Dragging Blue Lake

Chapter 92: Kvornan Sees The Invisible Axle

2011-11-05T12:20:00.004-04:00

Fri, December 11, 2074 11:44 am-- Camden Municipal School; Camden, Pleasantview

Kvornan's cell phone was buzzing when he exited the school. To accept the call after spending ten minutes in the men's room throwing cold water on his face was to run the risk of someone hearing the stress in his voice. He would answer only if it was Elise phoning from a janitor’s closet for no reason again, and then he thought that he would spill everything. He would start from the beginning with the man on the dredger ship who was kind enough to share his lunch and who could find something to laugh about on the worst of days. He would continue his story down the road to Veronaville, where he chose not to say goodbye. He would talk about Millhaven in autumn, Emilia’s pies, barroom brawls, the Garrisonian Tribunal, rock and roll, and Antoine’s drunken poetry. He would talk about teaching Alexei his language by way of taping notes to every object in the house. He would talk about nights spent lying on the lawn, renaming the stars. He would explain why he and Alec slept heads to tails on Wednesdays, why mashed peas are not so good for sculpting, why winter is the only time to swim.

He would even say things to Elise that only Alexei knew, moments both terrifying and beautiful that had been theirs alone. Then he would confess to why he was always the first one to drop his gaze in a staring match, confess that the life he gave to Alexei had belonged to Alexei all along, and finish by warning Elise against the ruin that attachment can bring.

Kvornan wedged his fingers into his pocket and gripped the phone by its sides. It was pathetic to be upset at that moment but being too cowardly to answer the phone only compounded his embarrassment. The incoming call was listed as "Data Unavailable", which only ever meant "Addison London". It was the first time that Kvornan could remember being relieved at that blinking blue "Data Unavailable". Kvornan dragged his feet toward the swing set at the edge of the lawn and sat down with the phone still vibrating in his fist. The frigid air was beginning to make his nose run. He ruffled his hair and sniffed back, wishing he had a cigarette.

"Yeah?"

"You got a minute?" A red leaf landed on Kvornan’s lap. He brushed it away.

"What do you need?"

"It's about the new Magus." That was a newsflash. Kvornan pressed the receiver closer to his ear with his shoulder.

"Did someone die?"

"No, no one died. Rodin Chi'en got the sack after you left." Addison sounded annoyed, as though Kvornan should have been keeping better tabs on the palace. Kvornan snorted derisively. He had not spared a thought for Rodin Chi'en in weeks. "I took the liberty of suggesting a candidate for the position." Kvornan trekked backwards on the tips of his toes, gaining momentum.

"And the Magi took a suggestion from you seriously?"

"You know me. I work with subtly and finesse." Kvornan pushed off. Finding it too difficult to swing with just one hand, he focused the magical force around him to propel the swing forward.

"Hm. What's that thing the kids are saying these days? 'TMI'?"

"Funny you should mention kids. The Magi are inducting Jack Dalton as an Ovate on the solstice."

"'The Kid'?"

"The very same. So my question for you is, 'What would you say to having a man on the inside?'" In truth, Kvornan was not sure how he felt about that. He slowed down the swing.

"Can we trust him?"

"He's like my own blood. And you're welcome, by the way."

"You're a genius, Addison."

"It's what I do." Addison hung up the phone. The swing came to a stop. Kvornan pushed the antenna back down into his cell phone and watched the frozen leaves tumble by.

May 14, 2052 4:17 pm-- the 200 block of W. Larimer Ave; Tolsbury, Pleasantview

"Cheaters never prosper, Vincent Randall!" Kvornan's sandals were barely touching the ground. He was using his energy to disrupt the way that gravity acted on his body in motion, just enough to stay ahead of Alexei. He sprinted backwards to face his opposition and cupped a hand over his ear.

"What's that? I can't hear you. You're too far behind!" Alexei dove at him. Kvornan jumped out of reach, about five feet back."You know, if I wanted to, I could be at the movie theater by now," he said.

"Over here, Cory!" A little girl's voice cut the air. For an instant too quick to measure, everything stopped. Cory. The name brought Kvornan's past crashing down. He turned towards the source of the sound.

Two children were racing around the playground. The boy called Cory ducked behind a ladder beam. Behind him, Kvornan could hear Alexei's feet scuffing the pavement.

"Bang! Bang!" Cory spun beyond the range of the girl's imaginary bullets.

"Nah, nah-na boo-boo!" He taunted the girl with a raspberry. She loaded her weapon once more.

The children circled, guns drawn, going round and round some great invisible axle.

"Bang!" Cory ducked but did not return fire. Kvornan felt Alexei touch his back. Kvornan shot him a glance to let him know that he was still in the moment. This small courtesy was part of a vast language of gestures that had developed between them over the last couple of years. The 'Are you okay?' pat. The 'I'm still with you.' stare. Alexei moved his hand to Kvornan's waist.

"I am going to ask you something, but I don't want you to lash out at me or withdraw." Kvornan smiled weakly.

"I can't make any promises," he murmured.

"What happened to your son?" Wind hissed through the grass. Kvornan's mouth was dry. He swallowed against it.

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Well, you and I are close. This is something that affects you deeply, and you never talk about it."

"I had a little boy with pale hair like yours, and he was burned alive. What more is there to tell?"

"You're not alone anymore, you know." He did know. Cory tunneled up the sliding board to safety.

"Fricorith had a spiritual deformity of sorts. It allowed for the transfer of foreign entities into his body, into his life force. It's a pretty common defect and for most people, it never becomes a problem. They go through their lives not knowing that they have it. I have it, in fact. It's congenital. But some people, for whatever reason, are targeted by these foreign entities, usually daemon energies. The results are often diagnosed as schizophrenia. And Fricorith... Sometimes I would catch him passing by and I could look in his eyes and see that wasn't my son. Someone else was operating him like a piece of machinery. I can't tell you how terrifying that was. We tried everything. The Magi performed rites and held vigils. The attacks only got worse. That was when my father-in-law started studying the plant life in Arbormoor, particularly the distilled variety."

"He thought that he could find a cure?"

"He thought that he could treat it like the flu. 'Down the hatch, young milksop! Easy does it!' Jon was a quack. It was little use, anyway. He made some extraordinary discoveries in his research but a cure for his grandson wasn't one of them. Fricorith sank deeper into himself. He went catatonic for days. The Magi told us that this was a very dangerous sign and that the structure of his energy could collapse in that state. Fricorith would cease to exist. We gave up hope. Then one day, while Jennail, Nylissit and I were away from the house, my mother-in-law locked my son in Jon's laboratory. She set a fire and made it look like an accident. Then she ran away."

"My god." Kvornan rubbed the underside of his right wrist, over the scar tissue that he had acquired before he turned. He remembered what it was like holding his arm above a stove burner and imagining Fricorith's last moments. It should have been him.

Alexei was watching him, concerned. Kvornan buried his hands beneath his arms. Alexei placed his chin on Kvornan's shoulder, pressing his nose against Kvornan's cheek.

"In her mind, she was protecting Fricorith from oblivion by ensuring that he died fully conscious. She didn't know that my brother-in-law and a maid were trapped inside. We think my niece climbed through a window to save Fricorith. Halfway across town, Jon was shot to death by a Townie woman all in the same day. We told the press that the fire was an accident because that was what we genuinely believed. Jon's murder got the rumor mills turning. Soon it leaked that Jon had been a nerdy old philanderer with fifty lovers, all Townie women, and a score of illegitimate children. Everyone assumed that he had been killed by a jealous lover and that Jennicor set the fire in the lab to punish him for his dalliances." Alexei turned his head, laying his brow against Kvornan's neck.

"So he wasn't killed by a jealous lover?" Kvornan shook his head.

"He was killed by a lover but not for jealousy. He was responsible for the disappearance of their son, Addison Wolosenko. But that's a story for another day." Kvornan looked down at Alexei's arms circling his waist. The sun made the translucent hairs on Alexei's forearm shimmer. He stroked Alexei's arm with the backs of his fingers.

"Bang!" The little girl's voice broke through the stillness. "Lie down, Cory! You're dead."

Chapter 91: Kvornan Shouts Down the Avalanche

2011-10-23T04:14:00.011-04:00

Fri, December 11, 2074 11:07 am-- Camden Municipal School; Camden, Pleasantview

The last time Kvornan set foot in a school, it had been to tender his resignation. That was nearly seventy-seven years ago. Treading over the endless linoleum of Camden Municipal, he was struck by just how little had changed about the institution. Electric bells still sounded the end of the class period. Students still scribbled away in their copy books while teachers still droned from that nether-region located between their desks and the chalkboard.

Kvornan did not know what he thought he would see. To his mind, this was a brave new world and he was a lost relic in it. Feeling out of touch was meant to be a constant. Alexei always said that the world was inherently more boring than overwhelming, and that if Kvornan expected to be surprised by it at his age then he was asking too much. He had to modify his own behavior, his own way of thinking. If he wanted to find something new in familiar places then he had to be the catalyst.

Kvornan stopped at the end of the hall and knocked on a door plated with the words Mr. Amin Bruty, Upper School Administration. A voice from within told him to enter.

A wavy-haired Townie man was seated inside the office, somewhat obscured by his cluttered desk. Grinning broadly, Kvornan took the seat opposite him and bowed in greeting.

"Peace be with you, Administrator Bruty." Kvornan spoke in a much thicker accent than what came to him naturally. It could have been the idle thought about Alexei that sparked his sense of fun or his curiosity at the fact that school was still so tediously school-like, but he felt inspired to be the source of his own surprises. Amin clasped his hands and bowed in return.

"Mr. Randall, I take it? I am very pleased to meet you." Amin extended his hand for Kvornan to shake. Kvornan clasped it with both hands.

"Yes, very pleased! It has been not easy road," he said.

"I couldn't agree more. The journey has been difficult for us all. The children especially so." Amin was a soft-spoken, delicate thing. He struck Kvornan as a warm but sober man. Kvornan leaned back in his chair. He thought that Amin's sincerity would allow him to take greater liberties with the Vincent Randall that he was fabricating second by second.

"Children? Oh no, children are fine. They sleep in the car more longer when I make wrong turn." Amin furrowed his brow.

"You mean that you got lost on the way here?" Kvornan looked off to the side as though it was the silliest question he had ever heard.

"Yes, it is what I say. 'Not easy road.'" Kvornan's feigned exasperation seemed to amuse Amin. His eyes glittered with a fondness that people usually reserved for children and the elderly.

“So you did. My mistake. I just cannot tell you how relieved I was-- How relieved we all were here at Camden Municipal when we heard the good news about you adopting the Mindelsohn children.” Kvornan gave Amin the same adorably serious pout that Elise made when she was considering something grave.

“Agatha and Li were like family. Sad to grow apart. Very sad.”

“Yes but I am certain that they would be happy to know that their children will be in the care of a trusted friend.”

“Ai, Deus ir hosanish! My heart, it broke when I hear about Little Vince occupying his sisters and brother with no other family for the doing of this. But of course, I should not say ‘Little Vince’ now. He is not so little on these days. Fourteen! He will have his spúrtzi in Veronaville when we return.” Amin who had been nodding silently throughout this garbled monologue took a moment to pause.

“Ah, forgive me. What is a spe-yort-see?”

“Spúrtzi is a ceremony in temple."

“I see.”

“Vince, he swallow bees in temple and then he will be a man.”

“Bees, Mr. Randall?”

It was all that Kvornan could do not to laugh. The incredulous horror in Amin's eyes made the entire exchange worthwhile. Still, Kvornan did not miss a beat.

“Yes, forty bees. Make him a man. He will be first human to have royal princess at his spúrtzi.”

“Live bees?”

“Ai, of course! No point if they are dead.” There were a few seconds of silence. Kvornan thought that he must have stumbled upon a phobia of Amin's. He had not considered the position of power that he was occupying until this instant. He resolved not to make any more wild claims while Amin aligned the pencils on his desk.

“I'm sorry, I... It is just a little shocking for someone who didn't grow up with these same traditions.”

“Yes, is very old rite. Very sacred.”

“Well, I... I have the paperwork all set-up. I'll just need you to initial the bottom right hand corner of each page and sign the last page as 'parent or guardian'.”

“Of course, of course.” Kvornan skimmed through the release forms. On paper, the children were being withdrawn from Camden Municipal and enrolled in the Royal Academy of Amhurst, a secular school just a few miles from Kvornan's home at Ethelden. In reality, all but Elise would be attending RA of A, that bastion of the terminally over-priviledged. Kvornan did not know how they would get on there but this was their social position now.

When he was finished authorizing the document, Kvornan clapped the pen onto the desk in a gesture of finality. Even though it was part of the act, he really did feel relieved. This was the last puzzle piece. The children were now free to go with him. Amin reached across the desk to shake his hand.

“Congratulations, Mr. Randall, to you and your new family.”

“Thank you, Amin Bruty.”

“I hope that you and the children will keep in touch. Let us know how things are going.”

“Yes! We send you nut cake for Volithxen. 'Winter Festival', yes?”

“We will look forward to it. Have a wonderful day, Mr. Randall.” Kvornan nodded enthusiastically.

“Laoniq Deus in nos vedden proximus.”

"You too," Amin said. Now Kvornan's smile was genuine. This guy really did not speak a word of Ashkay. Kvornan stood to go then stopped at the door, both remembering something and pretending to remember.

"Is something wrong?" Amin asked. Kvornan turned around, thumping his forehead in mock-realization.

"I get it now! Yes, a very difficult journey for children. Very difficult! Thank you, Amin Bruty!" Amin chuckled. Kvornan thought that Amin would go home to his family that night and regale them with the story of how he met Princess Tara's consort, that strange reclusive painter who never appeared in public.

Kvornan closed the door behind himself with barely a sound. The hallway was deserted. He walked out of the view of Amin's door and leaned against the wall, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed to prevent him from sobbing. He thought time and distance had obliterated what he was feeling now, but it clawed through him without warning. He emptied his mind to regain composure. He had been walking around for the past month with a wound that was starting to hemorrhage. As much as he wanted to deny, dismiss and repress his emotion like he had spent the better part of a decade doing, those options were lost to him now.

Alexei had been close enough for him to touch. Alec. His Alec.

December 22, 2050 10:18 pm: Mithra Station; Lloren-On-Acheron, Veronaville

"Will you just smell that air? Being by the river is so invigorating. I love it this town. Everything about it is so quaint, you know? Like stepping back in time." Alexei was struggling to keep up. Kvornan did not feel the need to remind him that they were not on a Sunday stroll. They had a train to catch. Kvornan was going home. Alexei had offered to see him off as far as Amhurst Station, and Kvornan agreed only because they would probably never see one another again. After spending several weeks accompanying this man from one side of the country to the other, part of Kvornan thought that he had all that he could take. Still another part of him would be disappointed to lose his prattling acquaintance.

"This station was built during the reign of Queen Pehkhet II. It was originally a butchers' market. Can't you just imagine the stone masons chipping away at all these blocks by hand?" Alexei's enthusiasm was legible through his every movement. "Okay, I'm not blind. I know Lloren-On-Acheron is a slum. I just appreciate the history of the place." Alexei often held entire conversations on his own in this manner, responding to thoughts that Kvornan was not even having. Sometimes Kvornan kept quiet just to hear Alexei's assumptions. "When I'm in a place like this, I like to think about whose footsteps I might be walking in. Politicians, movie stars, musicians, philosophers, lion tamers, tax dodgers…" Alexei's sentence fizzled away. At first, Kvornan thought that he had run out of phantom pedestrians but then he realized that Alexei was listening. There were people talking nearby, at least two. Kvornan could not make out what was being said. Alexei sped up. Being taller than Kvornan, Alexei managed to surpass him altogether. He was headed towards the voices before Kvornan could stop him.

An elderly couple was waiting for a taxi. They looked up at Alexei as he approached at full speed. Kvornan hung behind, puzzled.

"Oh my god, this is extraordinary. How have you been?" Alexei exclaimed. The couple exchanged glances. "It's me, Al! Al Garrison from Pleasantview? Don't you remember?" Alexei shook their hands one at a time. They smiled politely.

"Are you Miss Vicky's boy?" The woman inquired. Alexei frowned. He looked crestfallen.

"Well-- Well, no. I-- I saved your life!" The couple seemed bemused but no more or less than anyone else on the cusp of senility.

"Well thank you," the man said. Alexei patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't mention it. Gee, you really don't remember me do you? It's no big deal. Look, give the kids a hug for me. It was really nice running into you. I'll be on this side of Veronaville for a while. We should get together and play some pinocle."

"That sounds lovely." Alexei took the woman's hand and kissed it.

"Y'all take care of yourselves now, you hear?" Alexei reached over and shook the gentleman's hand once more for good measure. He walked by Kvornan as though he were invisible and now it was Kvornan's turn to keep up the pace. Alexei threw his arm around Kvornan's shoulder.

"What was I talking about just now?"

"Who were those people?" It was the first thing that Kvornan had said in over an hour but curiosity drove him to it.

"Beats me. Never met 'em before in my life." Alexei delivered that information in a way that was so plain and so matter-of-fact that Kvornan was forced to do something out of the ordinary-- He laughed. He laughed until he began to hiccup. Alexei raised his eyebrows in concern. "Are you okay? You're making noises I've never heard you make before." Kvornan shook his head. He could feel the color flooding his cheeks.

"What… is… wrong with you?" Kvornan spoke between hiccups.

"What do you mean?"

"That was tasteless. Absolutely tasteless. Don't you think that it's a bit grim, picking on people their age? You're old enough to be that man's father." Alexei waved it off.

"They'll have forgotten about it by the time they get home tonight."

"And that makes it alright?" Alexei's shoulders shook with laughter. The two of them passed into an archway under the railway tracks.

The green lanterns lighting the path made Kvornan twinge with nostalgia. He was in Veronaville. He was home.

A train roared above their heads as it neared the station. Alexei hooted, attempting to match the train for pitch.

"Do you ever do this? Try to be heard over the whistle?" he shouted. Kvornan shook his head, still hiccuping. An idea that puerile might never have occurred to him. Alexei threw back his head and called at the train once more. He tapped Kvornan on the chest with the back of his hand. "Now you try," he urged. Kvornan held his breath to rid himself of his affliction.

The train got closer, causing the rafters above them to shudder. When the whistle started up anew, Alexei hooted and Kvornan joined him, figuring that there was nothing to be gained or lost by it. Soon, neither man could be heard over the din. Kvornan was shouting down the avalanche of dust that fell from the ceiling as it shook. He was shouting down the train, the bridge, the sky above.

When the train came to a halt, his throat was hoarse and his ears were ringing but the hiccups were gone. Alexei pushed his hair out of his face. He tried to say something but physically could not. Kvornan refused to even make an attempt at speech. Their voices, he knew, had left their bodies as vapor and escaped into the night.

Chapter 90: Beau Will Always Be Vulnerable

2011-10-08T19:24:00.004-04:00

Fri December 11, 2074 1:45 am: Route A9 (eastbound)-- Downtown, Pleasantview

“Of all the stupid, reckless, irresponsible things! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there tonight?” Beau was slipping down low in his seat. He was three-years-old when his own mother died and the way Dustin told it, Brandi Broke had not been much of a disciplinarian anyway. On the rare occasions when Beau found himself on the receiving end of some else’s railing mother, the tirades rolled off of him like water upon wax. Not so tonight. Maybe it was the way the street lamps flooded her face with shadows or maybe her late night tussled hair made her seem slightly crazed, but Beau was terrified.

“When I was your age, folks found themselves at the bottom of a ditch for less. Just the two of you being seen together might have been enough!” Mrs. Bennett was glaring at her daughter through the rearview mirror. Felicity leaned back against the headrest with her elbow propped on the door. Her eyelids drooped. She appeared disinterested.

“Mom, when you were our age, Uriel Dottore was in office.” Here, Angelica whipped around in her seat to face her daughter.

“You think Lillith Pleasant’s administration has anymore use for you?” Felicity did not respond. She focused her attention out of the window, winding her long red hair between her fingers.

The turn signal of the car ahead of them blinked on and off, casting light into the interior of the minivan. Beau watched the light play against the wall, and thought that this was the way of the universe. He would probably never encounter the people in the car ahead of him but without their knowledge, something that they had done was changing the way he viewed his surroundings. The wall was red and then black, red and then black again.

Mrs. Bennett collapsed back into her seat with a huff. Beau felt guilty for this momentary rift between mother and daughter. He felt guilty for their arrest. He felt guilty for all of it, but he would not take the night back. He would not trade his actions for a better, more enjoyable time. What was right held more gravity than what would have been easy.

“It ain’t even the police that you should have been worried about no ways,” Mrs. Bennett continued. “It’s the people in that restaurant. And don’t try to tell me that times are different. All I would have to do is open up a newspaper and show you just how different times are.” Felicity began picking at the rubber seal along the window frame. Beau thought that he knew how she felt—That she had something to say but lacked the words to say it.

“And you,” Beau’s head shot up toward the rearview mirror. Mrs. Bennett was peering at him now or rather, as much of him as she could see from the passenger seat. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself getting my daughter mixed up in something like this. How old are you again?”

“Seventeen, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Well you should have known better.”

“I would have never let anything happen to—“

“Son, I don’t know what you think you could have done if someone got it in their head to harm you both.” Beau planted the heels of his hands on the cushion beneath him and pulled his entire body upright. It seemed too serious of a conversation to slouch through.

“I am sorry if we were in any danger but it didn’t feel that way,” he said. Mrs. Bennett snorted.

“’Course it didn’t. Boys your age are invincible. I’m guessing you got that memo.” Beau felt quite the opposite but he kept quiet. Mrs. Bennett was squinting at the mirror as though it would help her to see through him, to the heart. “Does your mother know you spent the night in a police station?” Beau shook his head.

“My mother is deceased.”

“Your father then? Legal guardian? Next of kin?”

“My brother and no.” He left it at that. Dustin would have beaten him within an inch of his life if he knew about Felicity. The thought of it made his insides squirm, even though he was big enough now to hit back and do damage.

When Beau thought about it, tonight was very much in keeping with the ebb and flow of his life. He would always be vulnerable to blows. His opponents would always be tougher, stronger and closed-fisted. The result of such a fight would be predictable but he would fight nonetheless. The battle was not a means, but the end in and of itself. It was the fact that he stood up at all that mattered.

Mrs. Bennett propped her weight against the door and said nothing. Beau looked out the window. Glittering buildings flashed by. The phase, skyscraper windows burn like urban stars occurred to him. He was sorry that he did not have anything to write with. He looked up at the rear view mirror. Mrs. Bennett was busying herself with the glove compartment when Mr. Bennett’s reflection caught his eye.

Mr. Bennett appeared to have been staring at him for quite some time. He did not flinch when Beau noticed him staring. He smiled broadly instead, alight with praise and support.

Chapter 89: Felicity Lays The First Stone

2011-09-29T18:33:00.010-04:00

Thurs December 10, 2074 9:48 pm: Pleasantview 23rd Precinct-- New Alderton, Pleasantview

The rain was coming down in spates on the roof of the police station. Felicity thought that it sounded like an infernal marching band playing a thousand tin drums above her head.

She lost count of the number of times that Beau rolled up his sleeve to check his watch. He was doing it so compulsively that she knew he was just looking for an object to spend his scrutiny on. Felicity rubbed her blue-inked fingertips on the seat of the chair, hoping to leave a mark.

They had been detained for disorderly conduct and would be fined, pending trial. Felicity was certain that if they had not been Residents, they would have both been spending a few nights in jail. Part of her felt as though she had cheated the system somehow by getting off so easy. Still another part of her remembered that they should not have been arrested in the first place, and that the house always wins.

Beau was staring at her now as though he had something to say. Felicity did not turn. Doubtless, he wanted to talk about what happened that night but Felicity knew without discussion that this was not a shared experience. The two of them had been watching the same events unfold but from entirely opposite perspectives-- That of a Townie-born and that of someone who wasn't. A chasm existed between them now, one that she could not force herself to throw a rug over and pretend away.

"Is it too early to say that I don't regret this?" The sound of his voice forced her to look at him. "I mean, this isn't exactly how I imagined our first date would end but I'm glad. I'm glad that a whole restaurant full of people saw us get arrested for doing-- what exactly? For wanting to pay thirty-eight simoleons for a plate of scallops? It's about time someone took a stand in public like that. People in this country need to wake-up."

For a moment, Felicity was quiet. It was not that she did not agree with him but that he did not understand the problem with the same intimacy that she did. When the restaurant hostess told him that they did not serve Townsmen, he was offended and discouraged. He was angry. He could not have understood how calloused Felicity had become to injuries like that. How those hurts seeped beneath the skin and festered. How the only way to truly deal was just to walk away. She could not have made Beau understand this if she wanted to. But she could make him understand the stakes.

"You really don't get it, do you? Beau, I could lose my residency over this."

"Well, maybe it was never worth having in the first place. Think about it. I could fake an accent, buy my clothes second-hand and tell people my name was Abhijeet Carr. The only reason why I have rights that aren't afforded to the majority of people is because some pointy-eared bureaucrat in Veronaville signed off on it when I was born. It's meaningless. It's all meaningless." Felicity shook her head at him slowly, her lips parted.

Maybe things did seem that way for him but for Felicity, the stigma of being a Townie coursed much deeper than the way she talked or dressed. It was more than what her birth certificate assigned and it could not be over-written by the caste on her identification card.

Being a Townie was the lower school lunch period when Gillian Bosch, a mid-caste girl that Felicity had no prior or subsequent interactions with, poured hot soup down the back of her dress unprovoked, in front of three teachers who all looked the other way. Being a Townie was the time a complete stranger pushed her little brother into moving traffic. Being a Townie was the night that her grandfather died from multiple strokes in the emergency room while the doctors were busy treating Residents for sprains, flu, contact dermatitis. Being a Townie was watching her mother breakdown into tears when at age six, Felicity declared that she wanted to be a jet pilot when she grew up. If Beau were to cut her open just then, he would have found legible traces of her Townie birth right down to the marrow. Felicity met Beau’s stare.

"If you can say that, then you have no idea what my life is." Beau leaned back in his chair and faced forward.

"You're right. I don't."

"When I asked you to leave, we should have left. Period. I pick my own battles. I don't need you doing it for me." The words were heated. When Beau looked at her again, his eyes denied that the chain of events could have unfolded in any other way.

"Felicity, I couldn't have allowed them to treat you like that. I couldn't have allowed them to treat someone I don’t even know like that."

"You owe me an apology." Beau exhaled heavily through his nose.

"I'm sorry." Two police officers were chatting and joking just a few feet away. Their voices filled the silent pause between Beau and Felicity. When Beau spoke again, he was looking down at his shoes. "Did you mean what you said back there,” he muttered. “About me being your boyfriend?" Here, he caught her glance and tried not to grin.

"I said that?"

"When you told the manager not to threaten me and made some erectile remarks."

"Oh." The moment replayed for her. Calling Beau her boyfriend had been inconsequential, comparatively. Felicity leaned her head back against the glass. "I reckon it doesn't matter anyway. My mom is never going to let me see you again after this."

"That's a long time to hold a grudge."

"You don't know my mother." The edges of his mouth flattened to form a sober line across his face, and she felt culpable. "Look, Beau, I don't want you to think that I don't agree with you about all of this or that I don't admire you for doing it. Really I do but there are just so many reasons why that was not the time."

Beau looked away. Felicity followed the contours of his face with her eyes. He was a good person. An earnest person. He daydreamed half of his life away but so did she. He was trying to do the right thing.

Felicity took him by the hands. Beau narrowed his eyes in questioning when she slid from her chair and into his lap.

Beau was breathing fast now, and she wondered if he would have had the same reaction to her closeness on a normal first date. She smoothed his feathered hair away from his face and pressed her lips against his cheek, laying the first stone to bridge the chasm.

Chapter 88: Beau Is Not On A Date Like Teenagers

2011-09-26T17:40:00.018-04:00

Thurs December 10, 2074, 7:12 pm: Kafe Lonicera-- Doubling, Pleasantview

Beau's romantic onslaught had been staged in phases. First were the phone calls, nightly, around 8:00 pm when Jack was not around to shout obscenities in background for Felicity to overhear. Then came Phase Two: the leaflet campaign-- dozens of handwritten notes wedged into her locker door, all signed "Captain Safety" (in fact, he was beginning to feel every bit like the psychopath that she accused him of being the first time they met). Then there were the emails that she dutifully responded to, always dancing around the subject of a potential date.

Two weeks passed and Beau was unsure about what he said or did but she approached him in the hall outside of his World History course and accepted his dinner invitation. It was a good thing too because his next maneuver would have involved chucking pebbles at her bedroom window, and he was not certain that he could vouch for his accuracy.

Beau was nervous when he tried to open the restaurant door and pulled the handle when he should have pushed. He was nervous when the warm air from inside washed over them both, luring them in with the scent of food. He was nervous when she linked her delicate arm with his and smiled.

"You're going to love this place," he said. A couple exiting the dining room brushed against his shoulder as they passed, forcing them closer together. "They have this duck in a red curry sauce that's so amazing. Or at least they used to. I haven't been here in a while."

"Duck?" Felicity wrinkled her nose.

"You don't like duck?" Beau stopped walking.

"I dunno. I never ate it before."

"Oh. Well, we could go someplace else if this isn't your thing." Felicity appeared to suppress a laugh and shook her head.

"No, this is nice, really." Beau relaxed his shoulders, previously unaware of how taut he had been holding them. Felicity was not uncomfortable here, with him. She had not accepted his invitation grudgingly. Beau saw now that any impression he needed to make was already made. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what he'd written in those locker notes, only that they had become increasingly desperate as the weeks went on. Felicity inclined her head toward the hostess.

"Should we go get seated?" Beau looked up at the tall, gaunt woman behind the podium. She was anxiously twirling a red pen on the open pages of the reservation log. Beau placed a hand on Felicity's waist and led her forward without a word.

"Good evening. Reservation for Broke party of two?" The hostess clapped her palm over the pen as if to crush a speeding insect. Beau's gaze lingered on the pen for an instant before returning to the hostess. Her behavior was puzzling and he told her so with a furrowed brow.

"I do apologize for the inconvenience but we do not serve Townsmen at this establishment." Her voice was cool and indifferent even as she pronounced what was probably the most dreadful sentence that Beau had ever heard from the mouth of a stranger. Why had the possibility of this never occurred to him? He swallowed against the rising knot in his throat.

"I can't say that I agree with your policy but seeing as how it doesn't apply to us--" The hostess shook her head at him. Her eyes landed on Felicity and widened, as though soaking her in.

"Nor do we serve first generation Residents," she said.

"Townie-borns, you mean." Beau's dread was giving way to fury. He was thinking not just about the circumstance at hand but every circumstance that arose for Felicity on a regular basis; every door closed to her, every sneer, every slander.

"Your words, sir." The hostess seemed dazed, apathetic even.

"Your sentiment," he spat. Felicity was tugging on his sleeve now. Her face was buried into his neck, as high as she could reach.

"It's alright. We can just go someplace else," she whispered. Beau did not take his eyes off of the hostess though his anger was changing its course. Felicity’s impulse to diffuse and avoid confrontation only irked Beau further. She expected to be humiliated. It was part of who she was and he hated that. Then there was the fact that she was so close to him that he could feel her breath on his skin. It was as good as a kiss and he couldn't even enjoy it. That place, that hostess, all of society had taken it away from him.

"No, Liss, it's the principle of the thing." Felicity gave him a penetrating look.

"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do here but I really don't need you to be a hero." Beau gritted his teeth and flushed but he did not move. There was no force in the universe that could have pushed him away.

"Sir, you are making a scene in front of our guests." The hostess's fists were clamped at her sides. Beau thought she looked childish and silly.

"Good." Felicity's eyes were more urgent now. He could feel them boring holes into the fiber of his skull. Across the room, the diners were starting to take notice. The hostess shut her reservation book with the pen inside.

"I'm going to get the manager." Felicity closed her eyes in resignation. Beau reached into his pocket and handed her the keys to his car. For a time, she bounced them in her open palm as though testing them for weight.

"You know, a few minutes ago you were ready to give this place up because I never ate duck before."

"That was then, I guess." The restaurant quieted. Felicity must have known that they were being watched but she did not dare to turn around.

"Can we go? Please? I mean, what are we still doing here?"

"Making a point."

"But I don't want to make a point! I want to be out on a date like normal teenagers with normal lives. Can we do that?"

"No. Not anymore, we can't." Felicity's eyes glazed over with tears. He hated himself but his resolve was set, and she was still holding his keys. He told himself that she could leave if she wanted to. Felicity reached for his hand, as though she could read his mind, and returned the keys. Nothing more needed to be said.

The manager arrived with the hostess in tow. She was smiling in a wicked and self-satisfied way.

“Is there a problem here?” The manager was a man in his early thirties with a mechanical walk and an unfortunate grasp of what it meant to be in the hospitality business.

“We have a reservation and would like to be seated.” Beau’s tone surprised him. It was steady and measured in spite of his emotional state. Felicity took his wrist in an attempt to gently coax him backward. He responded by pulling her against his chest with both arms like a shield. The manager cleared his throat.

“If it is true that this young lady is a first generation Resident then I am afraid that restaurant policy stipulates—“

“This young lady is a customer who should be awarded the same rights and privileges—“

“Sir I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

“—as any other customer.”

“Sir, please leave before I telephone the police.” It was as though someone had thrown a switch. Felicity’s nostrils flared. She bared her teeth like an animal on the verge of an attack.

“Don’t you dare threaten my boyfriend, you limp-dick son of a bitch.” Beau’s jaw fell. Everything around them came to halt. He had no idea that Felicity even knew language like that.

“I’m calling the cops,” the hostess breathed. She cut through the crowd in the direction of where Beau imagined the kitchen was. The manager stood dumb-founded while Felicity glared at the diners.

“Why are you doing this? You know how things are.” The look in the manager’s eyes seemed to be appealing to Beau’s sense of self-preservation. Why are you causing unnecessary trouble for my business to your own personal detriment? That was what the manager really wanted to ask. Beau felt that his sympathy was misplaced.

“It’s a matter of principle,” Felicity said. “We have a reservation, and we can wait all night.”

Chapter 87: Macaulay Makes An Exchange

2011-06-24T01:34:00.003-04:00

Weds December 9, 2074, 6:39 pm: Caliente Manor-- Middlebourne, Pleasantview

Laurie entered the sitting room in much the same way that he entered any room-- Obtrusively. The brass doorknob punched the wall with a deafening crack upon the initial swing inward, then slammed shut behind him with equal gusto. Macaulay braced himself to be toppled over as Laurie launched his body at the chair like a walrus being pitched from a diving board. The impact took Macaulay's breath away.

"Slowest arrival ever! Your Aunt Donna must drive like she's 90." Laurie locked his knees around Macaulay's waist, rocking him from side to side as he teetered. Macaulay winced. There was an ache in his chest that was too weak to be pain but too uncomfortable not to be pain. He wedged a hand between himself and the grinning typhoon of a boy on top of him.

"I think you broke a rib," Macaulay said.

"Only one? I was aiming for the whole set." Laurie lifted Macaulay's shirt out of his pants and peered underneath to inspect his work. Macaulay laughed, tugging his shirt down. There was something very alien about the feeling of his skin being exposed in someone else’s house.

"Would you get out of there?" Laurie placed a hand over Macaulay's heart, pressing him against the chair.

"No way, I have to make sure your rib is truly broken before we call the paramedics. Which one was it? Was it this one?" Laurie ran his fingers over the crest of an individual rib, knowing just how ticklish Macaulay was. Macaulay laughed and tried to twist away with limited success. "Or was it this one?" Laurie repeated the experiment on a lower rung.

Macaulay lifted his back in an attempt to distract Laurie with a kiss but fell several inches short of his mark and flopped back onto the cushion. Laurie snickered. His eyes seemed to say that he knew what Macaulay was up to. He removed his hand from inside of Macaulay's shirt, and brushed Macaulay’s cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Macaulay closed his eyes. He thought sadly that he had waited too long to tell Laurie how he felt. Each day brought them closer to separation. He should have held him when they were both coughing up pond water and shivering more out of nervousness than cold.

"You're lucky you're so good looking or I'd have tickled you to death just for kicks. It would be such a waste to murder the cutest guy in Pleasantview for no good reason." There was a certain amount of sincerity in his voice but all that Macaulay could do was laugh. He thought that only Lavinia had ever shared Laurie's opinion about his looks. Even his sister called him a "blue-eyed chimp with a head like a grapefruit".

"There's a ton of better looking guys than me," he asserted.

"Name one." Macaulay fidgeted with the kite-shaped knot in Laurie’s tie. It seemed cheesy to say that he rarely noticed anyone apart from Laurie himself, however true.

"Well, Ian, for a start." That was honest enough. Laurie scrunched up his features in mild distaste.

"You think Ian is handsome?" Macaulay did not respond but his bashful smile must have spoken volumes. Laurie appeared to be lost in his own appraisal just before he recalled in horror, "Ian gave you mouth-to-mouth!" Macaulay's smile widened. He had not forgotten. Laurie resumed his tickling assault through Macaulay's clothing. "You are in so much trouble!"

The door opened. It happened just slowly enough that Laurie managed to climb down off of his perch and Macaulay righted himself in the chair before the entire form of Laurie’s father came into view. Maybe Mr. Caliente had not witnessed the tell-tale physicality of the scene but he had probably noticed them shifting their posture during the instant that the door was cracked wide enough to see only sections of their bodies in motion. For a moment, Mr. Caliente looked perplexed.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Good evening, Mr. Caliente.” Their greetings overlapped, both sheepish mumbling. Laurie offered his father a valiant smile and Macaulay followed suit.

Mr. Caliente unnerved Macaulay under most circumstances. He had a presence that was so big it could blot out the sun and if you were unfortunate enough not to guess his movements before he made them, you might find yourself trampled underfoot. Macaulay was very familiar with the looming overhang of Mr. Caliente's sole and the deep shadow that it cast.

"I got a phone call earlier today from the Board of Trustees at Pleasantview Youth Boarding. They want to rededicate the school in honor of your Grampa Terry."

"That's great news, Dad." Laurie remained chipper and finally, the colossus allowed himself to smile.

It was earnest, even happy. He looked like Laurie. Macaulay tried to commit this image of Troy to memory, in case he ever needed to depend on it for support if they came into conflict.

"Don't stay down here too long. You boys are meant to be doing your homework."

"We won't." Mr. Caliente excused himself without another word. Laurie leaned into Macaulay until their shoulders butted.

"So," Laurie paused as if to gather his thoughts. "Did you bring it?" It took Macaulay a second to remember just what Laurie was referring too. When the realization struck him, he began rooting around in his pockets, astonished that he could have forgotten. His ascot was crumpled and clinging to the lining of his pocket. Once he had a hold of it, he yanked it out with one motion. He handed it to Laurie, who rested it gently on his upturned palm. Laurie gave Macaulay his ascot in exchange. The two of them spent a time examining the ties. Laurie's was off-white and speckled with little orange stains.

"Do we have to wear them or can we just carry them on our person somewhere?" Macaulay had to ask. Laurie sucked his teeth.

"You should wear it sometimes but the more important thing is that you live with it. That's the whole point. I want to have something that you took everywhere with you and that you did everything with. I want it to smell like you by the time I get it back." That prompted Macaulay to bury his nose in the ascot and indeed, it did smell like Laurie's soap.

"What do I tell my grandmother when she asks why I'm wearing a dirty tie?" Laurie shrugged at the question.

"Tell her that you're borrowing it from your boyfriend because it reminds you of him, and that he eats curries. A lot of curries." Macaulay laughed.

"I think I will tell her that." Macaulay folded the ascot into quarters and held it in his fist. It seemed too sacred a thing to be stuffed in his pocket like his own tie. "I'm going to miss you so much." Laurie leaned in closer and kissed him on the cheek.

"So what's the story behind this one?" Laurie smoothed Macaulay's ascot out on his thigh.

"What makes you think there's a story?"

"The stitching has green stuff on it." Macaulay laid his hand over Laurie's, tracing the seams.

"This is the tie I was wearing when you found me. I always know it because of the algae." The stains were faded now. Laurie must have really been looking.

"I should have thought to give you the one that I had been wearing too."

"No, it's easier to tell them apart this way." Laurie stuck the ascot in the interior pocket of his jacket. He rested his head on Macaulay's ear.

"Will you really tell your grandmother about me?" Macaulay warmed at the thought. He climbed onto Laurie's lap and draped his arms over his shoulders.

"Are you kidding? I'm going to tell everyone that I meet about you-- My family, my classmates, random strangers on the train. I'm going stand on street corners in the middle of the night and yell things about you to anyone who can hear. How could I not?" Laurie's face refused to settle on an emotion. He looked pleased and alarmed, maybe even a little ashamed. Macaulay knew what he was thinking. He hadn't said a word to his parents yet. Of course, he had his reasons, the biggest one being sheer dread. He was hurt that Laurie couldn't find it within himself to stand his ground against a parental explosion, if necessary. They couldn't hide forever. Then again, his father might already know. Macaulay was disheveled enough for Mr. Caliente to have noticed.

"I love you, Cull." Laurie's voice was barely above a whisper but it had been brave of him to say it first. Macaulay laid his head on Laurie's shoulder. He resolved never to move from the spot again for as long as he lived and longer.

Chapter 86: Selket Has Her Answer

2011-06-17T13:20:00.005-04:00

Weds December 9, 2074, 4:21 am: Ethelden Palace-- Amhurst, Veronaville

"Sir ur-batonu kvont arbad, ur-batonu jirhe vi tines. Uorde, uorde..." Selket no longer wore a veil. When she took to her knees before burnt offerings of deadly nightshade, it was not done in the temple. Her forbidden communion with the Ib of Deus Rex happened in deep corners of the palace before sunrise, when all was still. No longer a Magus and forever altered by Orion Specter's energy, she doubted whether the Ib was listening.

"Luminar Mundi, ensonma hem criché. Parameshvara Thoth, ensonma hem criché..." Her body rocked against the undertow of nervous energy that swelled within and without her. She was losing circulation in her legs. As she aged, the act of prostration became physically trying to the point where her concentration was broken. Selket bowed her head to her knees, palms down upon the floorboards.

"Ken-viotzo pagam ken-rota ihora, ken-sirc pagam ken-sirc, ensonma hem criché." She would offer her hands in the service of righteous work. She would have the will of Deus Rex executed through her in word and in deed. She would plead until she had her answer.

"Lahkshe hem epi so domunma dor mahaservi..." Ahriman had not consulted her about his and Thea’s most recent plan to target innocent people-- Third party bystanders that were not to blame for the Vampire Sheut's continued existence. If given the chance, Thea would get them all killed for the sake of an exercise that was both morally wrong and potentially ineffectual.

“…vi nominé Tenebris, miir ono.” Jareth Garrison. As far as any of them knew, he had not even been in contact with the Sheut for over a decade. Perhaps he was responsible for attacks on faes but that was for the RDI to determine. The Dissenter Resistance was not in the business of prosecuting vampires for misconduct. Thea’s motives for wanting Jareth dead were so transparent that they defied mention. Thea had trusted Antoine. She had loved him, and he betrayed her. This went beyond the political; it was personal.

There were those amongst them that would have nothing to do with any of this. They would see it as punishing the Sheut for acting in accordance with his will. It was murder. It was sacrilege. Men like Antoine who were so often the voice of reason were running low amongst their number. Selket regretted it.

Jareth Garrison. Selket had never met him but she had known his brother. She was of the understanding that they had different fathers. Maybe if he had the ability to force a fae into submission, he was some portion fae himself. According to Ahriman, Hyperion Tvaud had been investigating Jareth before his sister was abducted by—

Selket held her breath, her heart battering her ribcage. Everything was falling into place. Take the sister and the brother will follow. Could Orion have known about the investigation? What had Hyperion uncovered? A vampire with the life force of a Sheut… A vampire who threatens the sanctity of the Ib… It was monstrous and unspeakable but not impossible. Selket raised her hands to the sky in surrender. Finally, she had her answer.

Chapter 85: Mariel Has The One Thing To Say

2011-06-13T00:53:00.016-04:00

Tues December 8, 2074 10:08 pm: 3387 Blackhorn Cr., Yitzenburg, Alpinloch

The door closed and locked as though by its own volition. The faes amongst them never confirmed which was the gatekeeper to their proceedings and everyone happily assumed that it was Ahriman. Being in the dark about the safety measures in place made Mariel nervous. Whoever enchanted that door knew the guest list and kept tally of the arrivals. This person had the authority to bar the exit or leave the entrance open to intruders. Not knowing the identity of that person was a dangerous thing for such a small and clandestine organization.

Tonight's meeting was somewhat privileged. Mariel's siblings and eldest nephew were there but the spouses were absent. Fae lords like Odin Rys and Anshar Davenport were there but royalty like Sarada Summerdream were not. None of Cade's people were there. Mariel was having difficulty piecing together what message could not be conveyed to her absent comrades and this made her nervous too.

Her mother was as rash of a decision-maker as Ahriman was cautious. These qualities might turn out to be a boon in the long run but for now, the organization was treading water. There would be a split if no progress was made, and Mariel's absent comrades would most likely rally behind Ahriman.

Then there was the question of Selket Redding, whose voice was beginning to carry farther than just Ahriman's ear. Mariel would not be surprised if Selket became the center of a third faction that operated under Ahriman's wing and without his sanction.

As for Mariel herself, her ideology was more closely linked to Ahriman's. She did not want to choose between what she knew in her heart to be just and her fealty to her mother if the organization were to split. More than that, she was certain that the resistance could not survive being cleaved in half and what then? Theirs was important work-- the most important work-- and if not these people then who? Who would step up to take on the most powerful man in the world? They were done waiting for divine intervention.

The Magister Templi raised his hand in silence and the room fell still. In his gentle way, he remained as monumental and arresting a figure as Mariel's mother. When he spoke, his voice rumbled with the toppling force of an earthquake.

"Welcome comrades and thank you. Forgive me if I do not take the time to introduce tonight's agenda but there is much ground to cover and little time to do so. Mahadeva Kvornan Tricou was last seen on November 25th at a cafe in downtown Pleasantview. As far as we know, he has not yet returned to the palace. If he is in contact with the Ib, as is believed, then it is no longer advantageous for us to attempt to identify and sequester her. She will be brought to Ethelden, perhaps within the month. Her estimated date of arrival is unknown. This council has determined that our best course of action would be to shift our focus away from the Ib and towards compromising the Sheut. This stage of our operation will not be simple. There is no prison that can bind him, no weapon that can hinder him.

According to his 1997 testimony before the Magi, Deus Rex continues to task him and will not allow him to rest until his tasks are accomplished. Most notably, he must continue the magical propigation of the fae race. As far as this council is aware, the Sheut has not reproduced since the death of Maheshvara Fricorith. The Sheut is consorted and it may only be a matter of time before the birth of a second child."

The room broke out into murmuring. Mariel watched her mother's face carefully. None of this was news to Thea Masters. Consorted? Mariel wrinkled her nose at the thought. She wondered what woman would dare.

Ahriman raised his hand for quiet as he continued, deepening the timbre of his voice.

"In the meantime, we must prepare our defenses. The Sheut can be compromised but only if he is vulnerable to the point of psychological instability. This will mean making some very powerful enemies. So if any of you have the least reservation about moving forward, then you have been a good comrade and thank you for your service. Please see yourself to the door."

No one stirred. Towards the front of the room, Mariel's father bowed his head in thought. To Mariel's left, her brother licked his lips and smiled. Mariel's mother lifted her head to address the assembly.

"This is not a decision to be made without due consideration," she said. "Some of you are very young. Most of you have families. Comrades, understand that what we make here is a declaration of war. We will strike those closest to him. Our first target is to be Jareth Alexei Garrison."

The room erupted but Mariel did not have the presence of mind to listen in on the individual conversations. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed that her corner seat and general insignificance erased her from the radar of anyone who might be watching. Only her sister Hannah knew about Alexei. She wondered briefly what Hannah's reaction had been but she could not turn. Even with her eyes closed, the room was spinning. Mariel's mother shouted to be heard over the din.

"Antoine has betrayed us. Cade Muenda is likewise an enemy. Make no mistake-- There can be no neutral parties. We are uncertain of the whereabouts of our target. We may even err in believing that his sacrifice would have any adverse effect on the Vampire Sheut. It is a calculated risk and one that will not end well for most, if not everyone sitting in this room."

Mariel covered her eyes with her hand, blocking as much of the light as she could. She might draw attention to herself this way but after so many months of harboring her secret affair, it was all that she could do not to scream. Ahriman's voice cut through her self-imposed darkness.

"If I may, Comrade Masters, it should also be noted that Mr. Garrison is currently under RDI investigation. He has been implicated as a suspect in the attack of a fae. It will not long before he is found. Once the RDI has located the target, they will report to me. Comrade Kivetz has agreed to intercept the RDI before Mr. Garrison can be brought in for questioning. If our comrade is unsuccessful, we will strike at Vajra. From there, we will enlist the aide of Comrade Redding. She has some... experience breaking into maximum security prison cells."

Mariel removed her hand from her eyes, planting the heel of it against her forehead. This wasn't real. It could not be.

"Mariel darling, you look as though you have something to say." Her mother's voice. Mariel opened her eyes to find everyone in the room staring at her. She shrank into her chair.

"No, nothing." Mariel hiccuped between no and nothing. Her mother folded her hands upon her knee.

"Are you able to proceed then?"

"Yes comrade, I am." Mariel's mother tilted her majestic head upward to address the room.

"The true test of our commitment, not merely as an organization but as individuals, is yet to come. And when it does, who here will be ready to die for the light?" Mariel's brother Raul stood, almost reflexively.

"I will be ready." His lips curled back from his teeth when he spoke. Anshar stood to the far right of Raul.

"I also," he shouted. Mariel was quickly beginning to sense that the question had been intended less for the more impassioned persons in the room. She stood on wobbling legs. Perspiration beaded at her temples. She would not see Alexei harmed but she knew the price valor. Just the thought of it brought her pulse to the surface of her skin.

If only she could turn back time to a few moments prior, when her mother asked if she had anything to say. Mariel did have something to say, the one thing that was left to be said. She balled her fists at her sides.

"Death to the Vampire Sheut!" A chorus of similar oaths resounded throughout the room in response, like the angry swarming of wasps.

Chapter 84: Cherise Has No Reprieve

2011-06-06T03:19:00.007-04:00

Tues December 8, 2074 12:04 pm: 35 Woodland Dr.-- Middlebourne, Pleasantview

TRIGGER WARNING: DISCRETION ADVISED

The furnace rumbled to life in the bedroom closet, inspiring the pipes to shiver and still. This pitiful oscillation between trying and quitting was all that their furnace was capable of accomplishing. Dustin had installed it himself, armed only with a book that he bought from a newspaper insert and his father's old tools. Cherise hadn't trusted him to be able to read a diagram then but she let him work for three days straight, anticipating her own lead-faced, I told you so.

About a year back, they had been thinking of selling the house and moving Tolsbury to be near her folks. The house was on the market for three whole weeks before the inspector told them that their furnace was improperly installed and the whole thing would need to come out. Dustin said he wasn't bothered to incur the expense but Cherise knew the real reason he wouldn't have it fixed-- It was nothing but his own pathetic, dented pride. Of course, that's just what life was with Dustin; one great big fuck-up followed by one great big cop-out forever and ever, world without end.

Cherise stared down at the backs of her hands. Her fingers were cracked and shriveled from an early morning spent over the sink, up to her elbows in dishwater. Her skin whitened at the creases. It made her feel a bit reptilian, a bit less than human. She stared until her eyes lost focus.

This was the closest to peace that Cherise ever came to. When she was alone, she could sink so deeply into the stillness of her surroundings that the colors blended and her thoughts suspended into stasis. Hers was an emptiness that was neither comforting nor reassuring. It was a sort of coma. A sort of fugue.

Noise reeled Cherise back into the moment. Her sons were shuffling through the kitchen, probably fixing lunch. They could heat canned soup and toast but no more than that. Cherise propped herself up onto her elbows. They should not have been cooking. She'd made stew for their lunches the night before and they were meant to nuke it in the microwave. She'd told them that just before she'd gotten into bed. Cherise dangled her legs over the edge of the bed and arched her back to stretch her muscles. She had to make sure they were staying out of the pantry.

In the hallway, she could make out a distinct rhythm to the tin clang that was coming from the kitchen. They were playing her pots like drums. Cherise exhaled, holding back her annoyance. Was it too much to ask for them to just eat and get back to their arithmetic?

Before she hit the entry arch to the kitchen, the words were already forming at the tip of her tongue-- Enough of your foolishness. You're meant to be getting your lunch, not messing about. For Cherise, parenthood was a string of repetitive, knee-jerk reactions and unheeded mantras. Even so, when she stepped into the kitchen, her planned speech was promptly aborted.

The area rug was bunched up beneath the cabinet, seemingly to absorb the vast quantity of water from the flooded sink. The former contents of the refrigerator were spread across the counter, many opened and some spilled. The stew she'd prepared was sitting on a lit burner next to Joaquin's teddy bear.

But her walls! She and Dustin put that paper up together when they'd first bought the house, in happier times. They surveyed their work and imagined the family that would fill these rooms. They were so young then.

Cherise had an hour to herself during the day while Dustin was at work, the baby napped and the boys ate lunch. One hour. It was not a relaxing hour. It was not an entertaining hour. The hour was void but it had been hers, her one reprieve.

The marker would not come out of the wall. The rug, too might have been a loss. Cherise canvased the area, plotting her clean-up and growing increasingly furious at the extent of damage. The boys climbed to their feet in flurry of excuses and accusations but Cherise was not listening. The sound of their voices overlapping as they competed for dominance made her blood boil, regardless of what was being said.

"Which one of you drew on the wall?" As though it mattered.

Joaquin stumbled through an explanation but his voice was drowned out by the buzzing in her head. One hour where she could pretend her migraines away. One hour where she could lie in bed and be no one. Be nowhere.

Peter hooked his thumbs into his belt loops coolly. He was watching her with interest. The mess, for him, was a thing of the past. The new game was in seeing how Mommy would react. The remorselessness was the worst of his crimes, whatever else his specific crimes might have been. She grabbed him by the throat.

Maybe he would bruise. Maybe she would regret it later. Peter struggled, kicking out against nothing that he could reach and clawing at her arm as she tightened her grip. Joaquin was saying something to her but she was too far away to hear.

Peter's face went a queer shade of maroon halfway down the hall. Cherise pried his hands off of her arm. Each time he reached for her again, she smacked him away and shook his dangling body. He was gagging wetly now. Cherise opened the door to the nursery with her free hand and tossed him inside. If he was going to act like a toddler, then he belonged in the company of one.

He crumpled when she let him go, gasping for air. His hands crossed one over the other as he crawled, disoriented against the nursery floor. Cherise watched him only long enough to see that he would live and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The baby wailed. Cherise slid her back down the door until she hit the carpet.

Peter was pounding on the door with the flats of his hands. There was no rhythm to the sharp series of thuds that seemed to land just above Cherise's head. His palms wiped down the door after each impact, generating a faint hissing sound. Cherise propped her elbows against the jamb and beat her head on the door. Each moment of contact was a prayer for the oblivion that never came. Over and over. World without end.

Chapter 83: Jorge Could Promise Anything

2011-05-30T13:35:00.010-04:00

Mon December 7, 2074 11:10 pm: Arbormoor Manor-- Arbormoor, Pleasantview

The flames rose, claiming shards of the cherry wood cabinet, dry leaves and the occasional exploding bottle. A resolution stronger than logic kept Jorge in place, within spitting distance of the shattered glass, unflinching.

Often when he opened himself up to impulse, words and deeds poured forth that he never knew he had inside of him. Hidden sentiments emerged from the swirling morass of his thoughts, so black with emotion that they could have been mistaken for a perfect nothing. No assessment, rational or otherwise, was made during these moments. It was as though his body was possessed by the ghost of himself.

Earlier that evening, Jorge found himself standing in the cellar door, turning the gas lamp overhead on and off, on and off. The hatchet that he used to chop firewood was leaning against the wall, away from the rakes and the spades, flecked with mud. For a time, Jorge studied the object against its shadow, its shadow against the floor. He forgot his purpose, forgot whatever task he meant to accomplish by opening the cellar door. He slid his hand down the length of the handle. The sound of the blade scraping the stone floor echoed down the narrow passage as he dragged the instrument towards him. With both fists tight around the handle, it was equally likely that he was on the verge of dismembering himself as it was that he was off to collect timber.

Jorge lifted the hatchet high above his head as he entered the dining room. His footsteps gained momentum like they knew what they were after. He stopped when the toe of his boot hit the clawed foot of the liquor cabinet.

His movements were mechanical, the slump of his shoulders, indifferent with each fall of the hatchet.

The backdoor slammed, jarring Jorge into the present. A board collapsed and the sparks flew upward, an incandescent murder of crows. Dead leaves crunched under Macaulay's sneakers.

"Dad?" Jorge fought with his own face. He needed to look okay and he needed it to seem genuine. "What is all this?"

Jorge folded his arms over his chest, at once aware that it was cold. He glanced over his shoulder at Macaulay who was rubbing his eyes against the sting of smoke.

"What do you mean? I thought you liked bonfires. You always used to when you were little." Macaulay smiled pitifully. It seemed to say, Nice try, old man.

"What are you burning?" Macaulay's voice was soft. Jorge peered into flames, finding the beveled edge of an ornate leg.

"It's the liquor cabinet." He did not turn back to his son but he could feel their shoulders brushing. The fibers of Macaulay's sweater grappled into Jorge's coat. Macaulay scuffed the dirt with his shoes.

"For serious?"

"Yep." Macaulay's eyes widened. He understood that this was less a piece of furniture chopped to kindling than it was a funeral pyre.

"Was the alcohol in there when you lit this thing?" Macaulay's tone was somewhat joking, despite his morbid sense of wonder.

"Some. Most of the bottles broke when I smashed the damn thing. Didn't you notice the mess?" Macaulay leaned against Jorge's arm. Whatever amusement Jorge had heard in Macaulay's voice settled. His curly hair brushed Jorge's nose and mouth.

"I'm not sure I want to leave you like this when I go to Veronaville."

"Leave me like what, exactly?"

"Quirky." The wind blew, revealing a few charred remains. Macaulay lifted his head to look Jorge in the eye. "If you need me, I'll stay. I won't even think twice."

Jorge's chest ached. Every disappointment that he had ever put this boy through, every worry, every rage, every ladder rung towards a forced adulthood-- Jorge had disassociated himself from his own parents for arguably less, and yet here Macaulay remained. His son, who did not judge. His son, who forgave without rancor. Jorge cupped his hands over Macaulay's ears and pressed the bridge of his nose against Macaulay's forehead. He'd done nothing to deserve the love that he felt for this boy and less to deserve the love that was returned. His hands slid down Macaulay's neck, resting on his shoulders.

"I'll never stop needing you but I'm not your responsibility, alright?" Macaulay nodded. Jorge patted his cheeks. "You're everything to me, you and your brother. You know that?"

"I know." The fire cracked and hissed. Macaulay's gaze drifted amongst the embers. "Vin looked pretty at dinner the other day, didn't she?" Macaulay paused as though awaiting a response. Jorge did not give him one. "I don't expect you to pledge your undying passion or anything but can't you at least be friends? It makes me sad to think that you can't."

"Cully..." What little pride Jorge had barred him from saying this aloud but he was beginning to understand how essential Lavinia had been to his life. Everyday he would think of things, trivial things that he wanted to say to her. When he remembered that he couldn't say them, that they weren't even friends, he knew a heartbreak akin to mourning.

"I just want you to be happy, both of you," Macaulay whispered. Jorge wrapped an arm around his back.

"You make us happy." He could say that with a certain amount of authority, even in Lavinia's absence.

"Not enough." It was not an accusation, only a simple truth but it lashed Jorge just the same. This was what he deserved.

They stood in silence for a time. The fire began to burn low. A barn owl hooted far off in the distance.

"I'm selling the house." It seemed as good a time as any to break the news. There followed a pause so prolonged that Jorge thought Macaulay did not intend to respond.

"That's probably for the best," he said. Clouds obscured the stars, making the ground that much dimmer. "What about Mom?"

"Mom is going to to Gothier Green Lawns, where she should have been in the first place." Macaulay rubbed his arms to generate heat. His breath washed over him as he exhaled.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we?" Jorge was not sure what his notions of 'okay' were anymore but in that moment, he could have promised Macaulay anything and meant it.

"Yeah. We're going to be okay."

Chapter 82: Jack Cradles The Empty Air

2011-05-16T19:03:00.009-04:00

Mon December 7, 2074 4:21 am: Pleasantview Youth Boarding House-- Tolsbury, Pleasantview

Jack could barely make out her appearance in the moonlight but he knew with the certainty of a man who was dreaming that this radiant chimera, half hidden behind the wall of the hedge maze was his mother. Her hair caught in the branches as she tilted her head to spy on him past the hedge. She ran her fingers through its waxen leaves, considering him.

A delight brought about by recognition flooded over her, and her lilting laughter rang throughout the battlements. Jack held his breath, momentarily stymied. She was innocence personified. Opposite her childlike display of happiness, he knew himself to be sordid and lowly. His proximity to her could only be a fragile thing, destined to expire like the ruptured surface of a bubble. Jack would awaken to find himself adrift in the real world once more.

There was a part of him behind his numb indifference that never forgave his mother if she lived and that never stopped mourning her if she had died. It was a dull ache and a lingering uncertainty that sometimes proved raw to the touch. Inside, he was a starved and frightened child, forever attempting to map his features onto the faces of strangers. Now here she was, her embrace close enough for him to fold his body into.

Jack took one tentative step towards her. A twig snapped underfoot. His mother, still laughing, gathered her skirts and darted into the maze.

His wooden shoes were unfamiliar and proved unfit for running. He could barely keep up with the disembodied sections of pink lace that vanished around corners, weaving in and out of the walls.

Candles burned along the path, pooling light onto the earth below. At the end of one passage, Jack located his mother creeping along the intersection ahead. When he reached the spot where she had last disappeared, he found no trace that she had ever been.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Jack turned to see his mother watching him. She tiptoed backwards along the wall, holding his stare.

"Momma." He might have said something more pertinent but in his gut, he knew that this was his one opportunity to practice that word. His mother placed a finger to her lips and beckoned him forward. Jack followed slowly, stepping around the undergrowth. A white mist rolled in around their ankles and the vision that met him at the final bend was no longer that of his mother.

Jack's stomach plummeted. He felt the simultaneous loss of his mother and a foreboding sense of gravity at the appearance of the creature standing before him. A chill penetrated far deeper than his skin. Her energy was crystalline and it sought to absorb his. She smiled somewhat indulgently. Her metallic lips were caked with dried blood. Jack averted his eyes. Staring too long at any part of her felt indecent.

"The cambion Jack Dalton is advised to approach." She had not moved her mouth to speak. The voice in Jack's head was stern and commanding, very much in contrast to the creature's gentle expression. Jack walked into the center of the labyrinth with the boldness of a man who knew that he was dreaming.

Inches away, he found that their proportions were so exactly matched that their pupils aligned. The creature's eyes were a fathomless scattering of stars, like a fae's eyes but broader, all-encompassing. He wanted to ask her who she was. He wanted to ask what the word 'cambion' meant. But he had the most uncanny sense that to ask her anything was sacrilegious.

"Parameshvara Tethys, the Ren of Deus Rex, honors the divinity within the cambion Jack Dalton and welcomes him into her service." Jack closed his eyes and said nothing. When he opened his eyes again, he found the warmth in the creature's affect to be strained as though she were under the influence of some great burden. Her hands made little fluttering movements as though she wanted to touch him but could not. He wondered if the voice he heard in his head was hers after all. Jack began to reach for her hands, hoping to calm her agitation.

"The cambion Jack Dalton is not permitted to touch the daemon Lexis." Jack cradled the empty air before dropping his hands at his sides. Lexis lowered her gaze. Her lips parted but no sound emerged.

"The cambion Jack Dalton is brought before the Mouth of God that he may receive instruction. He is to assume his role as Magus before the Spring Equinox. Deus Rex recognizes the Son of Lotan's free will, but cautions him that to defy their will is to invite catastrophe."

Jack gradually bit down on the interior of his cheek. The son of what? He had nearly worked up the nerve to respond when the world went black and his alarm clock faded into view.

Chapter 81: Sita Surveys the Landscape

2011-05-09T21:23:00.006-04:00

Sun December 6, 2074 6:22pm: Nulle Part, Strangetown

Sita was not an itinerant soldier but a sentinel, and she could not keep marching forever. Upon every horizon, etherial cisterns glimmered and taunted. Sita's hair was fixed away from her face, hardened by no more than the memory of sweat. Her eyes did not water from dust clouds that never settled, nor did they close with ease. Strangetown was an empty kiln that hissed all around her like an hourglass or a striking snake.

"Coyote!" Sita jumped at the sound of Orion's voice so close behind her, delivering such a gleeful warning. Her eyes darted about the parameter. "That's what the tribesman used to call him! Coyote Tvaud, the Desert Wolf." Orion leaned in close over Sita's shoulder. She could not feel the heat of his breath in the grip of the desert wind but she could smell it-- base animal protein and the filth of distances. "If not for that blind, limping puppy you and I would not be standing here today. It was he who saved the life of our ancestor, Jira Muenda, and it is for him that we are both named." Sita tried to stop walking but Orion pushed her gruffly along. Part of her wanted to ask him what he was on about. Part of her was not certain that she cared. Still another part of her knew how he liked to hear himself talk.

"And Coyote is dead, you know. They sifted the bones out of Blue Lake back when you were still just an egg in a petri dish." Orion sidled up to her so that she might feel the full effect of his expression, which was less a smile than an upturned scowl. "I bet you were too cute for words back then. Really wish I'd thought to take a few home videos but alas, I was indisposed." A bank of clouds passed over the sun and the hard lines of his face shifted. His eyes lit like embers in the gloaming. Orion Specter was a grotesque. He coughed into the back of his hand. His elbow collided with Sita's shoulder as his arm shot up to cover his mouth. The fit lasted for a few brief seconds, during which Sita listened to the web of mucus collected in his chest. Whatever was wrong with her captor, it seemed to be getting worse. When the coughing subsided, he grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved her forward once more.

"This is nice isn't it? Just the two of us out for a breezy autumn stroll like father and unholy abomination." His voice was becoming increasing hoarse. Fatigue assailed Sita throughout. Her knees buckled beneath her. Orion took a fistful of her collar, pushing her ahead. "But what piques my curiosity-- What really tickles my proverbial pickle, is the need to know why you were made at all. And by whom? Surely, your creation was beyond the feeble intellects of Drs. Beaker and Beaker. What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? Et cetera." Orion coughed only once. Sita picked up her feet as best she could but kept her silence. Even if she wanted to hold a conversation with this jackal, her sun-blistered lips and arid mouth were sealed shut.

"I get the sense that there are at least two of you. Your psyche is as tight as a drum and I can't hear your thoughts, but when I look you in the eye you feel... Incomplete, no?" Sita did not know what he was trying to lead her into but he could talk forever and never oblige her to respond. Even now, she thought that she could smell Sutekh's blood baked into the fibers of his clothing. "Male, I think. Your counterpart would be male. A brother. Stop me when I stray from the truth." Sita had no intention of doing any such thing. Orion grabbed her arm and wheeled about until they were facing one another. He bent down to look into her face. Sita's jaw clenched and unclenched. If she could have been granted one wish in that moment, it would have been for the ability to spit in his face.

"You play defense and he plays offense, is this not true?" Sita could see down the front of Orion's institutional clothes, to his pronounced clavicle and sunken chest. She wondered what paper clip and ball of twine had been keeping him together for all of this time. He should have collapsed days ago. Orion gripped her by both arms, shaking her as he spoke. "Who is the opposition?" Sita lowered her eyelids. She might have fallen asleep standing at this point. "What are you meant to fight?" Sita began to tip forward. Orion supported her weight. His eyebrows lowered and his nostrils flared menacingly. He was losing patience with her. If he took his hands away, she would fall but her exhaustion was such that it did not matter what he did. Nothing mattered.

A thought occurred to Sita as she nodded in and out of sleep. She had introduced herself to him as Spawn 002. Of course there were at least two of her. This tiny lie of his spoke volumes, even more than the frustration on his face. The Daemon Lotan was stumped. So long as he could not garner any information from her, she could not be manipulated.

"Want to know what I think?" Orion crept closer to her, sliding his scorched feet through the sand. "I think you look an awful lot like that Goth bitch and the resemblance is not accidental. I think that Mortimer Goth was both hammer and chain." His tone was increasing in pitch, wearing thin. Whatever he wanted from her, he was at his wits' end. Sita surveyed his peeling skin, his bloodshot eyes, the cracked landscape of his face. He could talk forever, moving like he knew no fatigue or thirst but the evidence spoke for its self. Orion was a life in decline. "Kvornan Tricou." The name emerged as a low growl. Sita looked up at him wearily. It was more of a response than she should have granted him.

Orion spun around, laughing in triumph. Sita's eyes had revealed a certain truth after all. The daemon shouted into the sky, soliciting an audience of the clouds.

"Of course! Of course this science fair project is meant to kill the Sheut! Everything comes down to him for you feckless apes! I wonder, what will you do with yourselves after he's dead? Play tiddlywinks in the parlor and reminiscence? Holy hell!" Orion turned on the spot.

"Allow me to let you in on a little secret, just between pals: Kvornan Tricou is not some dark and spectral omega. He's nothing but a sniveling brat who has been confined to the dinner table until he eats his vegetables. Now, I know what you might be thinking, 'But Orion, he doesn't want to serve! He wants his own free will! He chose vampirism and suicide and murder and--' Blah, blah, blah who gives a shit? He's Proximus Deus and if he wants a choice, it's because they're prepared to give him one. Either he serves in heaven or he reigns elsewhere." Orion swiveled his hips away from her to cough into the crook of his elbow. Sita thought she saw spots of blood mixed in with his saliva.

"Or at least that's just what I think," he said. Orion yanked her forward by the wrist. "Come along, Sita Tvaud! Mustn't be late for our appointment with your rescue party."

Chapter 80: Kvornan Receives An Affirmation

2011-05-01T14:16:00.005-04:00

Sat December 5, 2074 11:24 pm: 88 Wilkins Ave.-- Camden, Pleasantview

Kvornan rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand and waited. Each stroke of the dial tone increased his anxiety. Two rings. Leaving a message would not be safest practice. Four. This was the last call that the Mindelsohns' landline would ever make. Their service was scheduled to be cut at precisely midnight. Kvornan began to pace the kitchen slowly. Six rings.

"I'm sorry! I'd only just stepped out." Tara sounded somewhat breathless, as though she had been running. Little time had passed since he last heard her voice-- a few measly weeks-- but even the language that she spoke seemed to belong to separate era. Thoughts of her sly grin and warm violet eyes were part and partial to a time labeled before in Kvornan's memory. He cleared his throat.

"Are you alone?" He regretted the necessity of asking. It was not the most personal of hellos.

"Yes, of course. How is everything?" Kvornan let go of the phone, holding it between his ear and his shoulder. He might have started his monologue with the occupation of Ermengarde's psyche or the discovery of that peculiar Jack creature or Elise in all of her resilience. He might have even told her about Imina, over the phone and at a distance, like a coward. But some unknowable force within him wanted to keep the conversation as expedient it was sterile.

"It's a bit complicated. I'll explain when I get home," he said.

"Which will be when?" Kvornan sat down on edge of the kitchen counter.

"Two weeks. Less, maybe. I just thought I'd call to check in. Am I cleared for arrival?"

"Your home is always here for you. And the children?" He rubbed his jawline, momentarily losing himself in the thought of her nude body, the curvature of her back as it faced him, their legs entwined. No matter how many times he told himself that she understood just what she was committing to, it still felt so unjust.

"I'm bringing the children with me. I miss you, Tara." She clicked her tongue at him.

"You don't mean that but I appreciate the gesture," she said.

"Honestly." He dropped down from the counter and took the phone in hand. He did miss her, but not as profoundly as she deserved.

"Shall I see you soon, then?" Kvornan nodded as though she were standing right in front of him.

"Yes, soon." Silence. Kvornan was holding his breath. He didn't know what he was waiting for her to say.

"God go with you, then." There was a soft click and the line went dead. Kvornan stood for a moment with the receiver still up to his ear. The electric hum of the refrigerator cut into the static night air. Hers had been too empty of a goodbye in their language, one that simply affirmed the separation of their paths and promised nothing of the future. Kvornan pressed the power button on the receiver and watched the condensation collect on the corners of the window panes.

February 1, 1987 9:34 am: Ethelden Palace-- Amhurst, Veronaville

"Keep still, horrible boy." Jennail tilted his chin upwards. Her fingertips were soft and cool against his skin. Painting was one of the many mundane activities that Kvornan now held sacred by virtue of Jennail's involvement. She had more dexterity in her hands than what her magic could accomplish, making the chore a time-consuming one. Kvornan had grown to cherish it as an opportunity to feel her touch, to steal glances at her while she concentrated on his eyes, to be reprimanded for fidgeting. Sometimes he even requested that she paint his face at home, in Pleasantview, where he would only have to wash afterwards. But this morning, Kvornan was too distracted by the circumstance of their visit to enjoy the process of getting ready.

"Agni Hummel, Magus to the Sheut. I may never get over this, Nai." Kvornan tried to shake his head in disbelief but his wife struck him under the chin with the side of her brush.

"Can't you just be happy for him?" Kvornan frowned, somewhat affronted.

"I am happy! I'm just shocked, is all. Ag used to get himself into more trouble than any of us." Jennail blended the pigment beneath his right eye with her thumb.

"Only because his honesty made it difficult for him to hide his mischief. Close your eyes." Kvornan screwed his eyes shut and Jennail giggled. "Not so tight, stupid." Kvornan relaxed.

"He's only nineteen. Who gets inducted at nineteen?" Jennail held his hair away from his face and worked above his brow line.

"You're beginning to sound jealous," she said. Kvornan fiddled with cuffs of his sleeves.

"Maybe I am a little," he admitted. Jennail stopped painting. Kvornan realized too late what he had implied. His eyelids fluttered open.

"Nai--"

"Do you ever wish that we had never done it? That you could have finished out your studies and I had married some banker like everyone expected us to?" Kvornan stood. He removed the brush and palette from her hands, tossing them haphazardly onto the bed. Jennail was watching him with a heaviness that he never knew that she possessed.

How long had she been harboring this secret worry? And how could she? Kvornan wrapped his arms around her, kissing the bare tip of her nose. He ran his palms down her tightly corseted back. What more, what else could he have wanted from life than this woman? Than their son? Kvornan shook his head.

"This is the best and only dream that I have ever had for myself." It was an assertion of truth that tensed his shoulders like an oath. Jennail pulled him towards her by the back of his neck. He was hers to command, always.

Chapter 79: Addison Hears A Plea

2011-04-27T22:48:00.008-04:00

Sat, December 5, 2074 8:15 pm: Pleasantview Grocery Delivery Service Corporate Headquarters-- Downtown, Pleasantview

WARNING: This chapter contains possible triggers. Please use your discretion.

“You wanted to see me, boss?” Jack walked into the room without knocking. He was the only person on Addison’s payroll who understood the danger of intrusion and proceeded to intrude anyway. Jack was doubly flawed by his youth and seeming invincibility. Addison was afraid that time and circumstance would cure him of both before too long.

“Lock the door behind you and take a seat.” Addison minimized the windows on his screen while Jack did as he was told. “What’s this I hear about you being offered an induction into the temple?” Jack tipped his head back against the wall and groaned.

“How do you even know about that? I just got the letter yesterday." Jack rubbed his eyes as though he were physically ridding himself of the unpleasant nature of surprises. "They want me to be a Magus. That Redding woman put my name before the Magister Templi.” Addison knew as much. He wiped a few specks of dust from his track pad.

“Pretty good for an orphan boy from the tenements,” Addison mused.

“Doesn’t it seem at all odd to you?”

"Plenty. But I think you should take it."

"What?"

Something in Jack's expression looked genuinely hurt. He was breathing so deeply that Addison could see his chest rise and fall. Maybe Addison had gone about this conversation the wrong way. He knew what the stakes were for Jack. The boy had given up everything for Addison-- His childhood, his independence, his future. He had no friends. There was nothing for Jack outside of his work. And now Addison was telling him to give that up too.

"Think about it. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life staring at yourself in the mirror, wondering just who and what you are?" Jack tossed his hair away from his face, trying with difficulty to reign in his expression.

"Better than spending the rest of my life in a library with a bunch of pederasts."

"Jack, that's not funny."

"I'm not kidding." Jack cupped the back of his neck with his hands. "How long have you known about me?" Addison had been dreading that question since Jack's return from Veronaville. He sighed through his nose.

"Jackie, I've always known about you," he said.

"How?"

"Your energy is abnormal." But there was more to it than that. Addison had been there for certain fragments of Jack's history-- Horrible moments that he could never convince himself Jack was ready to know about. Jack straightened his spine.

"How can you possibly see my energy?"

"I know how to look. Forget about it. Point is kid, you weren't born to run numbers." Jack snorted derisively.

"Good because I don't put my neck on the line to run numbers. I do it to support an enterprise that keeps my community from eating its self. I do it to fight a society that uses laws and prejudices and macroeconomics to strike down individuals like Olympian gods firing off lightning bolts. I do it because the whole world is fucked."

Jack's face was pleading. He didn't say as much but the message was clear-- He would go where Addison told him to go, do what Addison thought best. Whether Jack was aware of it in so many words or not, he was praying that Addison wouldn't make him leave. Addison nodded tersely towards the door.

"You're worried about our people? Then take your Townie ass to Ethelden and start fixing the problem at its source."

Jack jumped to his feet. He didn't spare a backwards glance on his way out but paused before he reached the doorknob.

"Mr. London?"

"What is it?" Jack opened the door, just barely.

"You're not my father." He slammed the door so hard behind himself that the walls shook.

April 2, 2056 12:03pm: 43rd Pleasantview Precinct-- Millhaven, Pleasantview

This situation was none of Addison's business. He pressed his sunglasses to his face and tipped back into the corner, willing himself into obscurity. His task here was to be a fly on the wall, only less obtrusive.

The interrogation room was damp and every surface of it, porous. It was the kind of place that could snatch secrets from the air and rearrange their compositions. At the center of the room, the suspect nodded in and out of sleep while his lawyer lit a cigarette. An introductory silence lingered between them. The suspect pulled his collar up over his neck and shivered.

Hollis Wyatt Dalton was only nineteen-years-old. He was one of Addison's grocery delivery boys. From what Addison knew of him, he seemed to be fairly ordinary until recent events had proven otherwise. Hollis lived with his grandmother and disabled little sister, never finished school, never stayed out late, volunteered at the local community center. He was a good, albeit unremarkable young man. Then on the morning of April 1st, he calmly marched down to the police station and implicated himself in the severe rape of his kid sister.

When Rosie Dalton went missing, initially law enforcement officials didn't give a rat's ass. She was just another Townie runaway who would eventually stumble into the loving hands of the system. Hollis and his grandmother spent forty-eight hours camped out at the precinct before Rosie showed up by the side of Valleymoor Road, badly injured and blubbering. She told the medics that she had been abducted by a thin man with sallow skin and eyes that flickered orange at intervals. It was this description alone that opened the floodgates to the cops and shrinks and if the rumors were to be believed, the RDI as well. It was also this description that caught the attention of Mortimer Goth, who instructed Addison to take an interest in the case. A few bold lies, two cops on the take and one incompetent defense attorney later, Addison managed to get access to Hollis.

Addison had barely mentioned this case to Mr. Tricou; he was so convinced that the girl was disturbed or mistaken. Flickering eyes were not a physical feature that existed for any type of Fae or vampire. And now that the brother had turned himself in, Addison felt that his belief was confirmed. There were no mysterious thin men hauling little girls through the mire. Just Hollis Dalton, an uneducated Townie kid whose brain had snapped in the worst way possible.

Jerry Hamilton, Hollis’ somewhat jittery attorney, leaned against the table to tap his ashes into a grimy ceramic dish. He took one long drag of his cigarette and scrunched his brow in concentration before exhaling.

"So tell me, Holly—What do you think you’re doing here?” Hollis kept his stare averted. He shrugged his shoulders in response to the question and Jerry’s annoyance seemed to pique. “Oh, so now all the sudden you don’t know? Care to take a guess?” Hollis remained silent, studying the cracked cement beneath his boot. Jerry pushed himself up off of the table. “Alright, fine. I’ll tell you what you’re doing here-- You’re detracting police efforts away from the investigation of a very serious crime, and they will book you for that. Now, I know that this whole mess has been extremely traumatic for you and your family--" Jerry halted in the middle of his sentence, interrupted by Hollis’ harshly glaring eyes.

"You don't get it, do you? I did it! I did it! Don't you think I would fucking know if I did it?" His shrill outburst echoed across the room. I did it. This was the voice of a man who believed what he was saying, regardless of whether it was true. Jerry raked his fingers through his sandy hair and pulled in frustration.

"Who the hell buys that? Rosie's testimony doesn't even support--"

"Rosie is confused, Jerry. She's simple. Not right in the head." Hollis tapped himself forcefully at the temple to illustrate his point. Jerry crossed his arms over his chest, allowing himself a moment to fume. He then picked up a clipboard and dropped it noisily on the table in front of Hollis.

"Here, take a look at this hospital report,” Jerry said, slamming his hand down on top of the document. “You're going to tell me that you did this shit? Snatched your twelve-year-old sister up by the hair with so much force that large chunks of it came out by the root? Dragged her for four miles into the swamp where you then proceeded to tear off her shirt, drench it in mud and use it to stop her mouth? You did this shit? Sewed the corners of her lips shut? Beat and raped her then left her for dead? She had to have skin grafted onto the backs of her legs where she was dragged and you're going sit here and tell me you did this?"

Hollis’ eyes were fixed on the clipboard. His breathing came in a series of short, strangled gasps. Addison tried to maintain the appearance of neutrality though he knew that no one was looking in his direction. Anguish contorted Hollis’ features as he tugged at his shirt, his fist tightly balled over his heart but somehow, his suffering seemed self-indulgent to Addison at this stage. He’d hurt a child, his own sister, and there was no amount of pain that Addison could think to put this boy through that would make amends. Maybe Jerry wasn’t convinced of Hollis’ guilt but Addison knew that he did it. He knew it just as surely as Hollis himself knew. Jerry snubbed out his cigarette on the surface of the table.

"Now it’s true that when things happen to the people we love, we sometimes feel compelled to blame ourselves. But a kid like you who has always kept his nose clean and worked hard to keep his family going, well someone like that doesn’t do things like this.” Jerry tapped the hospital report with his index finger. Addison watched as Hollis’ eyes began to lose focus. Hollis Dalton, the delivery boy from Millhaven, was no longer there in that room with them. Still, Jerry did not appear to notice. "I am willing to do everything in my power to help you but you gotta gi-- Holly?"

Hollis was drawing circles on the table with his fingertips and humming. Then he parted his lips and sang just loud enough that Addison could hear from where he stood. It was an old song, one that Hollis Dalton was probably too young to know.

"I ought to cross you off my list but when you come knocking at my door, fate seems to give my heart a twist and I come running back for more. I should hate you but I guess I love you. You've got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea." Hollis smiled down upon his creation-- One hundred invisible circles decorating the faux wood table. He met Jerry's confused stare, no longer smiling but tragic. "When he took over, he brought me with him. I was there for every second of it, and there was nothing that I could do. There was nothing that I could do."

Chapter 78: Ermengarde Hears The Stifled

2011-04-25T17:35:00.005-04:00

Sat, December 5, 2074 3:22 am: 88 Wilkins Ave.-- Camden, Pleasantview

Chapter 77: Macaulay Reaches A Stalemate

2011-04-24T21:01:00.006-04:00

Fri, December 4, 2074 6:42 pm: 124 Valleymoor Rd.-- Arbormoor, Pleasantview

There was just enough noise at the dinner table to underscore the lack of conversation-- A clinking bowl here, a scraped fork there. Macaulay rested his chopsticks and stared blankly at the avocado slices on his plate. He was certain that his meal was delicious, as Lavinia's cooking always was, but very little food made its way into his mouth. Macaulay had spent the better part of an hour rearranging his salad into abstract formations while covertly studying his company.

The atmosphere around the table was growing more at ease with its own demise by the second. Macaulay could only imagine how awkward this must have been for Laurie who, though silent, maintained an air of lightness about him.

Laurie didn't mind being here. Perhaps he even understood Macaulay's motives. They had not discussed this exact arrangement beforehand and for that, Macaulay felt particularly low. Lavinia had wanted to meet the infamous Laurie for weeks now but with as silly as it seemed, Macaulay was not ready to share. His time with Laurie was his own, and he liked it that way.

The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to involve Laurie in his messy home life. Then from the furthest, most heinous reaches of his adolescent brain an idea was born. It was a stupid, puerile, misbegotten idea but one that would nag at him until he saw it take fruition. He would arrange the dinner at Lavinia's house. He would do this and then he would get his father to drive them there. On the way, he would convince his father that this was a good time to peek in on the baby. Lavinia would see Macaulay's father with the baby, and no matter how hardened against him she had become, she would lower her defenses just enough to invite him to stay for dinner. The only real variable in this scenario was whether Macaulay's father would accept the invitation.

Macaulay's master plan to get the two of them together in the same room with a guest present (thereby forcing their civility) ended before the four of them sat down. Macaulay never believed that he would get this far.

But he had to break the silence. Something drastic had to be done. Macaulay shot Laurie a quick glance, wordlessly begging his forgiveness before announcing,

"Laurie and I are going steady." He'd said it louder than what was necessary.

At first there was nothing. Lavinia and Macaulay's father paused in mid-chew, letting the words sink in. Lavinia knitted her brow and smiled in a way that promised a gentle, though negative reaction while Macaulay's father screwed his eyes shut and swallowed hard.

"Absolutely not." His father's voice was thick with finality. When Lavinia chimed in, it began a simultaneous, rolling tirade the likes of which Macaulay had not heard from the pair of them in a very long time.

"You're barely out of lower school."

"Far too young to even consider--"

"I can't believe we're even having this discussion."

"And another boy, Cull?" After having said this, Macaulay's father turned around sharply face to Laurie as though something had just occurred to him. "Does anyone else know that this is going on? Does your father know about this?" Poor Laurie had gone a deep shade of scarlet. His eyes were wider than Macaulay could ever remember seeing them and his mouth was full enough to indicate that he had forgotten how to chew. He shook his head. Macaulay's father turned to Lavinia.

"Do you know who his father is? His father is the District Judge for Rawling Hills-- Terrance Torrence's son." Lavinia laughed, understanding the unlikelihood of the situation.

"Oh you're kidding! Isn't he half Townsman? And a Torrence too! Well in that case, I take it all back. You two are made for each other. I'll walk you down the isle myself." Macaulay's father wiped his mouth with his napkin. A sudden fiendish glint in his eye told Macaulay that he found this as absurd as Lavinia did.

"They're cousins," Macaulay's father scoffed. Laurie choked, having taken far too ambitious of a swallow before hastening,

"Removed!" As though his entire well-being hinged on that one word. Lavinia and Macaulay's father locked eyes. Then instantly, they fell into hysterics. Lavinia doubled over, grabbing his father's wrist for stability. Macaulay had mixed feelings about this reaction. On the one hand, to see them laughing together was more than he could have dared to hoped for. To see his father laughing at all was a rarity. But the circumstances...

"May I speak?" Laurie ventured.

"No!" The adults commanded him in unison before resuming their fit of giggling. Lavinia patted Laurie gently on the elbow.

"Don't worry. This isn't about you. I'm sure that you're a good kid--"

"He is. A great kid," Macaulay's father interrupted.

"But Cully has a tendency to get pretty attached to the people that he cares about, and with your ages, it's just really not a good idea. He's only going to get hurt." Macaulay's father nodded in agreement.

"He isn't cut-out for casual dating. And believe me, even if it doesn't seem casual to you right at this moment, it is. I mean, you're how old? Fourteen? Fifteen? Kids your age change partners like they change socks."

"And what are you going to do when he goes to Veronaville? What are either of you going to do?"

"Wait," Laurie replied. "I'll wait if he wants me to, for however long he wants me to."

"Laurie!" Macaulay's cheeks warmed. They had been avoiding the subject for days, each too scared to ask the other just what would happen the following month. Laurie grinned at him, his funny little bangs falling into his eyes. He placed his hand on top of Macaulay's tentatively. Macaulay's father cleared his throat.

"I'd give them six weeks," he said sarcastically.

"Well aren't you just Mr. Ambition? I'd give them three," Lavinia countered. Macaulay dismissed them both, knowing that the argument had reached a stalemate. He stroked Laurie's fingers with his thumb. Let them joke if that was what made them feel comfortable. He wasn't asking permission. He was in love.

Chapter 76: Oona Opens The Gateway

2011-04-17T23:15:00.005-04:00

Fri, December 4, 2074 1:06 pm: The Omar Matlapin Judiciary Building, Office of the Attorney General; Downtown, Pleasantview

There were moments in Oona's life where her anger heightened to such an extraordinary crescendo that she thought perhaps she could see it-- Faintly whispered primary shapes floating before her eyes and falling from sight like volcanic ash. This was one such moment.

Nearly 24 hours had passed since Jorge unknowingly broke the news that her work, her father's work, her father's father's work was in jeopardy. For three generations, her family had one basic duty to Kvornan Tricou. Like hell J.L. Tellerman was going to cultivate the Fiorello Vineyard.

Oona slammed the door shut behind her as she entered Horace's office. He declined to look away from his monitor even when she picked up one of his chairs and threw it against the back wall forcefully enough to chip the plaster.

"The land title! Who owns it?" It was as fitting of a hello as she thought that he deserved. Horace tossed his greasy black hair behind his ear.

"Isabella does. In fee special. I believe we have had this conversation once before. Surely you don't imagine that a half-hearted flirtation and an insinuated threat would stall the transfer of ownership?"

Horace wheeled his chair over to face her. An ugly sort of grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and it was so infuriating that Oona's right hand twitched for a weapon that she was not concealing. She struggled to keep her voice even.

"As the future heir to the Mortimer Goth estate, you have the right of compulsory seizure. Is this true?" Horace folded his hands one on top of the other.

"That is correct," he said.

"How much?"

"I beg your pardon?" Oona cracked her knuckles. She was small but she could still take out this skeezy son-of-bitch if he drove her to it.

"How much would we have to pay you to seize the land title?" Horace sat back in his chair. She had his attention now.

"You know, I fail to see what you and your father would be getting out of this transact--"

"How much, you shit-licking little weasel? Before I reach down your throat and punch your prostate out through your anus."

"That is physically impossible."

"How much?" Horace chuckled and for the first time, Oona thought that he might be scared. She leaned against his desk, close enough to yank him by the collar if she wanted to.

"You know, I am beginning to sense an air of desperation," he said. Despite his arrogance, he met her eyes weakly.

"I will not repeat myself again." Her voice was low, threatening. Horace gestured toward the only chair that remained upright.

"Dearest cousin, please have a seat." Oona said nothing but shifted her weight to grant her a faster reaction time for when she would surely strangle this man to death. Horace shook his head. "It isn't about the money, really. It's the politics of the thing. Ripping the land out from under my sweet little auntie in the midst of such a large business undertaking? It would be poor form to say the least."

"We are prepared to offer you three hundred thousand simoleons." Horace made a sound that was something between a laugh and a scoff.

"Four-Fifty," he countered. Oona gritted her teeth.

"Four-Fifty will cost you a thirty year lease."

"Thirty years?"

"You heard me, asshole." Horace seemed to contemplate her for a moment before shrugging.

"Fine. I will expect the market rental rate. Monthly. Adjustable for inflation. And you are not allowed to do anything to the property. No building anything larger than 800 square feet. No subletting. No cultivating. No commercial anything. And your father better not embarrass me on this one. The instant a corpse-sniffing dog finds any portion of the human anatomy on my family's property, your lease is void." He was only half-joking; more than that, he was daring her. He was looking her in the eye and declaring that by entering the arena on his terms, she was only opening the gateway to further dictates. In the long run, she would be at a disadvantage. What, for instance, was going to happen when the money ran out? Oona pushed her thoughts aside. What she needed most at this point was the buy time until a more permanent solution could arise.

"We reserve the right to occupy the land holding in the interest of natural preservation and 800 square feet sounds perfectly adequate to me." Horace perked up.

"I didn't know that Addison London was such a environmentalist."

"What can I say? Dad loves the cuddly little animals." Oona turned to leave without another word. Before she reached the doorknob, she could hear Horace wheeling his chair away from the desk.

"You know, I think I'm starting to like you," he called after her. Oona gripped the door knob.

"None of this ever happened. You are arresting production on the Fiorello Vineyard because you are deeply concerned about displacing the habitat of the silver-horned swamp toad. That last is not negotiable. If this deal ever gets out, I will personally send you home to your mother in pieces. Count on it."

Fri, October 16, 2074 10:53 pm: Mermaid's Cove Nightclub; Downtown, Pleasantview

"I won't pretend that I'm not surprised you asked me to meet you here." Horace's tone was brusque, and his one exposed eye was brimming over with reservations. That would never do. Oona chose him over his father because she thought that he might be more knowledgeable, if less pliable on the subject of certain family matters. But she had to make him comfortable, otherwise they were going to get nowhere tonight. She bit her lower lip and ran her fingertips along the edge of the glass candleholder in front of her.

"I'll get straight to the point. Earlier this evening, my father heard some interesting news from Jean-Luc Tellerman about his wife wishing to purchase the land in Arbormoor. I was under the impression that this was impossible under the terms of the estate." Horace cleared his throat, seemingly caught off guard.

"That is just about the last thing I expected you to say." Oona smiled for just an instant.

"I can be full of surprises," she said.

"So it would seem." Horace was looking her up and down. He pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger before scratching his shoulder through his jacket. "Though Isabella is not the next in line, she is still an heir to the body of Mortimer Goth. This means that any portion of the estate may be transferred to her in fee special. In another words, she hands my father a check, he hands over the land. Now tell me, what is your interest in several acres of fetid wetlands?" Oona placed her hands on her lap. She decided to ignore the question.

"My husband would like to place a bid on the land." Horace raised an eyebrow shrewdly.

"You mean Addison London wants to place a bid on the land." Oona rolled her eyes at him. He would get no points for cleverness. Horace took a sip of his cocktail. "Come now. If we are going to have a successful business relationship then it's best that we don't beat around the bush. You buy the asset with your daddy's money. Phoenix ends up with a muddy plot in his portfolio that he doesn't even know he has. And it has to be him because he is a resident, an heir to the body of Mortimer Goth and an outright pawn. Why you would go to those lengths to secure the shittiest acreage in Pleasantview, I don't know and the more I think about it, I don't want to know. Somehow I doubt that your father is looking to stick a grocery franchise there." Oona crossed her legs.

"How much is Isabella Tellerman offering?"

"That is between me, my father and our solicitors."

"Why?" Horace chuckled at the question.

"I'll admit," he said. "Shady little back room meetings that can only lead to Phoenix being imprisoned or whatever you have planned-- This is what happens when a man of birth marries a townie-born slut with a father of, let's say, questionable honor. But Phoenix is still a Goth and I will uphold my family's interests. I cannot discuss Isabella's offer with you because this conversation is over." Oona lowered her chin and smiled at him. There was something about this man with his prematurely creasing face, filthy black hair and imported cologne. It was going to be such a shame if she had to have him wasted before the Tellermans could break ground.

"I assume you know who you're dealing with, Mr. Goth." Horace lifted his sleeve and took a quick look at his watch before standing.

"Have a good night Ms. Horne, though I will expect to see you again."

"That you may." Horace sniffed at her disdainfully. The lines in the sand were drawn.

Chapter 75: Jorge Sees the Leaden Thing

2011-04-11T21:13:00.010-04:00

Thurs, December 3, 2074 5:27 pm: Arbormoor Manor- Arbormoor, Pleasantview

Behind him, Jorge heard the high chair tray table snapping shut around his step-granddaughter. Oona had been in full flow from the moment she walked in the door but her speech was cut short by the task of getting Estella settled. Jorge sucked a bit of peanut ginger sauce from his thumb and forefinger then continued to stir.

“So the therapist tells me that Conrad has like, ‘separation anxieties’ or something. And I’m all like, ‘Well what the hell does that mean?’ I can’t get a un-divorce. And it’s not like he never sees his father. Conrad and Estella are up at Ripp’s place like three days a week. But the therapist says that maintaining an imaginary friendship is like a normal coping… thing. Like a thing that kids do. You know. Like a strategy. And I'm sitting here starting to feel like maybe this is my fault or something. And maybe if I had just tried harder I could have made it work. I could be screwing up my kids for life, you know?” Jorge opened the cabinet beneath him and discarded an onion peel. He could feel Oona's eyes glued to the back of his head but he didn't know what sort of a response she expected from him. He scooped a handful of shallots into the mixing bowl. "Did Cully ever talk to invisible old ladies when he was that age? Because seriously, even Conrad's choice of imaginary friend seems weird as all get-out. An old woman in a tattered dress? I mean, don't most little boys think up imaginary friends that are other boys or animals or talking cars or something?" Oona crossed the threshold between them and peered over Jorge's shoulder to inspect his work.

"Cully was never a very imaginative child," he said. Oona placed both hands on the edge of the counter. She teetered back and forth, lost in her own thoughts.

"No, I guess he wasn't. Remember that one time we all went camping? Donna tried to teach him the constellations and he just busted out crying because he couldn't force himself to see them?" Jorge made an affirmative grunt as he poured the dressing over the bok choy. Oona hugged his arm close to her chest and leaned her head against the crook of his neck. Her hair was soft and sponge-like against his ear. "I know I'm not prefect but I try to be a good mom. I try to shelter my kids from all the negative stuff that grown-ups have to deal with. But at the end of the day, I can't even protect them from my own bullshit."

Jorge began tossing his utensils into the sink. Oona lifted her head from his. They shared a brief glance before Jorge removed the bowl from the counter.

"After everything that I've put my son through over the years, I can't be the one to tell you how to raise yours."

"Well, no but--" Jorge turned around and with his free hand, took her gently by the wrist.

"This spring, the Tellermans are going to begin tilling the old vineyard. I don't exactly know what that will do for my stress levels. So just on the off chance that this might not play out so well for me, I am agreeing to send Cully to his grandmother. I don't know how to fix what my problems do to my son. All I know is avoidance." Oona's face went stony. She had a way about her at certain moments where Jorge could look into her eyes and see just how much she was her father's child. There was something leaden at the center of her. He handed over the bowl. "Do me a favor and help set the table."

Chapter 74: Selket Considers the Words That Surface

2011-04-07T00:00:00.000-04:00

Thurs December 3, 2074 10:10 am: 8132 Clematis St.- Pollonatia, Strangetown

“You have some fucking nerve being here.” Loki’s tone was placid, perhaps even vaguely astounded but his eyes conveyed a very different message. An entire litany of malicious intentions seemed to be festering behind those eyes. This man hated Selket and he had every right to. Once upon a time ago, she freed the creature that murdered his wife.

Selket’s posture stiffened as she made her way across the room. Her presence in the home of Dr. Loki Beaker was an intrusion but it was not without warrant. This man was her best and only resource. Everyone who shared his knowledge was long dead.

As Selket passed by the swimming pool, she spared a brief glance at the Townie woman treading water. She was acquainted with this woman. Ivy Copur was a good Dissenter, the ex-partner of one of Thea’s more exuberant sons, Raul Kivetz. Selket did not like to think of a comrade as a zealot but men like Raul posed an ethical gray area for the entire movement by way of their actions. Selket was uncertain of who had planted this Ivy woman in the household of Dr. Loki Beaker but there could be no mistake-- She was not there by accident. Selket turned her attention to Loki.

“I am sorry of interrupting, Dr. Beaker, but we need to talk. It is concerning a friend of yours in military.” Loki hardly blinked. They had only known one another for a short time many years ago but Selket understood him to be a man guided solely by his intellect. If he felt anything, he dismissed it. If he knew the full story, he only related half. If he thought for a moment that he might suffer Selket Redding for the sake of Sita or Hyperion Tvaud, he would carefully consider the compromise. Loki inclined his head towards Ivy but his stare remained fixed on Selket.

“Ivy, my pet, I hate to be a bore…” Loki did not complete his sentence. Ivy climbed out of the pool, silent but seemingly put-off. Thea would hear about this visit. Not that it mattered. Selket would explain herself no further than what Ivy had observed and she did not expect to be interrogated. There were secrets even amongst comrades.

Once Ivy was through the door, Loki gestured towards the chair opposite him. “Sit,” he snapped. Selket clenched her jaw and did as she was told. She could not recall the last time she was spoken to this way but her purpose here held far more gravity than her personal dignity. She folded her hands in her lap.

“I am afraid the news I have is not easy,” she said.

“Out with it.” Loki was clutching his knees hard enough to blanch his knuckles. Selket scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. The room had gone frigid.

“Yesterday morning, Orion Specter escaped detainment. He killed an elite officer, Sutekh Brylowe, and Colonel Tvaud is missing. We think that she is alive and that she is with Orion without her will. I come to you for guiding.” Loki cocked his head to the side.

“And why should I know where Orion Specter is?”

“Well, who knows him better than you, Dr. Beaker? Listen, I would not come to you but this thing, it is extremely sensitive. A Fae is dead—“

“To hell with your dead officer!” Following the outburst, everything went perfectly still. Loki’s face contorted to reveal the white hot fury of a man who had nothing left save the incessant echoes of a former life. Selket straightened in her chair. “Sita Tvaud is a very expensive piece of laboratory equipment and I am not just talking about money. The research involved! The man hours. The human capital. Have you any idea what lengths we had to go to? My wife died in agony before she could see this project completed. And Bella Goth! I needn’t remind you what a catastrophe that nearly turned out to be. Forty years worth of my sweat and blood are invested in this project. Much of Dr. Goth’s work with silt deposits in Arbormoor is lost forever. This technology is, in short, irreplaceable. So don't you dare talk to me about your losses. I don’t give a flying piss about your losses. There is nothing more important than getting that clone back to safety. Do you hear me? Nothing.” Loki banged his fist against the metal frame of his chair. Selket smoothed back fine wisps of her long black hair, undone by desert winds.

“Then you understand why I am here.” she said. Loki’s breathing slowed. His expression fell.

“That couldn't be further from the truth. What do you want from me, Ms. Redding?”

“I want to know what he is doing. Why would he take the girl? If we can know this, maybe they can be found.”

“Well, you might ask yourself that question. What is his impetus for anything that he does?"

"I don’t know. To confuse?"

"Ah ha. And how does he accomplish that? Misdirection? Lies? I find it a gross oversimplification to think of him simply as a liar. Orion Specter is not a liar. He molds his own truths. Don’t your holy texts teach you that at the beginning of time, the daemon Lotan approached his twin sister Lexis, who is the conduit of all truth, and breathed his own word past her lips? Since his banishment, Lotan has had only one goal behind everything that he does—To mix the universal truth with his own variant or, in a more theological sense, to be reunited with his most unfortunate sister.”

Selket took a moment to consider. It was true that this desire of his was described in Lexikos but even Orion would not act outside of his duty. What was he after in the short term?

“Do you think this kidnap is because of Lexis?” Selket asked. Loki drummed his fingertips on the cushion beneath him.

“Well yes and no. You see, I believe that he is so consumed by his need for Lexis that he has consciously or unconsciously come to believe that everyone feels a similar affinity for their siblings. And how could they not, to his mind? Lexis is all. I can’t even begin to count the number of times that I found myself inexplicably wanting to do my own sister harm while that boy was in my care. But regardless of his motives, what I am saying to you is that Orion would kidnap Sita only with the knowledge that Hyperion would not be far behind. Take the sister and the brother will follow.”

“You think he intends this? That Hyperion will follow?”

“That is correct.” Selket leaned forward and perched her chin in her hand, knitting her brow. Hyperion was in Riverblossom investigating an unrelated case involving a prominent Fae woman who had been attacked by a vampire. For a moment, Orion’s words surfaced to the forefront of her mind. “I was sent to put into motion events that would lead to the destruction of a vampire who threatens the sanctity of the Ib.” But the victim had been so certain that she had not been attacked by the Sheut.

“I don’t understand. What would he want with Hyperion?” Loki raised his head to look down upon her.

“I am afraid that my expertise ends there, Ms. Redding. And now, if it pleases you, get out of my house.”

Chapter 73: Oona Does Not Say Goodnight

2010-09-29T21:44:00.013-04:00

Thurs December 3, 2074 12:18 am: 48 King St.- Dorset, Pleasantview

"Lights out, buddy. It is way past your bedtime." Oona ducked her head into her son's bedroom, clutching the edge of the door. Conrad was absorbed in a video game. A tiny man disappeared behind a snowdrift and reappeared in the shadow of its wake, gouging deep tracks in the snow. Oona stepped fully into the room.

"I know. I was just practicing for when the storm comes," he said. Oona bent down to collect one of his shirts from the floor, folded it and placed it on his bureau.

"Storm?" Conrad banged aggressively on the keyboard.

"Yeah, there's gonna be a blizzard. Essie told me." Oona frowned. He hadn't spoken about his imaginary friend Essie in ages and she hoped that he had moved past that stage.

"Honey, I think you might be getting a bit too old to still be talking to Essie," she sighed. Conrad snorted.

"I'm not getting too old to talk to Essie, she's getting too old to talk to me! She said so. She's too old to walk here all the way from the park and her knees creak and so I pro'lly won't see her again 'til spring, when she's a little girl. Just like last year." Oona had forgotten this detail of Essie's existence-- that she grew young and old with the seasons "in a circle", as Conrad said. Oona smirked to herself. Tiresome as Phoenix might have been, he raised a very creative little boy. Oona turned down the sheets on Conrad's bed.

"Well the weatherman on Channel 6 predicted clear skies from now until infinity so I think it's safe to turn off the video game and go to bed."

"He wouldn't know about it yet." There was a simple and perfunctory assertiveness to Conrad's tone. The line between the real and the imagined often blurred for Oona's son. She beat his pillow flat.

"Then we aren't in any imminent danger are we? There will be plenty of time to practice our snowboarding later. To bed, Mr. Horne." Her command was law. Conrad exited his game and climbed onto his bed where he sat cross-legged. His jaw slacked as he stared out of the glass door that lead to the balcony.

"Essie said that I'm supposed to find something in the snow and it's going to be bad but I shouldn't be scared when I find it. What do you think it is?" Oona frowned, pulling his sheets over his legs to incite him to lie down.

"I don't like Essie telling you about things that might be scary," she said. Conrad screwed-up his face in thought.

"I know and I told her that I didn't think that you would like her telling me 'bout scary stuff but she said that she had to tell me so that I wouldn't be too scared when it does happen." Oona brought the comforter up to his chin and kissed his forehead.

"I don't want you going to bed frightened."

"I'm not."

"How much does your mommy love you?" Conrad grinned and withdrew his arms from under the covers, opening wide. Oona tickled his ribcage through his cotton jumper. He squirmed, making a high-pitched sound.

"Night-night, Conrad."

"Night, Mom."

November 17, 2064 9:43 pm: Arbormoor Manor- Arbormoor, Pleasantview

Cricket's elder brother Cyrus was a rake. In the aftermath of Oona's snarling rejection of his nearly-cunning advance, they each sat frozen, eyes focused on the crowd. Oona wished that she could be the sort of woman that her mother was in moments like these. When Kelly LeCroix made a rebuff, it appeared in the guise of a crystalline laugh that showered down upon the offending party, softening the blow and intensifying her mystery. There was an art to the way that Kelly flirted, advancing and retreating in equal measures in order to hinder progress. Not so for Oona. Oona did not flirt. She spat and hissed and seethed and spat again. It was offensive to her that a man, any man but particularly a married man, would look at her twice, assuming that she might take an interest. He'd heard that she was an artist's model. Not really, no. Well yes, she had sat for a set of sketches once. Yes, she knew that Vincent Randall was a big deal but they were just doodles. They met in a restaurant in Riverblossom. It wasn't important which restaurant. Yes, she had heard that he was something of a recluse but no, she didn't know the guy personally. They barely talked. What did he look like? He looked like... A dude? Oona didn't know. Just a regular guy. Early forties. Normal build. And no, she didn't want him to get her a drink. She wasn't even old enough to drink. No, her mother wouldn't care if she had a drink but her father might. It was the principle of the thing. And if his hand crept any closer to her knee, she swore to God that she would scream. That last vow went unspoken but it held true just the same.

Oona was fed up with this party. She was tired of these people-- Cyrus LeCroix-Capp in particular-- But there was no escaping her entrapment. Downstairs, the archway leading into her bedroom had no doors and the noise alone would keep her awake, not to mention her dread of being pawed by some drunken, rowdy son of a bitch. Donna and Sean's friends were a common breed of yahoo and Oona wasn't thinking about their caste. They were just revolting people. There was a couple sitting in the window to the left of her. The man was pouring sangria down the woman's front and licking it away like an alley cat lapping rain from an upturned garbage bin lid. Maybe Oona should go to bed. Maybe she would get lucky and one of these people would murder her in her sleep. She could be reborn as something graceful but ugly. Like a moth or something.

Cyrus's exposed golden eye flickered in her direction. He had thin, mournful lips and blotchy skin. If not for his freakish eyes, Oona would have found it hard to believe that he was Cricket's brother. Anyway, Oona was naturally suspicious of anyone who asked too many questions about "Vincent Randall". Her father had been monumentally angry when those sketches went public. She didn't think that his relationship with Mr. Tricou would ever fully mend. There was a lot that she didn't understand about what passed between those two. But of course, she wasn't meant to understand. It was a shame because Oona liked Mr. Tricou a lot, even in spite of how unpleasant he had become over the past couple of years. Or maybe that was part of it.

The change had come when he started to grow his hair long. Her father presumed that Mr. Tricou was having problems in his personal life but Oona could not imagine what a "personal life" meant for Kvornan Tricou. Did he have family left? Friends? What did he do all day? And with whom? The longer that she knew Kvornan, the more apparent it became that she had never really known him at all. This new Kvornan, who was all steel eyes and bared teeth, did not come to her with gifts or embraces. This new Kvornan did not coo at her in Ashkay about how tall she was getting. This new Kvornan was always angry or on the verge of it. He whipped out his sketch pad to settle his thoughts and drew with fury in his heart. His lines were deep, thick, storm-laden. To Oona, his work was the real manifestation of his divinity.

Sometimes she fanticized about him coming to her window at Arborboor and whisking her away. She didn't know why she had thoughts like that but she did. She had them while she watched his hands moving across the page but also during those rare moments when he seemed more emotionally spent than anything else. His weakness had its own aesthetic just like his rage. Oona supposed that most girls her age nursed crushes on atheletes and pop singers--

"I think you're very beautiful." Cyrus's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She scowled at him, more for the interruption than anything else.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said, standing. As she walked away in no particular direction, a man took a seat in front of Cyrus, speaking a rapid and vulgar Ashkay. Oona thought she heard the words, "townie poontang", which she chose to ignore just as she ignored Cyrus calling her back.

The place was wall-to-wall with faces that she didn't recognize, bodies that collided with hers intentionally. She wondered how Cully was contending with the noise and thought sourly that she was probably the only person present who was at all concerned that there was a toddler in the house. She peered through the tangle of dancing limbs, hoping to catch sight of her father's navy suit. Her knight in cufflinked armor would deliver her from this prison tower. She could be asleep and blessedly alone in thirty minutes time. Oona powered her way through the crowd, searching as best she could without staring at any one person for too long when towards the back of the room, she heard a familiar, tinkling laugh.

"If you ask me, it's marvelous but according to certain husbands of mine, I'm not to be trusted as--What did you call me the other day, pappa?-- Oh, right! 'Not an artbitor of taste,' whatever that means. I think that my tastes are highly sophisiticated. He's just too young to know what's good and what isn't." Kelly was stretched across Cricket's lap, her back arched wantonly. She looked like a figure from a Fuseli painting but smiling wide and red as the devil. The blonde woman that she was shouting at cackled hysterically. They were drunk. Drunk and probably also high. Oona had not waited a moment too soon to make her exit.

Cricket was watching her through his bubble gum pink hair as she approached, unnoticed by her mother. Oona couldn't stand Cricket but when she thought about it, this was little fault of his own. As a person, he was quiet and inobtrusive which were both qualities that Oona liked in other people. If she was anti-Cricket then it was her mother's fault for marrying him. Oona was embarassed that her mother should have married a man who was nearly as close to Oona's age as he was to her mother's. Worse, he was a resident which made Kelly a resident and consequently, Oona as well. She had been too young to have any legal say in the matter but Oona would have prefered to stay a townsman. Being townie-born amongst residents was just as socially awkward as being townie amongst residents. At least when she was a townie, everyone around her was townie as well so she didn't feel the need to dress a certain way or correct her speech or look a resident in the eyes when she spoke to them, which was something that she had been mentally conditioned not to do for the whole of her life. Everything was just that much more strained since her mother married.

They bought Arbormoor at Oona's father's behest. Kelly and Cricket were easily swayed by the idea of a fixer-upper manor in the woods as it appealed to both of their eccentric sensibilities. Only Oona knew that her father had his own interests in mind. Though it was the wisest move to make, the unfortunate result for Oona was that she had to live in a fixer-upper manor in the woods. Nevermind that the place freaked her out. The noises. The inexplicable moisture that accumulated on the floors in certain rooms. She swore up and down that Arbormoor Manor was haunted. When she told Mr. Tricou about her suspicions, he merely grunted in response. Oona couldn't tell whether it was an agreement or a rebuke.

"Look at what the cat dragged in. Done playing with your uncle already, sweetheart?" Kelly barely raised her head but threaded her arms deeper around Cricket's body. Oona cringed, her unblushing cheeks growing hot just the same.

"Don't call that creep my uncle. Is Dad still here?" Oona snapped. Kelly stretched her limbs while Cricket petted her hair fondly. Kelly made kissy faces up towards him. They were such weirdos and it was so gross.

"Your father left ages ago. Why? Getting bored with-- with the old people already?" Oona was not paying attention to that last. A dusty green bottle rolled across the floor and tapped the side of her shoe. It was unlabeled and the glass was wavy, primitive even. Oona wrinkled her nose.

"What have you been drinking?" With that, Kelly started to sit up but found the task too daunting and collapsed back onto Cricket's lap once more.

"It's a lovely red that we found in the cellar behind a false door a few days back. It's probably pure poison but it makes you feel just wonderful. You really must try some." Oona didn't know if her alarm was registering on her face. Kelly was not giggling any longer and now that Oona was taking a good look at her, something did seem off. Something more serious than intoxication. Her eyes were bright and slightly glazed. Her skin was like wax. This was her mother's body but perfected, stylized. It was an image that Oona would carry with her forever, never to be forgotten. She did not know it then but this was the last time that she would see her mother alive.

"You idiot." It was all that Oona could manage to say before she turned tail and ran. In years to come, she would regret it but at the time, she was too agitated to at least kiss her mother goodnight. Her father had checked that house. He had checked it again and again. Oona had come with him on one occasion. They tapped the walls and listened for hollows. They ran their hands across the floor to feel for hidden latches. They looked. There had been no secret wine cache. The place was empty. How could this have happened? She had to call her father. He had to fix this. This was not right. None of this was right.

On her way out the door, Oona caught Cyrus's stare. His golden eyes seemed to flash emerald in that instant. Green as the lichen along the swamps of Arbormoor.

Chapter 72: Troy Dreads the Waking

2010-09-07T21:40:00.007-04:00

Thurs, December 3, 2074 12:10 am: Capp Suites- Camden, Pleasantview

There was something wrong with him. Something deeply, psychologically amiss. Why else would he be lying on a hotel bed, his head still buzzing with post-coital bliss, Sabina’s hand trailing up his arm? What time was it? Shit. Three hours had elapsed since he left the house to take Enoch and Macaulay home. What would he say when he got in? Car trouble? Siren wouldn’t believe that. He would have called if that had been the case. In any event, car trouble was not an affliction that Troy ever suffered from. He took better care of his cars than he did his children. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Shit! What would he say?

Sabina rolled onto her side, yawning. Her tussled hair fell into her face and she made no attempt to brush it aside. Troy allowed his gaze to slip downwards over her small breasts and across her ribcage as her chest compressed with each tiny intake of breath. She was beautiful in the way that a fawn is beautiful. She had the same delicacy. The same elusiveness. He had held her. He had felt her shivering beneath him but she was not his, not in any concrete way. Once a certain amount of trust is engendered, a fawn might eat from your hand but that act alone would not make the fawn yours, would it?

Sabina laid her head against the pillow, smiling contentedly. Just watching her move arrested him. She could do anything or nothing at all. He knew-- He knew that what brought him here time and time again was no more than a lack of self-control, a general disregard for Sabina’s feelings and a blasé attitude towards his marriage. He knew that he was only there because he was a bastard. Yet, there were moments where he might have sworn that there was more to it, as absurd as that sounded. But Sabina was just a kid. Troy found his underwear beneath the covers and pulled them on. He had to go home. Tossing the sheets aside, he sat up.

“You okay to get back to the Academy?” He could have phrased that better. He could have brazenly offered to drive her himself.

“I’m fine. Are you leaving now? You always leave too soon.” Troy slid to the edge of the bed, deigning not to respond. His undershirt was drenched with sweat and the scent of her lotion. Her taste lingered in his mouth. There was no alibi in the universe that would explain away the evidence. He decided that he wouldn’t lie to Siren but that he wouldn’t tell the truth either. He had been out. That was all.

Sabina wrapped her arms around his waist when he attempted to stand and planted her chin on his shoulder. Being near her put him at ease with the world and at odds with himself. He was thrilled. He was revolted. He had to go home. Her lips brushed his jaw line. Her cold nose was pressed against his cheek.

“I love you, Your Honor,” she said. Troy’s throat constricted. He couldn’t decide whether the declaration had been weird or marvelous or both or neither. He wrung his fingers unconsciously. No person, no situation ever made him anxious but this woman—this girl—terrified him. “I love you and I think you love me too.”

Troy closed his eyes and exhaled. He lifted her arms gently from his body and stood up. Sabina inched over to where Troy had been sitting. As irrational as it was, he thought that he could feel her disappointment washing through him. Maybe if she hated him, they would both be better off.

“Troy, you have to talk to me.” He stopped what he was doing.

“What do you want me to say?” Sabina clasped her hands between her knees. She looked so young. “What could I possibly say?”

“Tell me what happens next.” Troy ran his hand through his short hair, clawing aggressively at his own scalp.

“I go home and fall asleep next to my wife. That’s what happens next,” he spat.

“You know what I mean.”

“Let’s not complicate things, Sabina.”

“Complicate things? You can’t be fucking serious.”

“We shouldn’t even be here right now.”

“So what's your point? We are here and I don’t regret being here. Should I? Do you?” Troy swallowed hard. Truth be told, he did not regret it, not a moment of it. He had reached the point in his dream where he dreaded waking. That was all.

“I regret it for your sake,” he murmured. Troy started to reach for his shirt when she jumped up, holding him from behind.

"You know what I think?" Sabina hooked her thumb into the shoulder of his undershirt and pulled him backwards against her chest. "I think that Troy Tellerman-Caliente has never regretted anything a day in his life. I think that a big part of the reason why we keep ending up here is because you want to know just what it feels like to royally fuck something up, to feel that much more human." Troy twisted out of her grasp, reaching down to pick-up his sweater.

“Don’t contact me,” he said. “I won’t try to contact you and we will not be seeing one another often under other circumstances.” He pulled his sweater over his head. “Siren and I are unenrolling the boys from the Academy.” He found his wallet and the remainder of his clothing beneath the bed. Even knowing that this was potentially the last thing that he would say to her for a very long time, he allowed the silence to hang between them, interrupted only by the sound of the door closing as he left.

Chapter 71: Lawrence Is Ignited

2010-09-06T23:27:00.012-04:00

Weds, December 2, 2074 8:04 pm: Caliente Manor- Middlebourne, Pleasantview

Laurie slid the shower door closed behind him, humming and nodding in time with a strain of music that only he could hear. It had been a good day but when he tried to pin down the source of his cheerfulness, he came up with little. Enoch and Cully dropped by earlier without incident, which was a continuing source of relief. Not that Laurie thought Enoch would ever intentionally jeopardize his friendship with Cully by blurting out, "Dude, Cull, Laur is totally scoping your nutsack!" but Enoch did have the unfortunate habit of being... Enoch. Laurie twisted the corner of his towel into a point and used it to dry his ears, singing aloud with his internal concert.

"I'm an alligator! I'm a momma-poppa come'n for you! I'm a space invader! I'll be a rock 'n roll'n bitch for yooouuu!" The floor was slippery with condensation. Laurie propelled himself towards the sink, pushing off with his right foot and steering with his left. "Keep your electric eye on me, baby! Put your ray gun to my head! Press your space-face close to miiine, love. Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah! Thank you, Strangetown! You've been an amazing audience. Goodnight and God bless!"

Laurie cupped his hands against his mouth, mimicking the roar of an appreciative crowd. The bathroom walls collapsed around him, revealing a brightly lit stage in the middle of the desert. The world was a vast, uninterrupted stretch of midnight. Laurie scrubbed the towel against his dripping head. Yeah, he was definitely moving to Strangetown when he grew up. Maybe he would study reptiles if the whole bug thing didn’t work out. Reptiles were cool. Laurie pulled on the boxer shorts that sat neatly folded by the toilet. He twirled a random lock of hair, observing his reflection in the mirror. Maybe he should get dreadlocks. His father would hit the roof if he got dreadlocks.

Hurricane Lawrence left the bathroom a slight wreck—All steam-fogged glass, clogged drains and standing water. As he headed down the corridor, he pondered his own propensity towards moisture and concluded that without Elmira, he might have died of trench foot ages ago. Note to Self: Thank Elmira for drastically reduced occurrences of tench foot in the Tellerman-Caliente household. Elmira would think that was funny. He did like making Elmira laugh, particularly when she was working and right before she whacked him with a dishcloth. Elmira was a doll. Too bad Laurie didn't swing that way.

Around the corner, Laurie took hold of a cold, brushed metal doorknob and flung open his bedroom door. What waited for him on the other side gave him a horror-movie-esque jolt of "the phone call is coming from inside the house" proportions.

Cully slouched in the corner of Laurie's room, eying him apologetically. Laurie closed the door behind him, horrified by his half-naked body.

"Shit Cull, I thought Dad drove you home!" Laurie yanked open his dresser drawer and began to rummage, unearthing a green thing. What was this? Pants? Were these even his? He didn't know he owned these. Laurie dug deeper to find an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

"We made it all the way to the garage when Enoch, in his infinite wisdom, challenged your dad to a game of pool. Winner gets 55 million simoleons, payable in bottle caps." Laurie snorted, pulling the shirt over his head.

"Sounds like high stakes," he said.

"Yeah and no matter who wins, you'll be the one to drink enough soda to produce the needed coinage." Laurie snickered, smacking his forehead in mock-realization.

"You're right! Gee, I had better start drinking. You want something from downstairs?" Laurie made for the door, partly to prolong the joke, partly to distance himself from the embarrassment of a few moments prior.

"Wait! Laur, I wanted to talk to you for a sec. If that's okay." Macaulay's voice trailed off as he spoke and Laurie thought that he detected a hint of nervousness laced into his run-of-the-mill soft-spokenness. Laurie's hand fell away from the door, his escape plan shattered.

"Sure thing, pal." Pal? Did he really just say that? Laurie slunk over to the edge of his bed, mentally berating himself the entire way. It was a wonder that he didn't trip over his own feet.

Once he was settled, Laurie drummed his palms upon his lap, hoping to look casual.

"Sooo, what's up Doc?" Laurie smiled weakly at his friend, remembering too late that Macaulay didn't own a television, had probably never seen a cartoon in his life and might not have gotten the reference.

Cully opened his mouth and closed it, knitting his brow. After a few such false starts, he made his way over to the bed and sat down next to his friend. They were so close that Laurie could feel the warmth of Cully's body emanating through his clothing. Laurie prayed that he wasn't blushing. Ba reginam, don't let him be blushing.

"Do you remember the first time I came here-- That conversation we had about how long I had been in the pond?" That topic was light years away from what Laurie had been expecting. His eyebrows rose involuntarily as his shoulders relaxed. Sure he remembered. How could he forget anything pertaining to that episode of his life? He still had nightmares. Laurie nodded, urging Cully on. "Well, the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe what kept me from drowning before you got there and how you heard the splash and how you managed to find me and everything... I think it was magic. I think I might have used magic."

Laurie wanted to wrap his arm around Cully's waist, run his fingers through Cully's hair and give him a reassuring grin but the best that Laurie could manage was a confused grimace coupled with a shoulder-to-shoulder nudge.

"Cully, no one uses magic by mistake, especially not a pair of watered-down partlings like us. We misjudged the time is all. And those woods echo. There are plenty of non-supernatural explanations for what happened out there." Macaulay bit his lower lip, clearly struggling with what he was trying to say. When his eyes met Laurie's once more, they were a little sad.

"Have you ever felt sort of contained? Like everything you are is just stuck behind your ribcage and no matter what you do, no matter how loud you scream, the pressure just doesn't go away?"

"Er-- Not sure I follow you there," Laurie said softly. Macaulay picked at a loose thread on Laurie's comforter, gazing downwards as he did. Laurie was struck with the urge to kiss Cully's half-closed eyelids, his thick dark lashes. Laurie never saw himself in a romantic light but maybe he could. For this boy, he could. It wasn't just because Macaulay was handsome or kind or witty. It was for his depth of feeling that Laurie wanted to be near him, listening to him talk even and especially when Cully's sentiments confused him. He and Cully fit. Laurie needed the wellspring of Cully's emotions, just as Cully needed the levity of Laurie's shallowness. Damn, was that really all that Laurie had to offer? Cully peered upwards at Laurie, still twining the thread between his fingers.

"I feel like that all the time. Sometimes its so bad, I can't breathe."

"Maybe you have asthma." Cully laughed and placed his hand over Laurie's mouth. It took every ounce of willpower that Laurie possessed not to purse his lips against Cully's palm.

"Okay asshole, this is serious. I am trying to tell you a serious thing. Laurie, I am going to Ethelden to study."

"Macaulay!" Laurie rarely used Cully's full name, at least not out loud but he felt as though the ground had opened up beneath him. Macaulay's name was the sound of Laurie's breath leaving his body. Cully took his hand away from Laurie's mouth.

"I didn't use magic by accident, Laur. I willed you there. I wanted to belong to someone and then there you were."

Laurie turned Cully's words over and over looking for any interpretation other than the one that made him nervous enough to shake and yet happy enough to know that he had heard incorrectly. Laurie picked up his head, not knowing what to say but determined to say something, just as Cully solved the dilemma for him.

This was not the way that Laurie had fantasized about this happening, with his heart still sinking painfully low in his stomach from the news that Cully was leaving. The thought of it made Laurie cling tighter. His hands dug into Cully's jacket, clasping so hard that it hurt. He rolled over, anchoring their bodies to the bed as though to prevent him from floating away.

Laurie had never kissed another person before and as far as he knew, neither had Cully. It probably wasn't normal for him to press his lips so tightly against Cully's that he could feel the teeth behind those lips. He thought about opening his mouth but that posed an entire minefield of unknowns. Cully wrapped his legs around Laurie's and Laurie let out a slight gasp as his groin brushed against Cully's. Maybe this wasn't Cully's first kiss. For a moment, Laurie burned with jealousy over a person that he didn't even know existed.

Cully slipped his hand beneath Laurie's undershirt, resting on Laurie's bare side. Laurie shifted his position as the toes of his sneakers slid across the rug and his erection became more difficult to ignore. It was then that he felt a jolt of electricity between Cully's hand and his side. The sensation spread throughout his torso, set his blood on fire. Laurie pulled away.

"Sorry." Cully winced. Laurie concentrated on the feeling. The same thing had happened the first time they shook hands and now, in this current context, he found that it made him slightly euphoric. Laurie shook his head.

"Do it again," he said. Cully smiled and as Laurie went in for another kiss, Enoch's voice drifted up from the stairwell, killing the moment dead.

"Yo, Mickey Lickey! Time to go!" Laurie groaned miserably. Macaulay kissed the tip of his nose and shouted towards the door.

"Tshin-tshin, villmen!" Laurie rolled pitifully onto his back and folded his hands on his chest. This was what being a beached whale must feel like. Cully pushed Laurie's hair away from his face and kissed him quickly, casually, as though this was how they always said goodbye. "You'll come see me? In Veronaville?"

"Of course," Laurie muttered, his brain still buzzing with joy and sadness and teenage boners that refused to go away. Laurie sat up on the bed as Cully left the room, neither one of them brave enough to admit to what went without saying.

Chapter 70: Mariel Begs the Question

2010-05-08T21:40:00.004-04:00

Weds December 2, 2074 1:23 pm-- 1023 Maple Crest Rd.; Yitzenburg, Alpinloch

“Good afternoon, nurse. Is it time for my sponge bath already?” Alexei's joke was delivered without the barest hint of a smile. When Mariel thought on it, she realized that she had never seen him smile or at least not in any pleasant way. Not once.

Mariel crossed the room and paused at his bedside while he followed her with his eyes. A bit of raisin bread and a cup of tea perched lovingly on his nightstand, no longer hot enough to give off steam. Alexei’s elder sister coddled him like a child, playing along with his caprices to the point where Mariel had to wonder which of them was truly the eccentric one. Perhaps both. But if Emilia was eccentric for the administration of thermometers, warm washcloths and breakfast in bed, then Mariel could not have been much better. She was there, after all.

“You seem to be convalescing well,” she said flatly. Alexei stretched out his arms and yawned. He scratched his midsection, his bleary eyes staring at nothing in particular.

“Nonsense. I need the sort of care that only my nurse can give me or else I may not make it.” Mariel crossed her arms over her chest. She knew what she would find when she arrived at the Garrison household but somehow she still clung to the hope that Alexei would not be so reckless as to call her home phone unless it was an emergency.

“You can go straight to hell, Alec. My father was inches away from answering when you called. You’re lucky Hannah was there.”

"No, 'lucky' would have been if Hannah had come along with you." Alexei smirked mischievously but Mariel failed to see the humor in the situation. She could not feel her expression change or her cheeks grow warm but Alexei's face softened in the wake of her disapproval. "I'm not afraid of your father, sweetheart. Nor your big bad wolf of a mother." Mariel sniffed.

"You'll get yourself killed someday," she said. Alexei looked off to the side, seeming to consider.

"Once a fellow has over-stayed his welcome, that threat starts to sound more like an invitation. Anyway I really am sick, you know. Ate something that didn't agree with me." Mariel tossed her purse by the door and walked over to the bed. Alexei followed her with his eyes, more wax doll than centenarian man. This was what had initially crumbled her defenses, what she found to be so difficult to resist about him. Most vampires that Mariel knew, her parents included, were rotting from the inside out. Mariel could see it in their eyes, almost smell it seeping through their skin. They were dying. And Alexei, he was dying too but it was a different sort of death. It was a death that never lost its luster. A death that resembled sleep.

For his part, Mariel did not have to wonder what Alexei saw in her. They had spent time together in public before and though his glances rarely lingered, she had noticed a trend in what attracted him physically. Young. Dark-haired. Short. Somewhat androgynous. But more than that, Mariel had the distinct impression that he embraced the danger of seeing one of Thea's daughters. Alexei patted the bed beside him. "Come have a seat, Miss Masters."

Mariel wrapped her legs around him, straddling his waist. The pale copper of his irises shone through the green contact lenses, making him look perhaps even more other-worldly. Mariel snaked her hand up his torso until she reached the base of his neck, pursing her lips in thought.

"I can't come to see you again. This won't bode well for your brother when they find him." Alexei tensed at the mention of Antoine. The Dissenters were seeking him out, albeit lazily. Antoine still had friends amongst their number that did not want to see him caught.

"Any sign of him?" Alexei's voice was thick and coarse in a way that Mariel had never heard from him before. Mariel studied him briefly. His smattering of freckles. His parted lips. The thin creases at the corners of his eyes.

"No," she said. Alexei leaned forward and kissed the bridge of her nose, pressing her glasses to her face. "He is a traitor but for your sake, I hope he stays missing. In any case, the damage is done."

"Don't believe it. Antoine is still a threat and I feel comfortable in telling you so. You won't find him. Or if you do find him, turn the other way-- He wants to be found." Mariel pushed herself to her feet. With anyone else, this conversation would have been politics. Mariel might have said that the Sheut would be dead within the year so who gives a flying fuck about Antoine Garrison?

It was a mistake to get involved with this man. It was a bigger mistake for her to think of him as a friend. They weren't friends and not just because he was playing for the opposition. There were things about him that made her skin crawl. Certain offhanded remarks and peculiar behaviors. Mariel had reason to believe that he was a hunter and a violent, unscrupulous one at that. Alexei rose from the bed, joining her.

Her anger instructed her to move away as he drew in close. It told her to brush his hand from her hip. Perhaps even to leave. But Mariel remained stiff as a rail, pretending that his proximity had no effect. Alexei's lips brushed her cheek, coming to rest near her ear.

"What's bothering you, kitten?" He was so close now that she could feel his pulse against her chest.

"I could have stayed home if I wanted to have a conversation about the Sheut." Alexei twined her hair around his fingers. She was so stupid, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself that she knew just what she was doing.

"Listen to me carefully—and I am only telling you this because I like you—Antoine did you all a favor. If Kvornan thought for an instant that you knew the identity of the Ib before he was ready to make that information public, you would be dead right now. Some of you worse than dead. You'd have never gotten close enough to the Ib to 'protect' her or whatever you call yourselves doing." Maybe it was his mention of the Sheut by name or maybe it was the futility of his argument but the spell was broken. Mariel pushed him away as forcefully as she could.

"Better to die a martyr than to have done nothing at all! Better to serve something larger than yourself—"

"And so Antoine has done, in his way."

"All that Antoine has done is to stall and waste time that we simply don’t have."

"No. Antoine has saved you from your own foolishness. The Ib is sacrosanct. I’d have misled you too." Mariel shifted her weight to one leg and leaned in towards him as he fell inexplicably sullen.

"What do you hope to accomplish by defending him right now? What am I supposed to say to you? ‘Antoine was right. We were wrong. I’m going running home this very minute to tell my mommy to call the whole thing off.’ Fuck you, Alec. For all we know, the Sheut is siring the Ib as we speak."

"He wouldn’t."

There is was. The loyalty. The conviction. What was she supposed to say to that? Alexei was so certain that he knew the devil as a man. And he trusted him. Mariel shook her head, narrowing her gaze.

"I don’t understand you. Why would you knowingly invite that monster into your life? And stay with him for so long?" Alexei flinched at the question. The instant that Mariel said it, she realized that she had wanted to ask for months but that she hadn't the gall. Alexei looked up at the ceiling and for a moment, Mariel thought that he would not respond.

"When I was a kid, I had this toy car that ran on kinetic energy. If you rolled it across a flat surface in reverse and let it go, it would take off just like lightning. It was a popular toy at the time—the S150. Darong Toyworks manufactured it. Everyone had one. But mine was defective. When you let it go, instead of just moving, it shot an impressive array of white and blue sparks. It was incredible to see.

My mother took it away. She was afraid that I would burn myself. I was distraught. I ended up rescuing it from the garbage. Buried it under a tree in the park. For years, I would dig it up, race it down the street and bury it again. I couldn’t give up something that remarkable just on the off chance that it might harm me. So I took a risk." Mariel was not expecting that level of honesty and knowing Alexei, she was wary.

"Did you ever get burned?" she asked. Alexei wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve.

"Repeatedly."

"Was it worth it?"

"Always. But when I think about it, it isn’t really that apt of a metaphor. Any injuries that I got from the car healed a long time ago but Kvornan…" He shook his head slowly.

"Was he worth it?" Alexei exhaled deeply, as though he were laboring over something. He leaned back against the nightstand, causing the china to rattle.

"Always," he said.

Chapter 69: Sita Dampens the Ink

2010-04-18T22:25:00.006-04:00

Weds, December 2, 2074 3:16 am: Facility Eleven; Idylewilde, Strangetown

The military base in Idylewilde existed only as interior space like an oubliette or a womb. It was a self-contained universe-- A snow globe draped in mortar. Sita Tvaud was bred and raised here-- a child of science and atrocity and hush money. At twenty-three, she had scarcely left the facility. Countless hours were spent watching one copper door oxidize while guarding another. Her world was four feet in front of her, five inches behind and sixty feet on either side.

Until recently, Sita had been a warden for the women's camp on the premises, in charge of a hundred or so illegals. Her present reassignment was somewhat of a promotion but Sita was finding it to be almost torturous for the boredom involved. The sector was so remote that if not for the hiss of the steam tunnels, she might have assumed that she was going deaf. This was what it felt like to be in perfect stasis. Sita was restless from skin to pith.

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor. Voices. Sita turned to her partner who did not move but whose eyes appeared fixed in concentration. No one was meant to be on this floor of the compound. Sita clamped her hands behind her back and stood at attention, listening.

There were two distinct sets of boots, landing in time with one another. RDI agents. Sita knew by the collision of buckles with leather and hard vinyl. Her heart leapt into her throat, thinking for a brief instant that one of them might be her brother, returned from his assignment. But the footfalls were too light and too slow to be Hyperion. Sita then caught the agents at the cusp of her field of vision as they rounded the corner.

"Do you feel that?" The blond grabbed his forehead, then slid his hand down his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's like a pick-axe tunneling through my fucking skull."

Sita knew what he was referring to. Her partner Sutekh complained of the occasional peculiar migraine that struck at constant intervals with precision of a metronome.

"You need to stop drinking on the job, Crius." The dark one scanned the hallway as he spoke, seeming to second guess his own skepticism.

"No, it's... Something is wrong up here." The blond breathed heavily through his nose. When the pair finally noticed Sita and Sutekh, they barely broke their stride. The blond smiled at her, all slime and scales. A crocodile. Sita moved to shield the door.

"I warn you to keep your distance, officers. This sector is under quarantine. Research personnel only," she said. The blond took a step towards her.

"We have clearances from the Magister Templi to patrol these corridors until further notice. You got a problem, take it up with him." Sita cocked her head to the side, surveying the officer. She was annoyed with his attitude and discovering a perverse enjoyment in her own annoyance. At this point, she would put up with any little vexation just to feel something. The blond nodded his head towards the door behind them.

"The fuck you people keep locked up in there, anyway?" His tone was rhetorical but Sita rose her eyebrows and responded.

"Unless you want to find out first hand, I suggest that you carry on patrolling, officer."

The blond's face went blank as if he were taking the time to evaluate Sita and her threat. The thought made her feel dreadful but she may have been just bored enough to toss this imbecile into the lion's den. Maybe his friend as well. If two trees fall in the forest and no one is there to hear them, they will not make a sound. This is an absolute.

The creature behind the door had not moved for nearly eighteen years but Sita did not doubt the damage that it could still perform even and most especially in its dormancy. The headaches alone served as clues that there was activity beyond the door that could only be perceived by the particularly sensitive. Sita was not sensitive. She was not built to be. This is why she had Sutekh. His receptivity acted as her lantern in the dark, alerting her to coming danger. The black-haired agent tapped the blond on the arm.

"We need to finish up here," he said. The blond nodded in agreement but seemed somehow disoriented. Sita supposed that the headaches were worsening. She turned to Sutekh. He appeared to be immune. As the two men departed from the scene, the blond took several long stares behind him. It was enough for Sita to infer that he was under attack, specifically. The creature's energy was discriminating, not flooding like other beings'. It knew direction and precision. There was little wonder that Moritmer Goth had attempted to weaponize it. Sita flexed her fingers, curling and uncurling her fists. She was death by design.

The door at the end of the corridor closed behind the two agents and everything was still. Sutekh leaned his head against the door.

"You shouldn't provoke them," he said quietly. Sita sniffed in disdain.

"Why not? I eat boys like that for breakfast."

"We need to remain as innocuous as possible."

"Su, if they were looking for someone innocuous to guard this door then they would have posted Hyperion here and sent me to Riverblossom." This was not entirely true. Sita's twin brother came and went as he pleased. Sita was kept under lock and key because she looked far too much like their mother, who had been a famous beauty. The sight of her would have been a shock for a lot of people. "In fact, if Hyperion were to--" Sita paused. At first, she did not know what it was that silenced her but after a few seconds of biting her tongue, it became clear. The steam that she had been hearing for days passing through the tunnels below her had ceased. If that was not peculiar enough, in its place was a soft squeaking sound like the far-off torturing of mice.

"What is that?" she whispered.

"Shh!" Sita and Sutekh turned to face one another as they each independently came to the same conclusion. There was some mild shuffling and more squeaking, though louder this time. Sutekh hurried to place his palm on the door and undo the magic that kept it fixed. The sounds were coming from within the room.

The door gave way with a powerful jolt that threw Sutekh a little ways backward. Sita caught him by his shoulders as he staggered and pulled him forward into the cell.

A purple glow permeated the space and leaked no farther than the entry. There were no light fixtures in the room, no source of illumination. At the center of it all was the prisoner, thin and brittle as a cornhusk doll. His lank black hair fell into his eyes. His chest rattled with each intake of breath. Was this the monster that she had been warned about? He looked as though a gentle breeze could blow him away.

The creature hazarded a few steps towards Sita and her partner, dragging an IV drip along with him. The wheels on the IV revealed themselves to be the source of the squeaking as they turned over the filthy tiled floor. The creature held out the pole for their inspection.

"If this is what passes for a continental breakfast at this establishment then you will have to forgive me if I do not seem overly impressed," the creature growled. Sutekh stood gaping. Perhaps he had never expected to find himself here, face to face with something like Orion Specter. The creature locked eyes with Sita and came closer, IV drip in tow.

"You look familiar," he said slowly. "Have I frightened you before?"

Sita tried to moisten her lips with her tongue but it did no good as her entire mouth had gone dry. There was something both stately and formidable about the man who peered at her from behind the IV pole like a king who could not be bothered to move his scepter to the side.

"My name is Colonel Sita Tvaud. I am Spawn Number 002 and I'm..." Sita could not finish her sentence. She was what? An amateur gardener? A bird-watching enthusiast? A test tube miracle created from genetic samples taken from Orion himself?

The creature's eyes glittered with a renewed sense of life and wonderment. It was like seeing pigment long bereft of its fluidity again dampened, born again as ink. Orion knew who she was. It was written all over his face. And the knowledge seemed to ignite some semblance of his former self within him.

"Well played, Dr. Beaker." The creature's tone was low as though he were speaking more to himself than to anyone else. He ran his hand up and down the metal post absently. "Well played," he repeated.

Chapter 68: Jorge Is As Empty

2010-03-28T23:46:00.005-04:00

Tues, December 1, 2074 12:37 pm: The Echo Hotel; Doubling, Pleasantview

"I'll be goddamned. Cricket? Is that you?" It took Jorge several seconds to register the nickname as his own. The last person to call him Cricket had been deceased for over a decade and no one else would dare. He sat his glass on the table and turned his torso towards the speaker. A willowy red thing squinted down at him in perfect skepticism. She might have been a Pleasant but Jorge couldn't be sure. She bit her lower lip uncomfortably and something in the gesture triggered Jorge's memory.

"Jules?" Her face relaxed into a smile. Jorge stood as she waddled over, so awkwardly feminine that it was almost funny. He remembered then what a tomboy she had been as a child. Even tarted up and twenty years older, she still could not have attracted him less. When she wrapped her arms around him, all he could think was that she was thin enough to be snapped in half.

"Just look at you! I swear, there must be a portrait somewhere aging in your place," she bristled. Jorge pulled away from her gently.

"Quite," he said. Across the table, Donna cleared her throat. "Juliette Capp, you remember my sister Donna? And this is her husband, Sean Wallace."

"Capp-Torrence, actually and of course. Enchanted." Juliette extended her hand to Sean who kissed it rather than shaking it, visibly unnerving her. Donna leaned back in her chair, pinching her glass by the stem as though a temporary amnesia had untaught her how to hold red wine.

"Don't just stand there, pull the woman a chair." Donna crossed her legs at the knee, her perilously tight skirt riding upwards. Jorge swallowed his annoyance and busied himself with Juliette's chair, having long ago learned not to challenge Donna on her choice of attire. Jorge forced Juliette's chair towards the coffee table as she sat down, thinking neither of the chair nor the woman in it. Donna, on the other hand, was gazing straight through Juliette with seemingly predatorial attention.

"So what brings you to Pleasantview, darling? Adventure holiday? Vacationing amongst the salt of the earth?" Jorge kicked his sister under the table but did not look up to gauge her reaction. Instead, he offered Juliette a glass of wine by way of gesture towards the bottle. She shook her head to decline.

"Goodness, no. My husband sent me here on errand. The Tellermans are soliciting us for financial backing. They're reviving the old Fiorello Vineyard." With that, Donna took a sip from her glass and choked. Jorge peered at his sister, whose hair had fallen into her face with the impact of her cough. He knew what she was thinking. Kelly's body was scattered for over a kilometer across that vineyard but the news did not disturb him. He had been expecting to hear as much for years, ever since that Goth woman married into the Tellerman family. Why they hadn't decided to farm that land sooner, Jorge did not know. The silence that followed was too heavy for Jorge to lift. Juliette shot furtive glances between the assembled company. "It's shocking, I know but according to J.L., the land is still arable and Isabella owns it as part of the Mortimer Goth estate. Personally, I always believed the urban legend that old man Fiorello salted the earth just to spite his daughter but there you have it."

"I live at Arbormoor Manor." Jorge spoke evenly but there was a disconnect between the words that he spoke and the thought behind them. He lived at Arbormoor Manor. Kelly died in the Fiorello Vineyards. Juliette laughed as though she were coming to some realization.

"Oh! Of course. How stupid of me. Hope you won't mind having a new neighbor out there in the woods," she said.

"I always assumed the state owned that land," Sean interjected, scratching his knee.

"Oh, no. Dr. Goth bought the vineyard from Isabella Fiorello for pennies right before she died. The old lady practically gave it to him. Told him he was a damn fool. J.L. showed me their correspondence over lunch the other day." Jorge stared out of the window behind Donna's head, losing himself in the bleak white backdrop of the sky. He thought of the farming industry moving in on that muddy expanse of land where his wife had been found in pieces. The thought conjured up precisely nothing within him. His heart was as empty as a snowdrift.

"Why would Mortimer Goth buy a vineyard and just let it rot?" Donna traced her collar bone as she spoke, intently watching Jorge for what, he couldn't tell.

"No one knows. Rumor has it that he offered it to Adriana Lothario but that she turned it down," Juliette said.

"I believe it," Sean mused. "People used to say that he had been in love with Adriana. Married Bella Bachelor just because they looked alike." Juliette sucked her teeth, tilting her head to the side.

"Oh rubbish. He loved he wife. Do you remember how he turned the entire state upside down looking for her when she went missing?" she said. Donna rolled her eyes.

"You mean the way that he constrained the townsmen into indentured servitude just to find one runaway housewife?" Jorge reached forward to refill his glass, sensing one of Donna's townie rights speeches on the horizon. Juliette wound her necklace around her fingers.

"Forgive me but last I checked, the townsmen were and are the workforce. What aught Mortimer have done? Monopolized your law enforcement agencies? She was only, as you say, one runaway housewife." Jorge spat his wine back into his glass rather than inhaling it as he laughed. He didn't agree with Juliette-- Far from it-- But people did not often stand up to the hailstorm that was his elder sister.

"Are you honestly going to sit there and legitimize a human rights violation that put one out of every twenty townie men in Pleasantview in jail for no real reason?" Donna was fuming. Her cheeks were nearly the color of her hair. Jorge supposed that she was inches away from wringing Juliette's neck.

"Townsmen do not have rights. They have privileges that are granted to them as the residents deem fit. In Veronaville, we find it increasingly necessary to cut back on what the townsmen are allowed. We have handled them with far too much care in recent decades and it is beginning to backfire. They are getting organized and staging demonstrations. You mark my words, they'll be bombing Hidelton Square before too long." Sean cleared his throat.

"Demonstrations are for students and anarchists. Not hardworking townsmen. It's unheard of," he griped.

"I hope they burn Amhurst to the ground." Donna took a swig of her wine. Juliette pursed her lips in anger but instead of furthering the argument, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap, turning to Jorge.

"Well, I certainly didn't stop to talk about wineries and politics. How is your son doing, Cricket?" Her tone was falsely cheerful. Jorge sat his glass on the table.

"Sons and they are both doing well. Thank you for asking." Juliette looked as though she tasted something sour. Perhaps she was remembering that Kelly was townie-born. Or perhaps she had heard that Jorge was sleeping with his governess. Or perhaps both.

"Your mother is positively beside herself over your little Malcolm. He's a partling. He aught to be doing his upper school studies at Ethelden," Juliette said. Jorge smiled at her just slightly.

"Macaulay needs the duel influence of the Temple and my sainted mother like the townsmen need their privileges revoked."

Donna caught her brother's stare. She squared her shoulders and tipped her head back, building a defensive wall with her posture.

"Maybe you should ask your son what he wants," she said. Jorge knitted his brow in confusion. If the world was on fire, Donna would have saved a stranger before she saved their mother and yet there she was, suggesting that maybe Cully should be sent home to live with her. Worse-- That maybe he wanted to be sent home to live with her.

"Macaulay is a child. He isn't allowed to have an opinion."

Donna shrugged her shoulders as though she did not agree but would not belabor the point.

"Veronaville has nothing to offer him." Jorge spoke more to satisfy himself than his sister. Donna leaned back in her chair and uncrossed her legs.

"Perhaps you're right," Donna said. She then turned to Juliette. "And when did say that the Tellerman family would be breaking ground?" Jorge's stomach writhed. Was he denying Cully the only opportunity that he would have to escape Jorge's personal ghosts? Juliette folded the fabric of her dress in her lap, curling it around her fingers.

"This spring," she said simply. Donna rose her glass in a toast.

"To their harvest," she said.

Chapter 67: Troy Walks A Road Paved With Pedestrians

2010-01-20T20:11:00.008-05:00

Tues, December 1, 2074 4:02 am- Caliente Manor; Middlebourne, Pleasantview

When Troy was in his late teens, his mother signed him up for figure drawing courses in a somewhat misguided attempt to foster his development as a well-rounded individual. Although he had initially been resistant to the idea, he soon found an appreciation for the organized system that was the human anatomy. The average person is seven heads tall. In one point perspective, the eyes are located half way down the head. The tip of the nose is half way between the eyes and the chin. The opening of the mouth, half way between the nose and the chin. The eyes are separated by the space of one eye. The corners of the mouth line up directly with the centers of the pupils. Troy could drop a line, bisect a torso and plot its symmetry.

One evening as he was packing his toolbox, his instructor pulled him aside. You've an excellent grasp of the mechanics of drawing, Mr. Tellerman she said. Your compositions are dynamic. Your line quality is superb. Your sense of scale and proportion, meticulous. But I am afraid that your work is almost clinical in its objectivity. You see an arm and indeed, you draw an arm.

Thirty years later, Troy still scrutinized everything from a standpoint that was "clinical in its objectivity" but was only just now starting to understand the formulaic sterility that it produced. Was he really so tedious as to arrange his ties by color and stick to a skin care regimen and monitor his calorie intake and filter the water that he bathed in? Was he really so hardwired to evaluate himself by what he owned that when considering the blandness of his lifestyle, his consumer habits were first to come to mind? Or is asking that question too self-aware? Is it a bad thing to be self-aware? Is that how he got to this point? Is self-awareness a road paved with pedestrians?

Siren curled her knees up to her chest and exhaled audibly. Troy rubbed her back with the flat of his hand the way he had when she was a little girl, so terrified of the dark that she would hiccup herself to sleep. Nowadays, it was Troy who lay awake.

When he could sleep, he no longer dreamed. It was what he imagined death to be like-- Just a perfect and empty state of not being. What was cleaner, more organized, more symmetrical and unified than that? And yet, for a man with absolutely no imagination or intuition, he desperately missed dreaming. In his dreams, nothing had a predictable statistical outcome. His dreams were absurd and contradictory and farcical and ugly. And yet, they were all the more concrete for it.

Reality was artifice. Reality was a finite thing that could be measured by the depth of his wallet and the length of cock. That was reality. His dreams had no respect for size or dimension.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He did have his wife. He did have the kids. He collapsed down onto his back and Siren nuzzled up to his neck. She kissed him lightly where his jaw line and his throat met. Unlike everything else in Troy’s life, there wasn't an ornamental or frivolous thing about her. And he yet he still treated her with less care than he did his fucking suits.

Chapter 66: Wynslow Doesn't Have The Answers

2010-01-17T18:09:00.011-05:00

Mon, November 30, 2074 10:41 pm: 1 Laurel Drive; Edgewater, Riverblossom Hills

Wyn didn’t suppose they made them like this anymore. The fae closest to him was pale beyond the point of translucency. His gaze darted around the parameter of Wyn’s front porch and when their eyes locked, he exuded a severity that could kill flies in mid air. The last time that Wyn came into contact with a fae like this one, he had been a boy of sixteen or so. It had not been a pleasant meeting. Since then, Wyn simply assumed that they’d all been out bred.

Standing beside the peculiar fae was an older, far more innocuous one. But what concerned Wyn more than either of these was the squadron hidden atop his roof and in the underbrush and crouching ever so silently by the back door. They gave off no scent that a vampire could recognize but they were there, waiting with the patience of spiders.

Plan A was to give them whatever they wanted. Plan B was to give Harriet a chance to run, at any cost. There was no Plan C as Wyn would have nothing left to give.

“Are you Wynslow Dietrich Stahl of 1 Laurel Drive, born Malik Karem Samad?” The pale one had a thunderous voice that felt somehow familiar. Wyn squinted his eyes in an attempt to get a better look at the young man.

“Wyn, who is that?” Wyn darted a furtive glance over his shoulder, in his daughter’s general direction.

“No concern of yours, that’s who. Go back to bed, Harriet.” Wyn didn’t hear her move. Damn fool kid. He turned his attention to the older fae, whose preternatural eyes shone in the dark.

“What can I do you boys for?” he asked. The pale fae lifted his head like a buck displaying his crown of prongs.

“Agents Hyperion Tvaud and Pandarus Wexler of the Royal Department of Investigations. We are researching the whereabouts of several vampiric individuals suspected to have forged an attack on a fae.” Wyn licked his lips thoughtfully. Tvaud. The name didn’t ring a bell.

“Well gents, you can go research some place else because I’m so old, just the thought of doing that turns my stomach.” Hyperion placed a hand on the doorframe. Wyn straightened his posture threateningly. If the fae tried to muscle his way in then there was nothing that Wyn could do. But that didn’t stop him from bluffing. They glared at one another until Agent Wexler clasped Hyperion’s shoulder, diffusing the other man’s ponderously short temper.

“You are not under investigation, Mr. Stahl. We merely have a few questions,” Agent Wexler said. His voice was thickly accented. Something about the way he moved and spoke told Wyn that he was well-born amongst faes. “May we come in?” Wyn nearly balked at the question.

“I have a kid,” he hastened. It was a stupid thing to say but it was his best defense. Agent Wexler nodded, his face a mask of calm.

“We know. And we promise not to keep her up for long.” Wyn gazed between the two men. Harriet was not his daughter biologically or even legally and he supposed that they knew it. The RDI did not just show up on a person’s doorstep without having done their homework. Wyn spent more than a few nights awake in bed with premonitions of an event just like this. They couldn’t take his little girl away. They couldn’t. Wyn closed his eyes and exhaled.

“We require your full cooperation, Mr. Stahl,” Hyperion said, breaking Wyn from his reverie. A lock of his long black hair fell forward and Wyn caught sight of his ear. It was tiny and blunt for a fae, tellingly so. The agent was a partling. While Wyn's curiosity about Hyperion's pedigree didn't quite outweigh his trepidation, he still moved away from the door. Plan A was to tell them whatever they wanted to hear.

“You ain’t really going to let them men in here at this hour?” Harriet sucked her teeth before speaking. Wyn walked over to the table, not pausing in his stride as he moved past her.

“Keep your mouth shut. Don’t make eye contact. And stay behind me.” he hissed. Harriet raised her eyebrows in questioning.

They had been over dozens of emergency scenarios since she had come to live with him. Given their seclusion, his condition and the possibility of an unwelcome visit from her lunatic uncle, the precautions had been necessary.

"They police?" she mouthed. Wyn shook his head. From the look on his face, she could probably tell that this situation was a code orange. From the look on her face, he could see that she put too much faith in his ability to shelter them both from harm.

Hyperion took a seat directly across from Wyn. The guns belted at his side clamored against the wooden chair, announcing their presence to Harriet. Wyn watched her eyes falling nervously from Agent Wexler’s face to his hips. He wanted to reassure her that the guns were a good sign. An RDI agent without a gun was an RDI agent who didn't need a gun. Wexler perched on the edge of Wyn’s bed and Harriet moved as close to the wall behind Wyn as she dared.

“Our primary suspect,” Hyperion began. “Is kindred to you under Cade Muenda. That is why we are here.” He waved a hand over the surface of the table and a large grouping of Polaroid photographs manifested. Many of them were taken from afar on various high traffic sidewalks in Veronaville. Wyn picked one up at random and swallowed hard to keep the shock from registering on his face.

“The name is Jareth Alexei Garrison. Physical age, twenty-one. Height, six feet. Hair color, blond. Natural eye color, copper. Caste, townsman. Birthplace, Pleasantview. Do you recognize the suspect, Mr. Stahl?” Wyn’s mouth had gone dry. He peeled his stare away from the photograph with considerable effort. Yes, he recognized the suspect. And he didn’t know which would be the lesser evil to give in to; Cade Muenda or the RDI.

If any harm came to Cade’s prize poodle because of information that Wyn leaked, Harriet’s life would be forfeit. Perhaps Wyn’s wife and two sons as well. He weighed his words carefully.

“We’ve met, yeah,” he said. “Only once though. And it was twenty some odd years ago.”

“What were the circumstances of your meeting?” Agent Wexler piped in. Wyn picked up another photograph, rubbing his unshaven chin in thought. That was Alexei, alright. Boy always was stupid as hell.

“He came and stayed here for three days on his way to Veronaville. Had two human women with him and another vampire. They found me through Cade. Needed somewhere off the beaten path to stay. Don’t know why. Didn’t ask.”

Wyn tossed the photo back onto the table. Wexler leaned forward on the edge of the bed and opened his palms like a magician revealing which hand the coin was truly in.

"Did you notice anything unusual about Mr. Garrison at the time of your meeting?" Wexler said. Wyn snorted involuntarily. Unusual was a polite way of putting it.

"He was a little bit of a weirdo, yeah. Sorta 'I'm ok, you're ok' if you get my drift. Used to wake up at the crack of dawn and feed the local deer population out of his hand. First day he was here, he taught my three-hundred-year-old wife to Jitterbug. The last day he was here, he spoke only in rhyme. Seemed harmless enough though."

Hyperion moistened his lips.

"What Agent Wexler means to ask is whether you noticed the suspect participating in any magical activity," he said. Wyn shook his head, on the brink of laughter.

"No. If he had magic, I'd have noticed. He was real clumsy, see? Tripping over his shoe laces and dropping shit constantly. I think he'd have saved himself the embarrassment once or twice."

Hyperion breathed hard through his nose. It wasn't difficult to read the frustration in his pea-green eyes. How could a vampire with no magical energy successfully attack a fae? And Alexei Garrison of all people! Boy couldn't fight his way out of a plastic bag. Wyn didn't have the answers. Wyn didn't fucking care. These men were making his daughter uncomfortable and placing him in a rather precarious position with his sire. He wanted them gone as soon as possible. Plan B was to tell them whatever would get them out of his house the fastest.

"Vampire he was with might have been unusual in that way though," Wyn offered. Hyperion gave Wexler a sideways glance and Wyn plowed on. "I didn't see him do nothing magic but his accent was Ashkay and his eyes glowed in low light like a fae."

"What did he look like?" Wexler asked. Wyn scratched his head casually. They were taking the bait. If Wyn could give them just enough information to make them think that Alexei Garrison was in with the Sheut, it would at least stall the investigation. Faes feared the Sheut more than Wyn feared Cade. Rightfully so.

"I don't know. Kinda short. Five nine, five ten. Fair. Very fair. Dark hair shaved almost to the scalp. Silver eyes." The agents stood simultaneously.

Hyperion seemed to look at Wexler for reassurance but Wexler didn't break his stare with Wyn. He stood, pondering the pair's next move.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Stahl," Wexler said with a cordial bow of his head. Wyn bowed back. The photographs on the kitchen table evaporated into the air, leaving behind a thin and odorless vapor.

Hyperion reached behind him and grabbed the doorknob, still facing forward as though he wasn't entirely sure of whether or not they were really leaving.

"We'll let ourselves out, " he said. Wyn nodded silently. He thought to ask them to warn their friends on the roof about the loose drain pipe but decided it was best not to hedge the conversation. After they had gone, Harriet walked over to the table and picked up the tray of cheese to be put away for the night.

"You talk too damn much, Wyn," she scolded.

"I know what I'm doing," he mumbled, as unsure of himself as he had ever been. Harriet only shrugged her shoulders and glided across the floor, cheese and paring knife in hand.

Chapter 65: Kvornan Finds A Window Reopened

2009-12-09T23:41:00.007-05:00

Mon, November 30, 2074 8:42 pm- 88 Wilkins Ave.; Camden, Pleasantview

“Elise, could you get out here? Everything I touch turns to pornography!” Kvornan pressed the escape key hesitantly at first and then faster, more urgently. The advertisements glittered and multiplied, promising low monthly payments for services that Kvornan could not have read aloud without blushing. The fan in the machine picked up with a whir, blowing hot gusts of air across the dining room table. Startled, Kvornan pulled his hands away from the keyboard. “Elise?”

Ermengarde's stuffed giraffe peered at Kvornan from against the wall with its dark and polished eyes. He felt a sudden urge to tip the thing over.

"What are you looking at?" he spat.

“What are you moaning about?” Elise closed the hall door carefully behind her. Kvornan could feel her silently scolding him from across the room for shouting after eight o'clock. Her disapproval was enough to make his chest tighten. It was a foreign sensation that he did not have a name for and nonetheless, he was certain that he didn’t like it.

“I just want to check the weather,” he said, a defensive annoyance creeping into his voice. Again, he hit the escape button to no effect.

“Is it important?” she asked. Kvornan snickered at the absurdity of the question and the situation that prompted it.

“No, I just want to know.” He turned to look at her then.

Elise stood at the far end of the kitchen wearing the dress that he had purchased for her arrival to Veronaville. It was formal and billowing, though not quite what it should have been. She looked more like she was headed to a school dance than to meet with royalty but this was the best that Kvornan could do in a pinch. In any case, he had hidden the dress in the trunk of his car to keep Elise from doing exactly what she was doing-- Traipsing through the house without shoes so that her hem dragged across the soiled tiles and leaning her back against the filthy wall. He knew why she was wearing the dress and it wasn't just her childish vanity. She was making a point. Their connection was where his secrets went to die. Kvornan cleared his throat.

“You look nice. Now change into your pajamas and put that away before you ruin it,” he said flatly, hoping to seem unconcerned about the growing ease with which she was learning to read him. Elise rolled her eyes and began making her way towards him.

“I’m not a baby. I think I can keep a dress clean.”

“You are a baby and I know for a fact that you can’t keep a dress clean.” She stopped at the corner of the table. Kvornan stood up somewhat automatically at the approach of a woman. A little girl. A female personage, anyway.

“Please? Since it’s my birthday?” Elise whined. Kvornan shook his head resolutely.

“No.”

“Please?” Elise reached up to wrap her arms around his waist and he took a step back, rejecting her advance. Her lips turned down into a pout but Kvornan held his ground. If she knew that she could wrap him around her fingers, she would. The last thing that he wanted on his conscience was her growing up to be the sort of spoiled brat that he was. Additionally, he was a little hurt that she would use his affection for her against him, no matter how petty the dispute.

“Don’t try to wheedle me.” He spoke over his shoulder at her as he turned to walk off.

Kvornan dropped down onto the sofa, careful to avoid the spot where Arnaud had spilled fruit punch earlier that afternoon. He picked up the remote control and typed in a random pair of numbers, not knowing what channel was which. Behind him, Elise shuffled her feet like a whipped dog seeking forgiveness. Part of Kvornan wanted to yell at her for that, too.

A couple on the television strolled through the park, languishing in the autumn leaves and in one another. The name of a drug to cure male impotence appeared on the screen, followed by the warning, “not to be taken while pregnant or nursing”. Kvornan squinted, certain that he had read something incorrectly. Elise settled onto the sofa beside him. She swiped the remote from his hand and turned the television off. Kvornan leaned back and turned his gaze to the ceiling.

“Either you’ve gone selectively deaf or I’m losing touch with reality. Didn’t I just tell you to get ready for bed?” he said.

“Tell me a story first.” Elise tossed the remote on the floor and sidled up next to him. Kvornan exhaled through his nostrils.

“All this from someone who claims not to be a baby.” He tried to avoid looking at her. He was angry but his anger lacked a concrete source and all that was left for him was to wish that she would simply go away. Elise lifted her body up from the seat and wrapping her arms around his neck, plopped down into his lap. Her formidable mass of tangled red hair brushed his nose and lips.

Go to bed. Perhaps if he thought it forcefully enough, the command would permeate her consciousness, drowning out her own stodgy inner monologue.

“I know you don’t want to get rid of me this early, hem tarshna,” she said. Kvornan's muscles tensed reflexively. He replayed the sentence in his head, assuring himself that he had not misheard her. Two words, common enough in his language but so sacred to him personally that hearing them aloud caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. A cursory sweep of Elise’s thoughts told him that she did not know what the words meant, only that it was some kind of term of endearment. Hem tarshna. My longing. But also, my thirst. Kvornan had only ever used those words with one person and only during a few, intensely private moments. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the images from surfacing.

“What did you just call me? Elise?” Kvornan held back from grabbing her head and forcing her to look him in the eye. There was no way for the phrase to have accidentally crept into his thoughts. Elise must have actively sought it out, probing his memories for a particularly potent descriptor.

Kvornan brushed the hair from her face and gathered it at the base of her neck. He barricaded his thoughts from her behind a veil of gibberish, not wanting to alarm her by displaying the full extent of her trespass. Still, he did want her to know that she had set foot on hallowed ground and quickened the dead below.

Elise's eyes widened in realization. She grabbed Kvornan's waist and squeezed her apology into his flesh, hard enough to bruise. These were the same tiny hands that used to grab his collar in protest when he would stand up to go home. The same hands that woke him in the mornings by futilely searching for where he was ticklish. The same hands that had felt her mother's go slack while Kvornan himself tried to pretend that he couldn't feel her fear even from so far away.

“Tell me a story, Kvornan,” Elise whispered. And all at once, he understood. It was a plea for explanation. She wanted to know why she had access to the names that he called his lovers by. Why he had access to her dreams. Kvornan bit his lip and nodded compliantly. He knew exactly what he was going to say. He had preserved these words for her just as he should have recited them years ago, a time capsule of overdue confidences.

“In the beginning," he whispered. "There was nothing- An ever-expanding void, traveling outwards, filling spaces where no spaces had existed before. And the nothing was perfect and uniform and whole but as it expanded, it became increasingly polarized and eventually, it split."

“How can nothing split?” Elise giggled.

“Shah. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Of course. Please continue, Mother Goose.” Kvornan pinched her side through the slick taffeta of her gown and she squawked so marvelously that he was tempted to do it again.

“Anyway, as I was saying, the nothing split. And for the first time, it looked upon its self as a man might look into his own reflection. One side admired the beauty of the other, believing that there is true perfection only through diversity; through the delineation between self and other. The second side was of the opposite opinion. There is perfection only in unity and symmetry and oneness. The separation, he thought, made them imperfect. And so the sides, with their differing opinions, fought.

When the side for unity tried to recombine with the side for diversity, the side for diversity shed his skin, thereby making a Third. This Third was of the first two and when it opened its eyes unto its Fathers, there was light. And so the side for diversity was then called Creator.

Horrified, the side for unity grabbed onto the Third, hoping to recombine with it as well. But the Creator grabbed the Third by the other end and pulled to save it. And as the two pulled, the Third splintered into three and then five. The Third, though it was one, began to regard itself as many and each of the five were named.

Closest to the Creator was the Ren and he claimed the Creator as his lord, promising his soul. Beside the Ren was the Ka and he promised his existence unto his lord, the Creator. Beside the Ka was the Ib--”

“That’s me!” Elise bounced on Kvornan’s lap and he grabbed both her wrists with one hand, forcing her to settle.

“That’s you. And the Ib claimed no lord at all since he was equidistant from both. Then beside the Ib was the Sheut, who promised his service unto the side for unity. And beside the Sheut was the Ba who promised to give his body unto the side for unity.

And even as this went on, both sides continued to pull and the Third continued to splinter. Soon, there were many Ibs and Kas and Sheuts and Bas and Rens, all separate but all one. When the Creator saw that he and his reflection were of equal strength, he ordered the Ren to break a bit of his soul into many small pieces in order to distract the other side. And these pieces were not of the trinity and they scattered, claiming no lord but behaving as they would. The trinity termed the pieces ‘daemon’ and the side for unity devoured all that he could, earning him the title of Destroyer.

The Creator was pleased with this result as the Destroyer could not devour all of the daemons without letting go of his side of the Third so he then instructed the Ren to make many more, even smaller pieces for the Ka to imbue with an existence that would be unpalatable to the Destroyer. This was done and the resulting entities were animal energies.

Infuriated, the Destroyer ordered the Ba to trap the entities within his own flesh. But spurred by the Ka, the animals continued to multiply within their confines. And so the Destroyer ordered the Sheut to collect the trapped energies, releasing them from the Ka and returning them to the nothing.

Time passed. Things became more complex and sophisticated. And the Ib, weary of the conflict, offered to be an impartial mediator between the sides. They accepted the offer in lieu of everything falling into ruin. The war in heaven continues but the Ib works to steer the universe to a place where we will all be one but still separate. As his first order of business, the Ib suggested that the Third be given domain over the corporeal and incorporeal entities that had been created as a result of the war. And so, the Creator crowned the Third king, or Deus Rex.

Deus Rex, being many, grouped its self into sets of five, each set to rule for a time and then rest for eternity. But before ruling, each King would cast his body into the flesh of the Ba, assume the existance of the Ka and live upon the Earth in order to observe and assess until the Sheut comes to collect. And so that is what we are. You and I will be seated upon the throne of heaven someday with me at your right hand and you bossing me around for five hundred years.”

Elise nuzzled up to Kvornan, her breath warming his collar. She twined her fingers through his hair at the base of his neck while his preternatural sense of hearing tracked the slowed rhythm of her heartbeat. She was falling asleep in his arms. Kvornan tried with difficulty to suppress a smile.

"How does it feel to be thirteen?" he asked. Elise's arms relaxed against his side.

"I don't know. How does it feel to be... How old are you, again?" Kvornan brushed an eyelash from her cheek with his fingertips.

"I'm twenty-seven or will be on my next birthday, just as I was on my previous seventy-seven birthdays." He didn't know what made him say it. A long-barricaded window was opened, inviting him back to an empty bar and to a man who believed that there was more poetry on the pavement than in the stars.

"I'm not so good at math," Elise admitted, yawning. Kvornan hoisted her higher onto his shoulder, preparing to carry her to bed.

"You have me to do for you what you cannot," he said.

November 18, 2050 3:04 am: The Vertigo; Sleighton, Pleasantview

Kvornan no longer walked but drifted. His aimless and indifferent meanderings often transported him exactly nowhere; winding through feral alleys where only drainage water ever ventured. But tonight, drawn along by a feeling, he took an uncustomary turn down Lytton Hall Street.

The feeling grew stronger as he headed away from the heart of downtown and into the industrial slums of Sleighton. Here, chain link fences rattled out their malediction and hot bursts of steam wafted from the gutter like miniature clouds, inverting the ground and sky.

He stopped at the entrance to a filthy, unmarked building. The pungent aroma of liquor told him that this was a bar. The noise level told him that it was empty. His strong and vaguely familiar feeling urged him forward. He pushed open the door.

“We’re closed. We reopen tomorrow at seven.” Kvornan stopped dead at the entrance. The lighting was less than scant. Every surface was coated in a thick layer of grime and at the back of the room was an incongruously bright figure, diligently scrubbing the sink. His hair was ashen and tussled. Nearly unmistakable. Kvornan cleared his throat.

Alexei Garrison shot him a cursory glance over his shoulder, then turned off the water and made a complete about-face.

“Oh! I- Hello.” Kvornan took a few steps forward, not bothering to respond. The last time that they had seen one another, they were both covered head to toe in sludge. Alexei made a joke that Kvornan could not remember for the life of him but that had almost made him laugh at the time. In any case, it was enough to make Kvornan wish that they had met under different circumstances.

Alexei smiled weakly while Kvornan looked him over, ever vigilant in the presence of other vampires.

Alexei’s knees were grass-stained and there was quite a bit of dirt impacted on the bottoms of his shoes. He would have to make a rather lengthy trek to get to the nearest patch of grass from Sleighton. Perhaps he played a sport. Kvornan spied something sticking out of his pocket. Magenta paper, wax-coated. Staring at it, Kvornan’s mouth tasted of corn syrup and food dye. Candy. The other pocket contained something metal and jagged. A ring of keys. Behind it was a slip of carbon paper. Kvornan focused and in his mind, he read the words, PARKING INFRACTION NOTICE: The below listed vehicle… He declined to read any further. In Alexei’s back pocket, Kvornan observed a prophylactic, used, tied off and tucked back into the foil.

“You are very easily the last person in the world I would have expected to see tonight. Here, have a seat.” Alexei pulled a barstool. Kvornan eyed it suspiciously before opting to sit down. He scanned the room, turning his attention to the dead flies and flickering overhead light.

“You work here?” Kvornan asked, running his fingers along the splintering wood of the bar’s ledge. Alexei smiled.

“Yep. Here, the dairy plant, the gasworks, June’s Bakery on Fifth. I suffer from an acute case of idle hands syndrome. Randall, isn’t it?” Kvornan shook his head in response.

“Call me Vince,” he instructed.

“Vince it is. So what brings you to this vermin-infested hole in the wall?”

“Just you.”

He was uncertain about the amount of interest that he had in the conversation but something was holding him there, forcing his plain honesty. He watched as Alexei propped his elbow on the bar and tilted his head into his hand to scratch, his body forming a triangle with the surface of the bar. From what Kvornan could tell, there was a little bit of the shameless and the eccentric in everything that this man did.

While Kvornan pondered the sort of person who would bring his head to his hand rather than bringing his hand to his head, Alexei scooted his stool closer to Kvornan, who raised an eyebrow at the strangeness of the gesture.

"Do you... Care to build upon that thought?" Alexei asked. Kvornan blinked, having momentarily forgotten the thrust of the conversation.

"I was out walking. I sensed someone familiar. I investigated. I found you," he said flatly. Alexei peered at Kvornan over his sunglasses.

"Uh hunh. I followed that story up right to the point where you were walking. And then?"

"I sensed you."

"Yes, that’s what I thought you said." Kvornan breathed heavily through his nose.

"You can smell different notes in the blood, can’t you? Genetic and spiritual information that's unique to the individual?" Alexei leaned away from Kvornan in surprise.

"Well yeah but not from a distance and through a door painted with urine, mate," he said, his tone hushed as though someone might overhear. Kvornan shrugged.

"I don’t require my sense of smell to know a person’s scent, as it were. I know it intuitively."

"That has to have its conveniences."

"Sometimes."

Alexei eyed him curiously, combing him over with his copper eyes before dropping his gaze in a very self-aware fashion. People only gave Kvornan that look under one set of circumstances.

"You know who I am," he said quietly. Alexei jerked his head up, startled.

He gaped momentarily before confessing, "I know who you were, if that’s what you mean." Kvornan cocked his head to the side.

"Does my being here make you uncomfortable?"

"No, not exceptionally. But I feel like I should warn you. You might not want to engrain yourself with too many of our kind. A lot of the others are pretty spooked by you." Kvornan choked, dangerously close to laughing.

"I think what interests me more than the information conveyed within that warning is the fact that you would feel the need to warn me," he said. Alexei smiled.

"Seemed like the right thing to do."

"Why?"

"Fellow feeling?" For a moment, the pair stared at one another, their confusion mirrored on the other one's face. For the life of him, Kvornan felt as though he were looking out of a window only to find someone else staring in at him. He shook his head rapidly, attempting to lose the possibility that a man could get to be a certain age and still believe in fellow feeling.

"I’m sorry- How old are you?" Kvornan asked. Alexei's eyes twinkled with mirth.

"How old am I?" he parroted, placing stress on the word old.

"It’s only that you seem a little… Naïve for one of us."

"I prefer to think of it as having the stamina for immortality. If I don’t let life kick my ass then it won’t. You might try it sometime."

"I don’t act according to philosophies. I act according to my will."

"Well can I offer your will a drink?"

"My will and I don’t drink."

"Of course you don’t. But to answer your question, I’m twenty-one. Or rather, I will be on my next birthday just as I was on my previous eighty birthdays."

Kvornan knitted his brow, trying to make sense of it. The candy. The four jobs. The purposefully saved condom. The eighty years spent pretending to still be twenty-one. But in the end, only a solitary conclusion could be drawn.

"You’re not like other people are you?" Kvornan said. Alexei laughed aloud at the question. To Kvornan, he sounded like a cartoon chipmunk.

"I don’t know," Alexei tittered. "What are other people like?"

Somehow during the course of the conversation, Alexei had drawn closer to Kvornan without him noticing. Kvornan drew his shoulders away from the other man, almost protectively.

"Not like you," he remarked.

Chapter 64: Phoenix Is A Peculiar Philosopher

2009-11-10T05:32:00.025-05:00

Mon November 30, 2074 1:33 pm- Lothario Hall, Rawling Hills, Pleasantview

Dina crossed and uncrossed her legs, her expression going increasingly sour. Phoenix tried to focus on something other than bristle of her skirt lining as it glided across her stockinged thighs, supposing that there was a special circle of hell reserved just for men who had the odd thought about women related to them by marriage. He cast his eyes to the ceiling. To the floor. To Troy’s polished loafers. At length, Dina broke her silence though it seemed to pain her to do so.

“You’re dreadfully tedious boys and I never liked either one of you,” she said.

Troy leaned forward on the sofa and Dina’s posture relaxed. It was extraordinary the way people responded to his every gesture as though lured in by bait on invisible wires. Not even Dina was immune to Troy’s mysterious powers of influence.

“I have here seated beside me the very honorable young man that you yourself have hired to advise you on your finances. He has combed through your personal income and expenditures, your portfolio of assets and even your company’s financial forecasts. He has provided you with his professional analysis of these documents and prescribed a budget that will keep your head above water. You are in trouble, Deen. And though it may be a bitter pill to swallow, I am strongly recommending that you take his advice.” Troy’s rapid speech was punctuated by a gentle click of his tongue, just as a machine might register a task with an auditory cue. Dina scoffed, plunking back into the chair.

“Are these billable hours, Mr. Caliente?” she sighed. Troy narrowed his eyes, poised for defense.

“Of course they aren't.”

“Then you’re not here as my solicitor. You’re here as my nephew. And as my nephew, I am disinclined to take your recommendation, however articulate," Dina drawled. Troy drummed his slender fingers on the armrest.

“I could of course send you a bill if that’s what it takes to make you see reason."

“Troy, don’t you have dress to lift?”

There was a knock at the door. Phoenix was grateful for the interruption, having long since learned to keep out of Dina and Troy's squabbles. Even now, the two of them made him feel as superfluous to their conversations as an intruding child. Dina turned to the door, exasperation etched into the creases between her brow.

"Come in!"

Dina's Townie maid kicked the rug from under the jamb with little ceremony and wiped her free hand on the wall to clean it of some unseen substance. She was a witless-looking creature with simultaneously deep and bulging eyes. Francesca drooled onto the breast of her apron, leaving little plumes of baby spit all over her front.

"Dr. and Mrs. Hadit Davenport here to see you, ma'am," the maid announced, patting the baby somewhat forcefully on the rear. Dina leapt from her seat, her expression transfigured from tart to delighted.

"Haddie!" An older fae man stepped into the room at the sound of his name. He clasped Dina's waist and kissed her on either cheek, mumbling Phoenix knew not what while Dina tilted her head up to listen. There was something uncanny about Dina prancing and giggling, her dour severity lost in a sea of smiles. Troy tapped Phoenix on the arm.

"We'll continue this conversation later," Troy said under his breath.

"How have you been, my girl? You are keeping well, yes?" Hadit trilled, stroking Dina's cheek.

"Oh absolutely not. This past month has been dreadful but I am happy to see you. This is my grandson, Phoenix Goth. He's Cassandra's eldest. And Troy you know," Dina said, guiding Hadit to where Phoenix sat with a gentle tug of his sleeve.

Phoenix offered his hand for the fae to shake and their palms clasped, Hadit said airily, "Your mother was the smartest woman I ever knew. Never do I have a problem but I think, 'Ah, Sandy would know how to fix it.'"

Phoenix's stomach lurched. Unnerved, he retracted his hand slowly, his stare fixed on the supernatural green of Hadit's eyes.

"I never knew my mother," he said.

"Please Haddie, have a seat. Can I offer you a drink?" Dina's face was so close that Phoenix half expected her to kiss him again. Hadit turned and pinched the tip of her nose, making Phoenix's skin prickle. To see a man look so fondly on Dina was to see Don's corpse exhumed and parading around like some kind of pointy-eared escape artist.

"First, I introduce you to my consort. She was behind me one second ago. Nephele! She must be playing with your little granddaughter." Dina hit Hadit playfully on the arm.

"You old rake! Why didn't you tell me that you married?"

"Well, it was sudden decision so I tell you now." The hard clacking of a pair of high heels turned everyone's attention to the door. Phoenix was not sure about what he expected to see emerging from the hallway just then but whatever he had expected, it was not this.

Hadit's wife was so beautiful that Phoenix scarcely knew how he would be able to think on anything else ever again. He traced the swell of her ample hips as she passed by. And though he could not claim to have had the inclination before, Phoenix's thoughts raced with the possibility of spending a few weeks on the shining riverbanks of Veronaville.

"I introduce to you my consort, Nephele Capp-Davenport. She is recent graduate of Royal Academy of Theological Sciences. Summa cum laude in cursu honorum." Dina cocked her head to the side, her gaze traveling ambivalently downward. Phoenix braced himself for one of her backhanded compliments or strained pleasantries. But instead, Dina merely extended her hand to the girl.

"Dina Goth-Lothario. It is a pleasure to meet you, Nephele. And what cursu honorum did you study in school?"

"Ontological Inquiry. Discourses into the nature of existence. It is nice to meet you also. Hadit speaks very highly of you."

"Yes, well Hadit likes his women conventionally pretty and frigid to the point of inertia."

Phoenix could not see her face from where he was seated but Nephele's tone did not betray the least offense when she responded, "Does he indeed, Mrs. Lothario?"

Troy stood at this point, discreetly pulling Phoenix's jacket while he did so. Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward and childish in the sway of his gangling body. Part of him wanted to mutter a few poorly constructed excuses and run from the room rather than having to converse with a woman so intimidating. But Nephele, in a flutter of hair and gold brocade, turned her attention directly past Phoenix. As if sensing the alpha male in the room, she extended her hand to Troy.

"Nephele Imine Kent Capp-Davenport. Et ihora?" Troy took her hand and kissed it.

"Troy Tellerman-Caliente. Tsu hem Ashkay non-ir shün mah."

Phoenix hadn't understood a word of it beyond the name but Dina evidently had. She rolled her eyes and droned, "Don't let him fool you. His Ashkay is fluent."

Nephele smiled prettily at him, tilting her head upward in a gesture that gave Phoenix the full view of her long neck. He wondered how accomplished, how witty, how handsome or rich or simply lucky a man would have to be for the opportunity to run his lips down the cool length of her throat.

"It is a pleasure, Mr. Caliente. We met with your brother earlier today. He was very charming."

"Not the word that I would use to describe J.L. but thank you just the same."

"Troy, if you're done cradling my guest's hand, I should like to introduce her to Phoenix so that we can all sit." Troy dropped Nephele's fingers as though they had been on fire.

"Of course. My apologies, Dina."

"Good. Phoenix Goth, Nephele Davenport. Hadit, if you would." Dina swept her skirt taut and gave Hadit her arm. Clasping her by the elbow, he helped her into her seat. Dina lowered her body slowly, age having made her brittle.

"There is nothing I would not do for such a pretty and inert girl."

"Be careful. I don't know what your wedding vows were but I'm liable to help you break them."

Watching her pull her hair from her neck, Phoenix briefly considered whether he should help Nephele into her chair. But the action would seem to imply something about feminine weakness and in any case, the moment passed while Phoenix pondered.

"So what brings you to Pleasantview? Vacationing amongst the salt of the earth?" Troy sat with his arm propped jauntily along the backrest. Hadit shook his head.

"Oh goodness, no. We're here on business." At the sound of Dina's second favorite word, her joyful little smile returned.

"Really? What sort of business?"

"Ethanol! I am thinking about expanding into the production of natural gases."

"And why would a conservative old codger like you want make ethanol of all things?"

"I do anything where I see simoleon signs. Riverblossom does not yet have the corner on this market."

"That's because the production costs outweigh the profits. No one buys alternative fuels in this part of the world," Dina said, waving her hand dismissively. Hadit leaned in towards her.

"They would if cars with flex-fuel engines were more... What is the word I want here? Ah, sportier. But I make a digression. This ethanol would mainly be for export to some smaller countries." Dina snorted in disbelief.

"I wish I had your balls," she said. Hadit's eyebrows rose.

"Why settle for the wishing?"

"I didn't mean that literally."

Hadit smiled wickedly as though his English were not the problem and Dina shook her head. Racked with unfortunate mental images, Phoenix involuntarily cleared his throat. Hadit turned and parted his mouth to speak but was cut-off before he began.

"In my culture, Mr. Caliente, a man does not stare at a woman so," Nephele scolded.

Phoenix shot a cursory glance in Troy's direction. He was blinking innocently and shifting his weight to correct a posture that had grown too relaxed.

"Is there a particular way that you would prefer me to stare at you?" His voice was placid but the midnight blue of his eyes threatened danger. It occurred to Phoenix that maybe he was missing something from this conversation.

"Not at all, if you would. I am a wife and a daughter. Maybe someday a mother. These are sacred offices, you understand. And as such, our men show a certain amount of deference. On what side of your family are you fae, Mr. Caliente?"

Phoenix's head snapped in Troy's direction. He had been acquainted with Troy from early childhood and never had this detail of his ancestry come up. Troy eased back into the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle.

"On my father's side. His great-great-grandfather was a Davenport, incidentally."

Nephele clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Well... Even so far removed, certain rudimentary practices should have been passed on to you. Did you at least receive magical instruction growing up?" Troy's eyes widened in derision.

"Oh absolutely not. My father could hardly be bothered to teach me softball, let alone whatever it is you people get up to," he said. Nephele knitted her brow and pressed her lips nearly into a pout.

"Well that is a shame. Your magic is your birthright, Mr. Caliente."

Phoenix thought to cut into the conversation here but could not imagine what he would say. Dina smirked in a sinister, Dina-like way and Phoenix could feel the sharp prongs of her personal amusement aching to lead the conversation into more treacherous territory.

"You have to understand, my dear. Troy is a skeptic and a heathen," Dina chimed. Troy shook his head.

"I think the word you're looking for, Dina, is atheist," he said.

"Oh?" Nephele's expression contorted into one of naive curiosity. Phoenix noted her eyes which were brightly colored but fully human in their construction. They drank Troy in with a wonderment usually reserved for children watching circus animals preform tricks. Troy smiled uncomfortably.

"And now Mrs. Davenport, it is my turn to ask you not to look at me that way," he said. Nephele did not break her stare.

"I've never met an atheist before," she said. Troy shrugged in response and Nephele plowed on. "Why are we here if there is no God?"

"It is an irrational jump to look at the world around you and assume that there is a why."

"Then how do you explain the fact that we exist at all?"

"Happenstance."

"Don't you find that to be an unsatisfying answer?"

"On the contrary. If I placed a tooth under my pillow tonight and found a simoleon there in the morning and you told me that a fairy who collects teeth left the money, that would be an unsatisfying answer. There is no knowledge to be had of fairies so your explanation is no information at all. On the other hand, if you told me that my wife took the tooth and switched it for the cash, that would be satisfying. Puzzling and a little intriguing but still satisfying. There is plenty of knowledge to be had about my wife and based upon that knowledge, I can deduce that it is possible though rather improbable that she would exchange my tooth with money. First we determine that a) a switch was made and that my wife exists, then b) that she made the switch. Only then can we c) ask why there was a switch at all. There are far too many assumptions being made when you start off with a why."

"And fae magic?"

"Psychokinetic abilities that result from a genetic mutation. Faes are evolutionary anomalies, Mrs. Davenport."

"And Proximus Deus?"

"Partlings like you and me, shrouded in myth and superstition."

"Troy, this conversation is getting to be rather inflammatory and insulting," Dina interjected. There was something about the look on her face that told Phoenix she was more entertained than insulted. Nephele shook her head, never daring to glance away from Troy.

"I'm not insulted. I find you interesting as a specimen and symptomatic of our increasingly secular society but I think that my faith would have to be shaken on some basic level for me to feel insulted." Troy gave her a stiff smirk.

"That was never my goal, Mrs. Davenport. Only telling you what I know and only because you asked."

Phoenix, who had all the while felt like an outside observer to the proceedings, must have done something to draw attention to himself because Nephele turned her entire body towards him, clasping her hands in her lap.

"And what do you think, Mr. Goth, as a human brought up to lead a purely secular existence?"

Phoenix almost choked. In all of his twenty-one years, never had anyone asked him such a question.

"Well I- I'm an accountant, Mrs. Davenport. All I know is numbers. I- Well I did have religious studies in school but I was about a straight C student so I can't claim to know anything about anything. I sort of vaguely remember being taught something about simultaneity and infinity that made perfect sense to me at the time and seemed to explain things but I really don't know. Now I just tell my kids that if infinity is a mathematical certitude, then we have to accept that every ascertainable truth is true for all values of 'true', that every possible occurrence will happen once."

"So if there is a God, there both wasn't and won't be?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends on how you define possibility." Nephele inclined her head towards him.

"Being an accountant makes you an peculiar sort of philosopher, Mr. Goth."

Phoenix opened his mouth and closed it again, finding only more of nothing to say.

"I have been called worse, Mrs. Davenport."

Chapter 63: Alexei Is A Vessel Of Brass

2009-09-30T23:26:00.006-04:00

WARNING: Nudity. Not safe for work! Mmm k, bye.

Mon November 30, 2074 10:15 am- The Orinda Suites: Leinster, Veronaville

There was a knock at the door. Alexei shielded his eyes from the sun with the crook of his arm and bemoaned the nuisance of morning. Light seeped through his eyelids, illuminating the vascular beds therein. For a time, his world was scarlet and empty, haloed with gold.

“Housekeeping!” Alexei propped himself up onto his elbows. The slight change in elevation sent his head reeling. Outside the door, he could hear the maid fidgeting with her pockets. Faced with his own helplessness against the maid's impending entry, Alexei was struck with a sudden nostalgia for traditional locks and keys. Those he could manipulate from a distance, threading his consciousness through the cylinder, tripping the latch by force of will. But much to Alexei’s increasing dismay, he knew nothing of key cards and magnetic strips. Technology was finally beginning to out-pace his learning curve. The maid passed her card through the reader and began punching a code into the number pad.

“Open that door and I will shove those fresh towels so far up your ass that your grandchildren will choke on the lint!” he shouted. His Ashkay was rough, degraded from lack of use but he seemed to have gotten his point across. There was no release of the mechanism, no turn of the doorknob.

"Sorry!" she replied in English.

Alexei settled back onto the pillow. His sallow hair was slick with sweat and from the scent of it, not only his own. He didn't remember fucking anyone the night before nor any activity beyond his sunset stroll along the wharf, pitching the bread from his corn dog into the sea. But by the shrill ringing in his ears, he knew that he had been with more than an ordinary human that night and engaged in more than sex.

Alexei slung his legs over the edge of the bed. Standing, he rocked on the balls of his feet and stretched. When he was a boy, he imagined a past life as a heron and sometimes, he still elongated his limbs until his body took on the linear composition of a dart. He crouched down to the floor, lying on his back.

His hands beneath his head, he curled his torso to meet his legs. The first few crunches came with a fluid ease that slowed with each subsequent collapse of his stomach. When he inhaled, every electronic device in the room soundlessly flickered to life before extinguishing again. Alexei paused, flattening himself against the carpet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had lost control over the electric impulses in his field of energy. In fact, he was certain that it had never happened before. This was not a good sign. Still, he cupped the back of his head with his hands and reprised his crunches.

Alexei’s abilities were not ordinarily of the sort that ran over, seeping undirected into the physical world. The power that he had from Kvornan stirred within everything tangible and intangible. If Alexei’s magic was fluctuating then it was no longer of Kvornan. Not mostly. Alexei was more Fae than anything else by now.

But that was just postulation. Kvornan would probably tell him that his magic wasn’t the problem, only the brain that sent signals to his energy. It would be a joke but maybe there was some truth to it. The amount of time that he spent on imaginary conversations with Kvornan alone proved the point.

Alexei relaxed, breathing heavily through his nose. His eyes were irritated but he didn't dare rub them. Drunk on someone else's life force, he had forgotten to take out his contact lenses the night before. He pushed himself to his feet and sauntered over to the window.

The glass stung his palms with cold. Wind whipped through the conifers on the hillside, bowing their spines just far enough for Alexei to catch sight of the sun.

Two weeks he'd spent in Veronaville. If he pieced together the disparate shards of his memory, the assemblage might have counted for five days worth of events. He really needed to put a bit of distance between himself and the people of this region. He was fostering a nasty habit with these Faes. The more he drank, the less he remembered.

Tonight. He would fly home tonight.

March 12, 2062 4:12 am- Arbormoor Forest, Arbormoor, Pleasantview

"Enough." Alexei shoved Kvornan slowly but firmly away, wincing in pain as Kvornan's teeth withdrew from his throat. Kvornan pulled Alexei's collar from the wound to keep his skin from grafting to the fabric while it healed. The water that sloshed about their ankles had either taken on a syrup-like viscosity or time was staggering. Only then did it occur to Alexei that he could no longer sense the cold or the wet or even the ground under his feet. Below the knees, there was nothing.

“We’re not done here.” Kvornan’s tone was soft and consolatory. Alexei flung him away.

“The hell we’re not. I can’t feel my legs,” he growled.

The world flashed by in monochrome, alternately black and red. Alexei tugged on his tie by the knot. Kvornan reached for his hand and Alexei jerked away, careful not to tip the precarious balance of his upright body.

"Your neck," Kvornan cautioned.

"It isn't so deep." As he said it, he foresaw himself peeling off his collar in the morning, skin and all. If it were any other injury inflicted by anyone else under any other circumstances, Alexei would not have been squeamish about re-opening the gash. It would not have even been a thought. But as it stood, the image both thrilled and revolted him.

His heartbeat was erratic. His stomach swelled and contracted. He did not know what the physiological effects signified, why he seemed to drift rather than stand.

Diving bell spiders fashioned jewel-like chambers of air on the stem of a reed. If a spider could evolve to breathe underwater then maybe necessity could bolster Alexei's feeble, human constitution to bear Kvornan.

Kvornan stepped in front of Alexei and forced him to meet his eyes.

Tiny flecks of light shimmered where Kvornan's pupils ought to have been. Alexei plotted the points in his mind, committing them to memory. In antiquity, man had seen gods in the constellations. Tonight, Alexei saw constellations in god.

"The solstice ends at sunrise. We have to finish," Kvornan whispered.

"No," Alexei said simply. Kvornan grabbed Alexei at the waist, perhaps to help support his weight, perhaps to keep him from trying to run.

"You might not survive if we stop now."

"Well here's hoping."

"This is serious, Alec."

"I'm being serious."

For a time, they merely stared at one another, each silently prodding the other one to break. Opting to expedite matters, Kvornan swept Alexei's legs out from under him with one fell kick. When Alexei's knees buckled, Kvornan caught him, forcing his head back.

Perhaps he was only addled but Alexei could have sworn that he felt the full force of Kvornan's intent as though his thoughts were Alexei's own. An agonizing pressure mounted at his temples. Alexei was not built to accommodate the divinity that ripped through his energy, moving like a school of free radicals striking the thin layer where Alexei ended and everything else began. His soul chimed like a vessel of brass.

Alexei grimaced, struggling in Kvornan's arms to no effect. He laughed dryly at the futility of fighting and at Kvornan's apparent determination to hurt him.

"I thought this was a democracy," Alexei rasped.

"You are not in a position to be making any life-altering decisions right now."

"Oh fuck you. You don't know what this feels like."

Kvornan placed a hand over Alexei's eyes and his body went limp. Alexei's chest warmed pleasantly. His mind eased nearly to the point of sleep. He felt Kvornan's lips against his throat but it all seemed so far away.

"What are you doing?" Alexei's voice was groggy with weariness. He could hear it as though it were coming from somewhere outside of the cave.

"We have to finish the cycle. Do you think you can do that?" Kvornan lifted his hand from Alexei's eyes. The sudden calm took root and blossomed independent of Kvornan's touch. It scattered new growth over the belly of Alexei's scorched landscape. When Alexei opened his eyes, he found Kvornan bearing down on him, black and red and unspeakably beautiful.

He took hold of the back of Kvornan's neck and stood on unsteady legs. All perception of urgency lost, Alexei discovered that he actually wanted Kvornan. His was the scent of summer rain, deep earth and dawn. It was all that Alexei needed-- His inlet to new life. Alexei nodded, pulling Kvornan closer. He hesitated before planting his fangs into Kvornan's throat but afterwards, there was only relief.

Chapter 62: Kvornan Wonders What Rituals

2009-09-22T20:52:00.009-04:00

Mon November 30, 2074 10:15 am- 88 Wilkins Ave., Camden, Pleasantview

March 13, 2062 8:23 am- 9234 Grant St., Millhaven, Pleasantview

Kvornan wiped his fingers down the length of his face, mopping away the remnants of his shower. He felt transformed, awakened and yet for the life of him, he wanted his misery back. The harsh familiarity of it was missing and had been for some time. He was only just discovering his loss.

He wished too that he could feel guilty for Alexei, who lay listless in the next room. Alexei had spent the previous night vomiting and shivering while Kvornan sat at the foot of his bed composing an endless strand assurances and oaths that would come to nothing. We’ve made the right decision. It’s all for the best. If we could trade places, I would do it. Never again, I swear.

Kvornan inspected his palms. They stung scarlet with heat. He marveled at the normalcy of it. The blood that pressed against the surface of his skin was nearly alien to him and yet it looked no different, felt no different. Held beneath scalding water, his hands still burned. And he along with them.

He was a liar. The life the coursed through him was gotten under false pretenses. He told Alexei that it was for Elise’s protection—that once Kvornan was dead and gone she would need Alexei to help her suffer through the separation. This was only partially true. Alexei’s unique brand of innocence and vivacity in the face of hardship might go a long way towards healing Elise’s grief but the exchange of blood had not been a prerequisite to that effect. In all likelihood, Elise would not cling to Alexei for his newly acquired metaphysical resemblance to Kvornan. It just didn’t work that way. She needed Kvornan, not someone who sort of resembled him.

Kvornan should have felt unspeakable but he didn’t. He had incited the dearest person in the world to him to do something that was both sacred and profane. He had used Elise’s name to do it. But if Alexei had known the real reason, he might never have agreed or hesitated too long in his acceptance. It was a decision that should have taken at least a decade to make considering the risks, the changes, the eternal ramifications. But he hadn’t told Alexei about too many of those. You’ll have magic, he said. And you’ll feel the lack of me when I’m not around for more than a day or two. Nothing more.

Kvornan made a choice on his own, one that they should have made together. His will was perfect and infallible. Alexei’s was not. He had a right to lie. He had a right to act on any impulse and this was ever so much more than an impulse. He felt its necessity from the surface of his skin to the marrow in his bones. By mixing their energies, Kvornan had ensured that they would not be separated by death as they would have been otherwise. In eternity they would be twins, attached at the soul.

Kvornan heard the rustling of bed sheets in the next room. Alexei’s sleep was still fitful but he would eventually mend. Kvornan had.

He ran his fingers through his hair. It had almost reached his ears now. When his father died, his mother cut her hair to the scalp. Kvornan did not know much about the rituals of women but his mother had explained hair rending to him this way: When we have nothing left but our bodies, we shed those too. He plucked her sentiment from the air and anchored it to his own image with every swipe of the razor. He wondered what rituals women had for rebirth.

Kvornan reached for the scissors but his hand was caught. He pulled away, alarmed. Alexei was awake. He had slipped into the bathroom without Kvornan noticing and for that, Kvornan warmed with pride. They were each of them still themselves but marbled with bits of one another. Alexei's energy vibrated at the frequency of everything in the room from the mirror, to the sink, to Kvornan's own heart.

"Let it grow." Alexei's voice was gentle but it rasped, betraying a throat that had been cut to ribbons by vomiting. Kvornan allowed his hands to slide away from the utensils on the basin.

"Why?" he said. Really, he aught to have been asking himself that question. Why did he still perform a gesture that had lost its meaning for him? He hadn't forgotten the past. Far from it. But he was happy. Alexei patted Kvornan's cheek with a freezing cold hand.

"Because I asked you to, hm?"

With that, he walked away. Kvornan wondered at Alexei's pallor and frigidity.

"Are you feeling okay?" Kvornan shouted. There was no response. Alexei was already gone.

Chapter 61: Selket Tears The Fabric

2009-09-13T19:23:00.004-04:00

Sun, November 29, 2074 7:37 pm- Ethelden Palace- Amhurst, Veronaville

Selket learned to navigate passages by tracing handprints along the wall, heeding individual currents of breath, listening for expired voices. The narrow halls that lead to Ahriman's study were heavily trafficked by Magi and students. All Selket needed was to follow the displaced pebbles at her feet. The names of each passing visitor were etched into the dust. With her eyes shut tight, there was no place that she could not find by trailing after those who had been before her.

But tonight, Selket was seeking out one former presence in particular and most exceptionally, she came up with nothing. There was not a whisper of the palace Subaltern. The sickly young woman kept close enough counsel with the Sheut to know what sorts of magic existed in the world. And for that reason she touched nothing, breathed little, faded into obscurity as needed. That had been Selket's first clue. If Imina Brylowe left a scarf in this study, then she meant to leave a scarf.

"Peace be with you, Mistress Redding." Selket opened her eyes. The room was bathed in light, sweetened by a pale smoke. Sand hissed as it slipped through the neck of an hourglass. Ahriman inclined his head towards her. "This is rather unexpected," he said placidly.

"But welcome, I hope." As she spoke, her voice trailed. Slowly, she looked to her left, feeling as though she were being watched.

The atmosphere was so congested with energy that Selket had not initially noticed Magus Rodin seated at the far end of the room. His copper eyes openly traced the contours of her body, appraising her as he might have done to a rooster before a cock fight. Selket turned her head away from him, pretending to take interest in the objects littered throughout the room. Rodin should have been divested weeks ago. But Selket rarely argued with Ahriman's judgement, even when she thought it to be impolitic.

"May I offer you a seat?" Ahriman asked. His voice was soft. His eyes, serene. Selket fidgeted, briefly torn between what she wanted and what she ought.

"Thank you but might we speak in private?" she said, passing a glance over her shoulder at Rodin. The Magus threw back his head and addressed Ahriman alone.

"Magister Templi, I don't think it terribly appropriate to let a woman-"

"Please," Ahriman interrupted, making a swooping gesture towards the door. Magus Rodin paused before gathering his satchel with a huff. As he exited the study, his robes brushed against Selket's shoulder. It was almost as though he meant to emphasize the bareness of her arms. But she knew that he wasn't quite so clever as that. Selket gathered her skirts and moved towards the desk.

"That boy is a hypocritical ass," she blurted, landing heavily on the cushion adjacent Ahriman. He raised his eyebrows only slightly.

"Selket..." he whispered. She leaned forward over the desk, pausing when Ahriman's posture stiffened. She had never known him to back away from anything as he did her proximity, curling in upon himself like a centipede. She clutched the edge of the desk, lowering her voice to a hiss.

"Why is he still here? You can't seriously intend to stuff him beneath your skirts and pray that the vampire Sheut doesn't reach him there," she chastised. Ahriman winced. If he were furious enough, the vampire would go through Ahriman to get to Rodin and not think twice.

"Well what would you have me do? Cast him to the wolves? He's my nephew." Selket waved her hands impatiently at the question.

"Send him to the colonies or something. Have him study at the monastery. Out of sight, out of mind."

"And if Imina chooses to go with him? We would be inviting the Sheut's anger. It's a risk, Selket. And a terrible one."

"So don't give her the choice!" The bookcases behind Ahriman quaked. In her annoyance, Selket had not meant to do that. She slumped low over the desk.

Hell rot Rodin Chi'en. If Ahriman wasn't careful, he would be hurt or worse-- scrutinized. And that was the last thing that either of them needed.

"Send him in secret. Send him while the vampire is away. Don't even give him time to pack. Just get him out. I know that you feel obligated to the boy but for the love of God, where are your limits? He's an idiot and a fornicator. He brought this upon himself. The fact that you did not simply dismiss him out of hand has people talking. If the vampire discovers that he is still a Magus, it will be an insult. Best case scenario would be that he lets Rodin alone but keeps a close eye on you. We walk a fine line, Magister Templi. And you bring too much attention to yourself by getting involved." Ahriman massaged his temples with his fingertips. To her, it seemed a sign of indecision. But she would press and press until his resolve gave way. She would not allow a fool like Rodin to bring down the greatest leader that the resistance had ever seen.

"I... Rodin cannot be replaced. None of the students are ready to be Magi. Most of them will never be ready. This problem is not a Gordian knot, Selket. We are, as they say, screwed," he murmured.

Selket knitted her brow, casting her eyes down into the grain of the wood beneath her hands. She was beginning to see the framework of God's great design, the extraordinary plexus of causal relations that snaked through eternity with gaping mouths seeking their own tails. Rodin was expendable because he needed to be.

"No," she said. "There is someone. He would need training but only a few months' worth. I think he would take Rodin's mantel if you offered it. But you will want to meet with him regardless. He is... exceptional. His name is Jack Dalton. He's a teenaged numbers runner for Addison London. I met with him. He has a field of magical energy that borders on divine. And he knows how to use it."Ahriman's face fell into disbelief.

"Come again?"

"I think he might be Orion Specter's son."

A palpable silence blanketed the room. Ahriman's usual sense of composure and decorum withered. Perhaps he thought that she had taken leave of her senses. Selket grabbed his hands.

"No matter what you think of me or what I've done-- No matter if you're stupid enough to keep Rodin Chi'en in your employ-- We need this boy on our side. He understands his magic intuitively. I've never seen anything like it. If we don't get to him first someone else will. Do you trust me?" Ahriman relaxed against the back of his chair. She had only ever asked that question of him once before and the answer had been yes then, even against all logic. Ahriman nodded.

"Rodin leaves tonight."

November 27, 2054 1:04 am- Vajra Maximum Security Penitentiary- Mantua, Veronaville

"Hello, Magus." The room shook to the timbre of the prisoner's greeting. Selket froze, taken aback by this manifestation of his vigor. She had expected to find him more than half dead, bloated and festering like some tempest-tossed corpse. But as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, it became glaring apparent that he was nothing of the sort.

Selket stepped forward tentatively, her face falling into shadow. It was remarkable, really. The man that she had seen on the floor of this cell two weeks prior had been just a stone's throw away from the grave. She was certain that no one had been attempting to correct the situation and yet there he sat, healthy and even relatively clean.

"I do wish you would pick up the phone and give me a ring before popping 'round like this. If I'd known that I was having guests, I might have stuffed a roast in the oven. Fancy a G and T? I'll go get the pinocle deck." Selket's English was not colloquial enough to have understood about a third of what Orion was saying and she suspected that he knew as much. She shook her head and exhaled.

"I've come to ask you a favor," she said in her language. The daemon smiled, almost expectantly.

"Ask away."

"Tell me the truth about your purpose here."

Orion rose to his full height, at once magnificent and monstrous. Selket reminded herself that what she asked was no small token. She did not know what his orders from Deus Rex were. She did however know that whatever the task, they had enlisted a creature who was quite literally the father of lies. The truth was guarded.

Orion walked towards her and she held her ground. Smirking lasciviously, he wrapped his fingers around the bars.

"What will you give me in return?"

"I have the ability to let you out. And if you care about your mission, you will answer me honestly."

"Sorry, love. I only trade like for like. If you want me to reveal a truth to you, I must receive a truth in return. Else I will discover naught."

"I have nothing to hide."

"Oh don't you?"

Selket bowed her head, understanding what he wanted-- A truth that was in proportion to her with what his truth was to him. Orion reached for her face and she pushed him away.

"Don't touch me," she snapped.

"I could go back to sleep, if you like."

"You're vile."

"Am I to take that as a yes?"

Orion pivoted slightly and Selket grabbed at his sleeve. Her hand trembled, more from the thought of what she would have to do than from the act of touching him. The former Magister Templi recognized her potential and ordered her face covered before she learned to walk. She herself was not entirely certain of what she looked like beneath the veil. Her mother tied it each morning, painted and masked her. Selket was only ever handed a mirror after the chore was complete.

"This game is starting to bore me, Magus." Orion tugged his sleeve from her grasp. Selket pressed her forehead against the bars.

"How can I trust you?" she whispered.

"You can't."

She pulled away from the bars and ran her palms over her head. In one fell swoop, the many pins and scarves that held her together packed themselves neatly into the interior pockets of her robe. The paint washed from her face. Her hair tumbled down in smooth sheets.

She could not trust Orion but if the safety of the Ib was truly at stake then her choices were few. She was prepared to let him go if only he told her what she wanted to hear. She was prepared to be either right or wrong in doing so. She was prepared to defend her actions. In a few moments, there would be no going back.

Orion looked her in the eyes, far more directly than he had done a moment before. He was trying to make her feel vulnerable and it was working. The focus of his energy shifted. She did not know what to make of it.

"I underestimated you, Magus. I didn't think that you would do that," he said.

"Our bargain?"

"I was sent to put events into motion that would lead to the destruction of a vampire who threatens the sanctity of the Ib."

"The Sheut of Proximus Deus, you mean?"

"Ah. Yes. That. Maybe," he chuckled, inclining his head to the side. Selket rolled her eyes. Evidently, her collateral was spent. She ran her hands up the flaking bars, searching for an opening. Ahriman's matrix of enchantments was daunting but if she knew him, which she did, then the structure would not be without its weak points.

"Stand back," she cautioned. Orion leaned away but otherwise did not budge.

"Such talent. And you tuck it away from prying eyes just as proficiently as you cover your pretty face. You have surpassed him in your abilities, you know. He fears this from you. He is not stupid."

Selket's nostrils flared but she did not allow the daemon to distract her from her work. The strength of the encasement on the jail cell alone proved Ahriman's competence. Selket's careful ability to slip between the sinews and tear its fabric from the inside proved her mastery.

"We have a lot in common you and I," Orion rasped. "We exist behind great barriers of mystery." The bars sparked visibly. Selket let go by reflex. She had made a misstep. She began again, running her palms over imperceptible locks.

"I am a Magus," she said, drawing a firm, distinguishing line between herself and the man behind the iron. He smirked in response.

"Yes. And 'in your heart is a secret knowledge and on your tongue, an encrypted word.' My sister wrote many of the tomes you study. I could recite them for you verbatim. But even on a more basic level-- We ask ourselves the same questions, do we not? Our magic is but a mediocre imitation of His genius. It then becomes a debate of authenticity-- genuine achievement versus clever posturing. And if what we do is the latter with no chance of achieving the former then we are liars by our very nature." Here he paused to take a wheezing breath. Selket could hear the phlegm dividing in his chest. The bars rattled as the encasement bent to her will. Selket pursed her lips.

"I have no interest in your sophistry."

"Just making small talk." The doors gave way with a heavy clank and Orion skipped backwards as the magical barrier shattered.

With one final push, the door swung inward. For a moment, they only stared at each other across a threshold of open air. Selket knew from Ahriman that the man Orion Specter had spent his entire life in cages. She wondered how much of that was hardwired into the mind of the daemon who now stood before her-- If he was so accustomed to boundaries that he would not attempt to transverse them even in their absence.

Selket stepped into the gateway, thinking that she would need to pull him from the cell but he charged directly for her.

She ran backwards for a few paces but he caught her, seizing her by the arms. Her stomach lurched when she realized that she was outmatched both physically and magically. He could lay her to waste right there.

"Now here's where the fun begins. You've just off-set a silent alarm. The guards will be here in less than three minutes. I am going to leave by way of the southwest passage and stow away on the 2:10 train to Kings Contrivance with a final destination of Millhaven, Pleasantview. You will know all of this but you will tell the officers under threat of torture that you sent me on the ferry to Kent. The coast guard will overtake the ferry. I will be halfway to Lanceshire. And you may want to get used to this whole bare-faced thing you have going on here because the Magister Templi is going to be pissed. Luckily though, it's a good look for you. Really brings out your eyes. And your nose. And your lips.

Where was I? Oh, right. Divestment. You'll be divested. Ahriman will tell everyone you're a fornicator since no one really knows that I'm here or what-all I am in any case and that will serve as his justification. He will feel comfortable in his lie because you're going to tell him that you came back to see me because you were fascinated by my very existence and when he senses little bits of my energy tangled up in yours, he's going to assume that you're a fornicator anyway. Then you're going to say that you let me out because it would have been cruel to let me die. Are you with me so far?"

Orion grabbed her waist with one hand and her wrist with the other. Her body involuntarily lurched to meet his. For an instant, she was swept into the folds of his life force, not lost but enveloped entirely. From this vantage point, she could see the entire anatomy of his soul. There was the smokeless flame and here were its crimson wings.

"This is my contribution but you don't get to keep it. It's unstable." With that, he delivered a jolt of energy so strong that she seized. White hot tendrils of electricity surged through her, wiping her mind clear of all thought.

Orion pulled her in close. As her sense of reality returned, she became very acutely aware of her own heartbeat and the fact that he was controlling it. He had dangled her at the cusp of death and was now reeling her back in. Even as her body stopped shaking and the pressure in her head equalized, her awareness broke away. Selket was an outside observer to everything that she might have previously deemed self. Her consciousness was a double-sided mirror. She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to free herself of sensations that went beyond the realm of normal human experience.

"I don't understand." She had not meant to say it aloud. Orion stroked her hair and whispered in her ear.

"You are not here for you have risen."

Chapter 60: Imina Is Less Than Nothing

2009-08-13T00:18:00.008-04:00

Sat November 28, 2074 7:04 pm- Ethe1den Palace, Amhurst, Veronaville

She dreamed of him so often now that she could see him with her waking eyes; a winged and hooded figure charging against the tide. Moonlight wove a jagged white line from the horizon to the shore, black and broken at the hem of his cloak. She could not tell what was real anymore--Whether he was truly there or whether it even mattered if he was.

Her lips stung with the salted air, born of oceans. Her labored pulse drummed out a barely detectable tattoo. She did not know how much longer she could stand to be pacified by phantoms.

It was always this way when he left. The silence relayed her physical exhaustion for miles like a satellite signaling him home. Real or imaginary, she would have been happier to never see him again. But the tiny spark of life that she still called her own pulled towards the life in him.

Absently, she ran her hands over her abdomen. What he thought about her was not her concern, nor had it ever been. Her obligation was the only object of consequence between them. The privation of her life force was secondary at best.

Ten years ago, after the Magister Templi requested that a young person to come forward to be a donor, she dreamed of her coal-black hair fading to chalk. She saw the swamps of Arbormoor blossoming with ripened grapes. She scented her own flesh burning at the center of an inferno. Her duty was clear. Her life was chosen to sustain him.

Standing, she staggered over to the balcony, close to collapsing against the marble balustrade. The cold seeped in through her dress, setting her skin alight. She leaned forward, almost perilously. Earth was an eternity away. Up here, she was much too close to God.

With quaking hands, she pulled a glass bead from the sleeve of her dress. It rested in her palm, anchored only by shadows. She looked on as the bead tumbled far from her reach. It glittered like a morning star until the darkness swallowed it whole. Maybe in twenty years, it would be found by a tall man with sable hair and mercurial eyes. Maybe he would keep it.

Tentatively, she touched the frayed ends of what was left of her hair, still unaccustomed to feeling the autumn creep against her neck. She had shorn her head the night before like a mourner at her own funeral. Tears surfaced in her eyes, deforming her view of the skyline.

Ten years. She was not meant to have survived his need for so long. No one ever had. He was her via dolorosa, her path of cinders. This way to awakening and to death as well.

Mon November 16, 2074 10:43 pm- Ethelden Palace, Amhurst, Veronaville
(Twelve Days Earlier)

"Close the door behind you." Imina's skin prickled with moisture and electricity. She shut the door with both hands, paying undue attention to the gilt pattern on its frame. Kvornan's paintbrush chimed against the inner wall of a jar. Without looking, Imina could see the gray morass of dissolved pigments swirling like the rapid flux of her nervousness. She had not seen him outside of temple in almost a week. And with each passing day, her energy whispered a new syllable of her secret. It would not be not long before Kvornan could assemble the syllables into words, phrases, entire stanzas of abject poetry.

"Do you plan on spending the night over there?" Kvornan reprimanded. Imina did not respond but stood firmly with her forehead pressed against the door, taking slow and even breaths.

"If I must come and collect you, you will regret it." There was laughter in his voice. It was a dangerous sign. Slowly, she turned away from the door. Imina had been practicing her defenses for days. But there was no use in taking careful aim at someone who consistently outdrew her.

"You called for me, Mahadeva?" she said quietly. Kvornan furrowed his brow in annoyance.

"Don't be so--" he paused in his speech after a few cursory glances in her direction. She did not know what had arrested him but she used the opportunity to draw closer, weighing each step in benefits and consequences. Her mind urged her to flee the conservatory with her life but her body knew no other master than this man. He blinked a few times before smiling brightly.

"If nothing else, I am going to miss the way you substitute beauty for confidence," he mused. Imina had not heard him beyond the word 'miss'. She stopped in mid-stride. For an instant, she had forgotten the very dire and unusual circumstances that had intensified her ordinarily formidable dread of him. Her life went where he went.

"I am leaving for a month or so. I thought that I would mention it to you first as it concerns you most," he said. This, Imina did not believe. Never before had he bothered to tell her when he was coming or going. He had ulterior motives. Imina clutched the front of his tutnic, hauling him forward. He was smiling at her. And no matter how long or how intimately they knew one another, she could not discern his benevolent smiles from his cruel ones.

"Is that all or am I needed?" she asked softly. His smirk lessened. Imina had a sense that she'd been lured into the eye of a storm.

"No, on both counts. I don't drink from pregnant women," he said. His tone was eerily calm, his expression blank as a snowdrift. Imina backed away from him, gaping. He knew.

"I- I'm not-" Kvornan took a step forward, filling the space between them. The front of his tunic brushed against her chest. She could feel the coarse ridges of the fabric through to her own skin. The simple heat of his body permeated hers. Imina clutched her waist protectively, her blood roaring in her head. Both of their destinies were forfeit by this. But it was done.

Kvornan leaned forward until their lips were touching. His breath ran cool across her face.

"One of your scarves was found in the Magister Templi's study. Would you care to explain that to me or am I to make my own inferences?"

"I am not your consort, Lord." The sensation that passed from his lips to hers heightened her adrenaline. Her lungs contracted. Ordinarily, he might have found humor in her audacity. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, considering her.

"Here is my dilemma," he began.

Kvornan grabbed her so quickly that she'd scarcely had time to register the gesture. Her head whipped backwards and she bit down hard on her tongue, drawing blood. With her arms pinned behind her, Imina arched like the curvature of the sky. He would snap her spine. Everything would end here.

"So long as you live, you are mine. And so long as you are mine, I will have no other. That was our pact. This child constitutes another and I may thus have neither you nor it. I don't know which Magus had enough impudence to give you a second glance but this man will lose his eyes and perhaps more depending upon my mood. Now how do you suggest that I solve the greater problem? I could induce a miscarriage but full Fae children are so extraordinarily rare these days that it really isn't an option."

Imina coughed, gasping for air. His proximity was becoming increasingly overwhelming. Her life force careened towards him, begging for release. Had her arms been free, she might have grabbed his head and forced his mouth against her throat. Imina grabbed the leg of the easel, stealing herself.

"You'll just have to kill me after it's born," she choked. Kvornan exhaled through his nose.

"Don't think that I wouldn't. You're nothing to me, you know. Less than nothing." Imina tilted her head until her stare met his. She did not know which one of them he was trying to convince.

"There is something else that you should know," she continued. Her body heat soared. Her vision waned. If he did not release her soon, she was certain to lose consciousness. Imina focused her thoughts. She may have been outdrawn but she was not yet outgunned. "I had a vision of the child when we were in temple the day after it was conceived. It's a boy with black hair, like mine used to be. And silver eyes. Like yours."

Kvornan let go. Imina coughed violently, spraying the blood from her tongue into her hands. When she straightened, she discovered that Kvornan was making no attempt to disguise his shock. It was as though the possibility had never occurred to him. And maybe it hadn't. He could be surprisingly thick at times. Imina shivered as her temperature equalized. The truth was so much more tangible now. It was written in the air between them.

"I slept with Magus Rodin to divert suspicion. I couldn't risk anyone coming to kill you knowing that your task is complete." Imina paused in her speech, studying his frown. Her best interpretation was worry but she would never know for sure.

"God," she scoffed. "The look on your face right now. This is all very ironic, isn't it? For years, everyone has been waiting for you to finish me off. And now it is I who will be the death of you."

Chapter 59: Vincent Matches Fire Against Water

2009-07-26T21:58:00.027-04:00

Fri November 27, 2074 8:02 pm- 88 Wilkins Ave. Camden, Pleasantview

The patio door opened, forming a tear of yellow light against the ashen shingles. Vince hurriedly shoved his broken lighter and unlit cigarette back into his pocket. He fully expected to see stray wisps of wild red hair pass through the door before the feet or even the face but the black sneaker that landed on the deck did not belong to his sister. Vince took the cigarette back out. His visitor was a man who carried his own fire like the churning belly of a volcano.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize that anyone was out here." Vince brushed a snowflake from his shoulder, shaking his head at the intrusion. Kvornan could come and go wherever he pleased as far as Vince was concerned. Any quarrels that he might have had with this man were forgotten the instant Ermengarde opened her eyes. "It just seemed to be a good place to hide. Ermengarde is playing her Patty Peppercorn tapes," Kvornan continued dully. Vince nodded his head up towards Kvornan.

"You got a light?" he asked. Kvornan shrugged in response.

"That depends. You got another cigarette?" Vince reached into his sweatshirt and produced the half-empty pack. He pulled one of them free and pointed the filter towards Kvornan, who hesitated before taking it. "Does your sister know you do this?" Kvornan asked.

"Are you kidding? She'd crucify me," Vince said. Kvornan shrugged, seemingly in agreement. Shoving the cigarette into his mouth, Kvornan rolled up his sleeve, baring his pale wrist. He cupped his left hand and a small flame sprang from the center of his palm.

Startled, Vince jumped back, watching the tiny flame dance in the wind, white gold and smokeless. He laughed uneasily. He could remember Kvornan doing things like that to amuse him when he was very little but now it was more frightening than fascinating. The chains on the swing set in the yard rattled, gruffly coerced by the breeze.

"That's pretty cool," Vince said, leaning forward to light his cigarette. He placed the filter to his lips and inhaled.

"If you think that's cool, you should see me grill a burger." Kvornan spoke around the cigarette dangling between his lips. His face reflected the light like lunar dust as the fire leapt from his hand. He opened his mouth to release a gossamer cloud of smoke. "I haven't done this since I was your age," he said, smirking at the cigarette in mild disbelief. Vince blew smoke through his nostrils.

"Why'd you stop?" he asked. Kvornan's gaze darted some place behind Vince's head but did not focus on anything in particular. He flicked his ashes onto the deck.

"Girlfriend got pregnant. Didn't want to smoke around her or the baby," Kvornan said stiffly. A brusque wind crept under Vince's collar, stinging the sensitive skin above his clavicle. He clutched his shoulder near the base of his neck.

"That sucks," Vince commiserated.

"Yeah, I thought so too at first. But then the kid transitioned from womb to room and well..." Kvornan rolled down his sleeve, falling silent. Vince hardly knew anything about this man's past other than what his mother told him before she died- And that was simply not to ask Kvornan about his past.

"Do yourself a favor," Kvornan continued. "If given the choice, don't sit on the shelf beyond your sell-by date." Vince laughed dryly.

"I'm fourteen and I smoke three packs a day. I don't think I'll have to worry about that."

"Likewise, don't let life make you so prematurely jaded. That'll kill you long before these things do."

Vince bit his lower lip and looked away. By this point, he'd been on the receiving end of innumerable lectures from teachers and guidance councillors, neighbors and social workers. An endless parade of grown-ups that had never lost anything of significance in the whole of their lives- Each one of them dead set on telling him how to run his.

He didn't sleep anymore. Ermengarde's condition had seen to that. Instead, he spent his nights pacing the yard, paranoid and jittery. The smoking helped in small measures and only for as long as the cigarettes lasted. But he had long ago passed the point where a nicotine buzz and empty words from barely accountable adults would dig him out of his crumbling reality.

When Vince looked up, he found Kvornan studying him intently. The shiver that ran throughout his extremities had little to do with the cold. Anyone who spent any amount of time before the gate of Kvornan's stare would necessarily see into the abattoir of his misery. It was destabilizing to say the least. Here was a bird who flew on broken wings.

"So what keeps you going?" Vince asked after a moment of silence.

"Elise." Kvornan invoked her name with the same finality, the same assertion that a person only ordinarily reserved for self-evident truths. Snow is cold. The sky is blue. Elise is my reason to live. "There's nothing in heaven or on earth quite like your sister."

Just then, the door flew violently open. Kvornan spun around and walked backwards for a few paces. Vince froze in mid-action. Elise was charging out onto the deck with the ruinous force of a flash flood. Vince tried to hide his cigarette behind his back several seconds too late.

"What do you think you're doing?" she screeched.

Vince began to stammer out a reply but was cut off when Elise turned to Kvornan and yelled, "I wasn't talking to you!" Deeply confused, Vince looked back and forth between the pair. Kvornan was laughing now, though Elise was still dangerously seething.

"I didn't say a word." Kvornan snickered.

"You're in hot water too, Mister! You're encouraging him!" As she shouted, her ears crimsoned beneath her crow's nest of hair.

Vince sank into the background, nearly forgotten while Kvornan and Elise continued to squabble. His presence was rendered extraneous, even in a conversation that was essentially about him.

Extinguishing the nub of his cigarette on the wooden guide rail behind his back, Vince thought to himself that he was going to quit. And it had nothing to do with his sister's fury. He would not be eaten alive by trials too big for him to overcome. Not anymore. Kvornan was right. Vince didn't have that kind of stamina.