not there to give Esht what he wants,” Sloane says. She shakes her head, unable to wrap her mind around it. “I don’t know if any love is worth that.”
“I see.” Bahram’s expression is clouded as he gets to his feet. “I hope you do know one day, azizam. I wish that for you.” He leaves to give her some time alone.
Sloane begins to carve her forty-first tick in the wall when a movement in the corner catches her eye. It’s a black star shape that alerts her instincts immediately. She’s on her feet in an instant, about to yell for Bahram, but then she freezes. The small serket has cornered itself in her cell. This could be an opportunity.
Using slow movements, Sloane strips the light blanket off her cot. She flips the metal frame on its side and uses it to completely enclose the serket in the corner. Pulling back her hair, she takes a steady stance in front of the short pen. This will be the most significant test of her training yet. One slip-up in either speed or precision, and that stinger will put her out.
“Sorry, not sorry about this,” Sloane whispers. The creature knows it’s in trouble. All defenses are pointed at her as she shadows its path. In one lightning move, she scoops it up into the make-shift bag and knots the top carefully, avoiding the writhing demon inside.
Her victory is short-lived as the sound of Bahram’s sandals echoes across the stone. Sloane kicks her cot upright and tosses the serket bag against the wall behind her stack of books just as Bahram rounds the corner.
“I’ve made you some tea.” He smiles. “Come, sit. I’ll tell you more stories.”
“I want a bath,” Sloane blurts out.
“What?” Bahram squints at her, almost laughing. “You just had one yesterday.”
“And I know I get one tomorrow. I
t’s just that they’re very relaxing, and I figured since we can’t spar today….” Sloane shrugs. She suspects he won’t deny her this small request, not today. And she’s right.
Her baths are the longest period of time Bahram will leave her alone. He brings the tin tub in like usual, and he takes several trips to bring the hot water. Sloane is required to have her wrists tied to a post as he works. Every time he walks past her books, her heart almost explodes out of her chest. When the tub is full, he unties her and says to call him when she’s finished. She thanks him, a thrill of disbelief shooting through her for making it this far.
Once Bahram is gone, Sloane retrieves the bag from behind her books. Its prisoner is still slashing around angrily, and that’s just how she wants him. She sits in the tub, her clothes thickening with weight from the water. She knicks a spot on her forearm with her fingernails and twists the skin until it’s bruised black, just like her first serket encounter. After waiting a few minutes to avoid suspicion, Sloane holds the serket over the edge away from her. The buzz of apprehension is too much to handle anymore, so she carefully unknots the top of the bag.
“Bahram, help!” She dumps the serket out onto the dirt floor beside the tub, gulps in a breath of air, and plunges completely into the water. She closes her eyes and relaxes her body, becoming completely limp. She knows Bahram’s fast enough to see the serket before it disappears, but getting to her will be his first priority.
As if on cue, she’s yanked out of the tub and has to put considerable effort into remaining lifeless. She feels her arm extended as Bahram examines the fake serket sting. “Azizam, azizam!” He yells, shaking her. There’s the movement of wind as he rushes her out of the cell, away from the threat. Just as she hoped, he let his guard down, assuming the paralysis already set in. As he puts her down, she keeps her limbs flexible. As soon as his hands are gone, she knows he’s back in the cell trying to find the culprit.
Now’s the moment. Sloane rolls up, moving faster than she ever has, to kick the gate closed and twist the key he left in the lock in the panic. At the sound of the click, he stops rigid. Sloane rips the key out and backs up until she hits the closest wall. Her head is spinning, her pulse sending a loud whooshing sound throughout her body.
Bahram turns around slowly, his hands relaxed. His face is peaceful; he knows it’s over. And for a while, they just look at each other from new sides of the cage.
“It’s okay, azizam.” His brows are drawn together mournfully, but he’s beaming. “I understand.”
Sloane’s breath comes out as a shocked chuckle. She believes him. “Sisiro will send someone to get you, won’t he?”
“I will be fine,” Bahram promises, resting a hand on a post.
Sloane puts the key around her neck, feeling unable to leave without saying something more. “I hope your Rudabah—whoever you’re doing this for, deserves it.” She would shake his hand goodbye if it wasn’t too risky. “Take care, Bahram.” She surveys the outside of her pen, identifying the way through the columns where he came from most.
“Azizam.” She looks at Bahram one last time. “Will you ever forgive me?” There’s a melancholy edge to his warm eyes. She can’t tell if he’s sad to see her go or disappointed that he wasn’t able to keep his promise. Either way, he’s not someone she wants to hurt. Their bond during this solitude is one Sloane won’t easily forget.
She nods and smiles, the way he always did to cheer her. “As long as you tell me where my sword is.”
The building isn’t exactly the maze Sloane thought it was, the way Bahram made it seem. There’s a great deal of open space between the tall pillars; fresh air, pools, and courtyards. Her muscles are overjoyed at the new freedom to move with actual speed for the first time in over a month.
When she finally makes it outside and steps into the sand, her feet have to readjust to the sag of earth. Her joints have become too accustomed to the solid rock of her cell. A few trees stretch across the expansive dunes of the desert that glows blue with the light of the moon. Sloane runs from the temple until she feels the block on her abilities lifted. Then she plants her feet, sucking in the warm, wide-open air of freedom, finally allowing herself to do something she’s repressed every day since she was taken.
A wave of black hair flows across her field of vision; it curls just below his ear to graze his jaw. She imagines the stretch of his lips with that smile that carves out the small dimple in his left cheek. She can even hear his laugh, probably at one of his own jokes. His eyes are always the last thing she sees, always stuck in her mind, piercing out from under his brow. They hold her in their wide colorless grip, slowing everything else to the speed molasses drips.
She doesn’t even know she’s moved until Hubble hits her with the velocity of a furry missile. Sloane’s elbows slam against the ground, and her sword clatters down beside her. Hubble showers her face with a worried pink tongue. When the lights blaze on, Sloane is temporarily blinded, and so is Erim. He sits up in his bed, momentarily dazed, half asleep.
“Sloane?” He flings the covers off in a panic. Sloane stands on unsteady legs, and a shaky laugh escapes as she reaches out for him. She feels the rush of air preceding him, not a second before he slides into her arms, knocking his name out of her. She molds softly against the flat of his chest, her face buried in his raven hair, delightfully saturated with his jasmine mint scent. Every breath is like a feast after weeks of starving on that dry, stale air.
He’s locked around her so tightly in the best kind of discomfort, parting her feet from the floor. “I can’t believe you’re here.” Erim gasps into her neck. Sloane can feel his heart beating between them, or maybe it’s hers. He pulls back, surveying her face with disbelief like she might not be real. He scans all the skin that’s exposed, looking for any mark she wasn’t born with. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? If he—”
She shakes her head. “No, no. I’m fine. No one hurt me.” His visible dread collapses with relief as he pulls her back in again. Her hands tangle back into his silky hair. He squeezes her like she might float away if he doesn’t keep her tightly anchored. She doesn’t mind it, so intoxicated by freedom.
Sloane glimpses Nim over his shoulder, totally passed out in her little nest of covers. The commotion must have woken her, but she clearly couldn’t be bothered to stay awake for the likes of Sloane. She giggles, and Erim releases her. She points to the bed, setting off another set of laughter. “Nice of her to play it cool. If she was glad to see me, I think I’d go into shock.”
Erim’s laugh re-registers in Sloane’s brain, refreshing the echoes she’s been holding in her head. “Let me get you something, anything,” Erim pleads. “Food? Coffee? Something stronger?”
“Anything but tea.” Sloane groans.
Erim is feverish, trying to make her comfortable. He seats her on the couch, where Hubble blankets her lap. Then Erim conjures a full plate of bacon and one brimming with jujubes, even when she says she’s not hungry. He hands her a mug of black coffee as he sits beside her, a seriousness settling over his posture. “Tell me everything.”
Sloane does. It takes her much less time than she thought. The month felt so much longer than her list of useful information has to show for it. The rules of Backgammon? Memorized. Middle Eastern mythology? Vaguely grasped. Fighting skills and swordsmanship? Much improved. Serket venom? Fondly remembered. But Sloane knows virtually nothing of real importance, a testament to how good Bahram was at his job.
Erim tries to collect all the relevant information after she’s done. “I’ve never heard of a place on Earth being able to nullify Arcaic abilities like that. Your captor, this Bram guy—”
“Bahram.” Sloane’s correction is oddly reflexive. Erim lifts his eyebrows as if asking if there’s something she wants to tell him. “Relax, I don’t have Stockholm syndrome.” Sloane rolls her eyes.
“Honestly, someone’s going to need to explain that to me.” Erim squints like it’s been an ongoing confusion. “Anyway, if Bahra
m said he was doing it for the person he loves… it’s got to be one of Sisiro’s people?”
“Maybe even Sisiro’s aequalis.” Sloane shrugs.
“God help him then.” Erim takes a punctual sip of his drink.
“That’s all I got,” Sloane says. “Sorry, I know it’s not enough. I was always trying to get any information I could, but he was good at stonewalling me.”
Erim leans back to glare at her, a huff sounding from the back of his throat. “Sloane, you’re here.” He furrows his brow. “You escaped all on your own. You did amazing. Do you not see that?”
“Well, you can throw me a parade after we deal with Esht.” His name on her lips again twists them uncomfortably. “Now it’s your turn to fill me in.”
Erim’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m such an idiot. No one knows you’re back!” He jumps up. “We need to call a convocation!”
TRIGNTA NOVEM
Erim wakes Dmitri and asks him to alert the other Soul Keepers. He’d do it himself, but he’s not leaving Sloane alone for a second, and he won’t tow her around either. Her escape must’ve exhausted her, though she’d never say it.
During the half-hour it takes for the convocation to convene, Erim explains to Sloane everything that’s happened. He tries to brace her before, warning that it’s been an impossible, gruesome few weeks. Charlotte chose not to tell Sloane about The Midst’s dilemma during her visit. Erim knows it was the right call, but he isn’t thrilled that it falls to him to inform her.
Sloane remains silent as Erim tells her about Esht showing up at the NeoRealm, and Gilman’s story. He sees the devastation deflate her, and he wants to stop, but she has to know the place she’s returned to. Horror overtakes her face when he describes Esht’s nightly attacks on the terrarums.
Her chest sounds heavy with heat when Erim’s done. Her eyes fume with rage, an infusion of liquid emerald, rolling iron, and inflamed crimson. “I’m going to destroy him.”
Interitum Page 34
