Seconds: The Shared Soul Chronicles

by Brindi Quinn

  “He smells,” said Tattoo. “Let’s have Maricia clean him up first.”

  Hungry eyes locked on Rye’s slender middle, Pale Face nodded.

  After that, the kidnapped Second wasn’t totally aware of what was going on. He felt himself pulled. He felt himself thrown. He heard Foster’s name whispered into his ear. And then he was wet. And there were a woman’s hands on his body. The water was warm, it felt good, but when the woman said the name of Rye’s Main, he could no longer feel it. He could no longer feel anything. He really was a shadow. A wispy outline of a person.

  The woman dried him off and put a scratchy towel around his hips. Then she left him in the bathroom.

  Rye waited there until, at some point, he began to be aware of himself again. He felt his skin. He felt his bone.

  “I’m Rye,” he murmured. “Rye.”

  And little by little, he believed it.

  He looked around. The bathroom he was in was clean. Much cleaner than he’d expected. And he too was clean. The air smelled minty. HE smelled minty. It was a welcome change from the hotel’s stale odor. Not that he could enjoy it much under the circumstances.

  Placing a hand against the wall to brace himself, he stood. His clothes were nowhere in sight. Just the small towel around his hips. He looked down at it and rolled his eyes.

  “Oh God.”

  But speaking anything other than his name made him drift.

  “I’m Rye. Rye. Rye. Rye.”

  His hair was still wet. He shook it out and stared at the bathroom’s door. This was a bad situation. A very bad situation. The name of Rye’s Main was his biggest weakness, yet he’d always been too careless with it. The enemies had heard it, and it had given them control. And they’d definitely use it the moment they saw he was ‘back’. His only chance was to deafen the vice by repeatedly thinking his own name. But if they started to use Foster’s . . . the distraction would only work so long. He’d have to escape before it affected him again.

  “Rye. Rye. Rye.”

  He placed a hand on the knob. It was sure to be locked, but . . .

  Click.

  It wasn’t.

  The room beyond the bathroom was dark, lit only with a small amount of intruding sunlight from between the drawn curtains. Clinging to the scratchy towel, Rye felt his way along the wall in search of the door.

  He made it only a few feet when a pair of hands pinned his shoulders against the wall. Rye’s throat grimaced.

  “Hello, darling,” breathed Pale Face. “Feel better?”

  “Sure do!” Rye twisted his shoulders from under his captor’s hands and at the same time jabbed the grinning fiend with an uppercut to the jaw.

  Surprised, Pale Face held his chin and stumbled backward. “Sh-shit! You don’t take long to recover, do you!?” he said.

  Rye answered with a kick to the stomach that sent him to the ground. Then he made a grab for a tall lamp in the corner that looked to be a suitable beating stick.

  “ERIK! GET IN HERE!” shouted Pale Face.

  From somewhere in the dark room, a door swung open.

  “What is it? Can’t handle one kid?” said a lazy voice.

  The light from the adjacent room lit the darkness enough for tattooed Erik to see what was happening to his partner. It also lit the room enough to show Rye the way out.

  “Rye. Rye. Rye. Rye. Rye.” Ever repeating his name – and holding the lampstand like a bat – Rye started a sprint for the open door behind that tattooed captor. The captor cut him off, grabbed the stick mid-swing, and made a jab at Rye’s cheek. Rye ducked out of the way and elbowed the captor in the gut. Then he yanked the makeshift weapon out of the creep’s sweaty grip. It was for nothing, though, because creepy Erik caught him around the neck just as the Second was readying his next swing.

  “Not so fast, Sec-scum!” he seethed. “You’re just a Second! You aren’t even real! Foster is! Foster’s real! Not you! You aren’t even really here!”

  The thread holding Rye to the ground threatened to break. Rye strengthened it by continuing, “Rye. Rye. Rye.”

  But it wasn’t working. Erik noticed. Grinning devilishly, the creep tore the stand from Rye’s numbing hand and threw it across the room. Then he wrestled Rye to the ground. Pale Face was back on his feet. He hurried over to his partner.

  “Have you ever seen anything like that?” asked Pale Face. “One of them recovering like that?”

  “All I have to say is I hope it’s worth it for you!” said Erik. He released Rye’s neck enough to pummel a fist into the Second’s eye. Rye fought back with a few more swings, but his responses were lagging because Pale Face was saying,

  “Foster’s Second. That’s all you are. Foster’s Second. Foster. Foster. Foster.”

  Rye started to float away again. Erik hit him a few more times for good measure. Flickering in and out of reality, the Second lay limply.

  Pale Face brought his mouth to Rye’s ear. “Much better, darling. Come on, this’ll be fun. Why not play along?”

  “Piss off,” muttered Rye. Erik sighed and held down Rye’s shoulders while Pale Face started to nibble on the Second’s ear. Rye was too disconnected. He couldn’t make his body respond the way he wanted. All he could do was mumble, “Fricking nasty.”

  “Oh, come on,” cooed Pale Face. “You know you like it.”

  He didn’t like it. At all. And for the first time ever, Rye wished that Foster would take control. He wanted to be pulled into nothingness. There was no escaping this. No matter how many times he said his name, the power held by Foster’s was something he couldn’t match. It was something he couldn’t fight. It was hopeless.

  But then something happened.

  “When you’re through with him, I’m going to ink him,” said tattooed Erik. “You were right. There’s something different about this one. He’s too individual for his own good. It’s not right. I’m going to write the word ‘FOSTER’ in capitol letters across his forehead for everyone to see. Bring the slut off his high horse.”

  “Mmm.” Pale Face continued to chew on Rye’s ear. “Mmkay.”

  But unbeknownst to the creeps, something had changed in the docile Second. At the word ‘ink’, he’d drifted back to the ground just a little.

  Ink. Tide’s climbing name. Tide. The pretty olive-eyed girl he’d taken a liking to. Tide was alive. Tide was . . . Tide. Tide. Tide. For some reason, thinking her name was starting to effect Rye in a way saying his own couldn’t. There was POWER there.

  “Tide,” he whispered.

  “What’s that, darling?” Pale Face sat up. Then he placed a hand on Rye’s bare stomach. Erik continued to hold his shoulders down.

  “Tide,” said Rye, and it came a little louder. A little stronger. With one more – “TIDE.” – the feeling returned to the entirety of his body. Rye could feel the hard cement below his back. But more than that, Rye could feel Pale Face’s hand upon his abdomen, and it sent a grossed-out shudder down his neck. Pale Face misinterpreted it.

  “Ahh. So you DO like?” And his hand started to slide.

  “Heh.” Rye smiled darkly. Not because he liked it, but because he existed. And because he could take them.

  In one swift move, the skillful Second threw both men off of him and jumped into a squat. Then he knocked Erik to the ground with a kick to the back of the knees and grabbed Pale Face by the throat. “Goodbye, darling,” he cooed, mimicking the kidnapper. He head-butted Pale Face in the nose – a blow that knocked the creep out – and threw him on top the downed Erik. Erik scurried to crawl out from under Pale Face, but Rye was up and ready for him. An open handed push to the chin sent the tattooed captor down.

  Rye retrieved the lampstand and gave the pair a few good whacks before retiring it violently against the wall. He was thoroughly grossed out. “NASTY!” he yelled and slammed the door shut behind him.

  If ‘Maricia’ had been in the adjacent room during the scuffle, she wasn’t any longer. The room was empty. Rye retrieved his jeans, which we
re on a short table near the door, didn’t bother with a shirt, and exited the room as quickly as possible. He traveled the rest of the way home shirtless and trying to choke down the experience.

  “Nasty! So fricking nasty! What a couple of pervs!”

  He swatted at his ear where Pale Face’s trembling mouth had been and wanted to vomit. No amount of water would be able to wash away the memory, he realized, but when he finally arrived at the apartment he shared with Foster, he tried anyway. After a wastefully long shower, he sat on the edge of Foster’s bed and scribbled a note:

  Tide,

  I’m sorry that I was gone and that you haven’t heard from me until now. I can explain . . . if you’ll let me. Just know that it was nothing I meant to do. I’d like to see you again.

  -Rye

  P.S. Thanks. I know you don’t know what this means, but you just saved me from a pair of perverts.

  The creaky machine in Tide’s apartment delivered the fax.

  “A pair of perverts?” Nero Yondo held the note in his hand and frowned. “What have you gotten yourself mixed up with now, Tide?”

  Missing his disobedient princess, the disillusioned king stared out the window and wheezed.

  ~

  When Tide arrived home from the failed tartaroise hunt, she was worn out. The mines had been a dead end, for a recent tremor had closed up the upward parts where the tartaroises were said to dwell. She and Jobe resolved to try again after a day or two of rest. And she needed it. She felt out sorts for some reason. And her internal clock was all off. It seemed like she’d been at the mine for only an hour or so, but it was already evening. Not to mention, she vaguely remembered being ensnared by something again, but she couldn’t clearly pull the memory, no matter how recent it was. It continued to evade her – ever running from the spotlight or being stomped upon by a more powerful thought. It was frustrating. And what was more frustrating was that she’d missed her father yet again. He’d been back to the house. He’d left a note, and even though he had to know by now that she hadn’t really been going to Y’s, there was no sort of reprimand for her.

  Tide reached for the Bororore-framed photograph that sat upon the kitchen counter. It was of Tide and her father. Tide’s mother had snapped it during her last days. Their last visit to Eastfelt Conservatory. Together, the family had enjoyed a full day of man-made nature. All three of them had spent the afternoon . . . No, that wasn’t right. There’d been four of them there. Tide, her parents, and another. A friend? Or . . .? But try as she may, the young princess couldn’t remember the fourth.

  Chapter 9: The Visible Kiss

  Hearing it all said like that, there wasn’t much sense to be made. Still, the two lost in oblivion tried. They tried diligently. But in the end, it wouldn’t matter. In the end, they were the same way they’d always been.

  Y was worried. Y was anxious. She’d have been better off had Tide NOT confessed her day’s plans – plans that Y definitely didn’t approve of. But there was no stopping her. Tide was going. Across the city. By herself. To see IT. To see the gross thing that had never been born. It’d done something to Tide. It had done something to the princess. It had convinced her that it was real. It had convinced her that it was alive. Tide had fallen into its trap, and she even claimed to feel fondness for it now.

  Y couldn’t go with her. Going with her would just be giving in. Giving permission. And that was something Y couldn’t offer. Y stared into the mirror. Her orange hair was pulled back with a checkered band – an early birthday gift from her idiotic friend.

  “Sorry, Tide Yondo. I can’t support you in this. If you fall on your ass, I’ll help you up, but I won’t be the one to push you down.”

  Tide couldn’t hear her, though, because was already halfway to Abardo.

  Y fiddled with her hair and let out a sigh.

  Tide also let out a sigh. She was staring up at the overcast sky. It was going to rain again, but this time she was prepared. She held in her hand a sturdy Bororore-cored umbrella. Upon her body, she wore an expensive pink raincoat that she’d found in the back of her closet. She couldn’t remember when she’d bought it, but it fit perfectly.

  Tide followed the detailed instructions jotted on the note in her other hand. At the end of the street, she was to take a right. That would put her right by his apartment. She was almost there.

  The young girl was antsy. She was eager to see him. She was eager to hear his explanation. He also had an interesting story to tell her, he’d said. Heart thumping, Tide tried to prepare for her first visit to Rye’s home.

  Rye was also nervous, not only because had a lot of explaining to do, but because talking about those things was sure to weaken his hold on the ground. He couldn’t slip away again. Not in front of her. For her, he had to hold tightly. But what if it became too much? . . . Then he’d just have to trust that Tide’s presence would help keep him there. That things would be fine as long as Foster stayed out of the way.

  Ding! Ding!

  Tide stood at the entrance and pulled the bell string. Rye’s apartment was much shorter than hers. She’d predicted as much, but . . .

  “It’s really not THAT short,” she told her umbrella upon further inspection. It was sort of a mid-level place. She held onto her zipper and looked up and wondered which floor he was on. Her hands were sweaty. She hoped he wouldn’t start off the day with a high-five or anything. The thought made her shiver. “Get a grip, Tide,” she told herself. But because the princess had never been one for taking her own advice, she continued to be a shivery, sweaty mess. “Omigod! Cut it out, already!” She was sure she looked pathetic.

  But when Rye opened the door, he thought she looked something else entirely.

  “Adorable,” he said. And he impulsively moved in for a greeting hug.

  “Eh?!” Tide took a step back because she was feeling skittish.

  “Nope! Nothing!” Rye grinned, retracted the hug, and put a finger to his lips. This was her first visit to a Second’s house, and it was up to him to make sure she didn’t feel uncomfortable. He’d even taken extra precautions to hide the distracting tattoo with a striped green scarf. “B-boy, am I glad you came!” he said, trying to recover. “And you weren’t lying – You appear to be intact! Phew! Can you tell I was nervous? I felt like a big jerk for leaving you like that.”

  His eyes were wide with excitement. Tide blushed.

  “Uh. It’s okay,” she said. “I would like to know why and everything, though.”

  “Of course! So, er- come in!”

  Rye held the door open for her. The nervous girl’s mouth smiled bashfully. Tide realized it, and she felt like a moron. There was nothing to be done, though. Her body was as disobedient as ever.

  Tide followed Rye through the lobby and into the lift. She stared at the keypad and waited.

  “Bet you’re wondering which floor I’m on, huh?” said Rye slyly.

  “What?! N-no, not really. It’s not like it matters . . .”

  Rye laughed. “It’s okay. Of course you’re wondering. I wonder myself which floor of your fancy tower you live on. Bet it’s the top.” He winked. It was charming.

  Tide’s neck pulse became annoyingly obvious.

  Rye’s building had twenty-four floors. He lived on the eighteenth. It was decent. Nowhere near Tide’s height, of course, but really, aside from curiosity, Tide didn’t care about things like that. It wouldn’t sway her opinion of him one way or the other.

  Rye and Tide stood in the hallway in tense silence while Rye fumbled for his keys. Tide wrung the handle of her umbrella. Why were things always so awkward between them at first?! Tide knew it would eventually melt away, but she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to be confident again so that . . .

  She remembered the intimacy of that abandoned, crumbling building. She remembered resting her head against his solid chest. Those thoughts betrayed her, though, and only made her tremble more.

  “Hey!” Key in the lock, Rye squinted at her. “You’re way ner
vous, aren’t you? But . . . you don’t think . . .? Oh! Don’t worry! I’m not going to like . . . try stuff. ‘Kay? I promise.”

  Tide was nervous, but it wasn’t at all for that reason. But now that he’d said it, it slipped into the forefront of her mind, uninvited but painfully obvious. It only made it worse. She was again forgetting to breathe. Her face turned from flustered pink to pressurized red.

  “Tide?” Concerned, Rye placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, but when he saw her head begin to sway, he released the keys and used both hands to give her a good shake. “Yo! Tide! What’s wrong?!”

  Tide gasped for air, and once she managed to inhale, her color went from pressurized red to embarrassed scarlet. She hung her head in shame. She was a moron. A super moron!

  “You okay?” said Rye.

  “Yeah, I . . .” She looked at the floor, but then she looked up. His eyes were brimming with concern. Such sweet concern . . . there was no way she could not be taken by it. She gave him a warm smile. “I’m fine.”

  Keeping his eyes on hers, Rye swallowed and reached for the keys that still dangled from the lock. He turned them and pushed the door open. But he didn’t move.

  “So . . .” Tide was the one to look away. She pulled her eyes from his and peeked inside.

  “Oh!” said the Second. “Yeah, go right in!”

  Tide smiled and moved past him and into the room that was his. It was cool in there. And dark, too. The shades weren’t drawn, but the outside sky was too cloudy to offer much light. Small lights were gathered in a net suspended from the ceiling, resembling tiny sparkling stars. They were what caught Tide’s eye first, but when she looked down, she saw that there were other unique trinkets scattered about. In contrast to Tide and Nero’s stark, organized apartment, Rye’s walls were littered with antique metal signs and cool machine parts that had been transformed into shelves and pots and hooks. Various jackets and accessories dangled from some of them, while others were reserved for stalks of dried plant. Rye noticed when Tide squinted at them.