ã€ŠCreatures of Vladisã€‹


 ONE

    RAIA: Capital City of Tri¨¨ste

    Year of the Eel Moon,357 years since the last time-spill

    Gulls soar low over the cars, grey wings like sails in the sky. The day swelters like wet laundry and the clouds are edged with dirt. Below the freeway, mud schufons stretch as far as the horizon, their dirty levels stacked on top of each other. Clotheslines flap in the wind. I drive faster. A bird at the windshield; it could burst through, its open maw fierce pink. I glare at it until it concedes defeat and flies off. Blood-orange sunset splits the sky.

    Minutes later, I park in an alley and the car fogs up. In closed spaces, my energy hangs in the air, large and palpable. My hair is messy clumps and the usual twitches have started up at my neck and back. My body feels heavy today. Tightening my boot straps, I check the knives in my holster¡ªtwo of them, sharp and lethal¡ªthen plunge into the human surge of Sector 5.

    It¡¯s Jacaranda season and the flowering trees draw tourists from across Tri¨¨ste and beyond. Small lanterns hang on branches. Gondolas fill the canals. Ganja fumes in the air, strong and earthy. Near me, a ring of fire-dancers whirl. A bird. A dragon.

    I walk until a hoarse voice says my name.

    Turning, I take in the green maxi-skirt, the blouse with mirrors on it, the bangles. Leela Roulette. Our informant is a moth-human hybrid whose essence wafts around her skin, a shivery, yellow powder. Two feathery antennae stand up from her shaggy black hair. They are in constant movement, affected by the slightest change in atmosphere.

    Next to Leela, I always feel clumsy. Her hands are a flourish. She is all air, all light. Leela is secretive; she reads everybody and reveals little about herself but with me, she softens. Perhaps it is because she has known me since I was a child of 14, lost and broken at Headquarters.

    Leela¡¯s pupils dilate, emerald green. ¡°Come with me,¡± she says. ¡°I have something to show you.¡±

    I feel a flash of irritation about the unending day. What in old god¡¯s hell couldn¡¯t wait until morning?

    <hr>

    Floodwater mold. The distinct odor assaults me as Leela pushes open the door to a hut in the bylanes of Kala Bazaar.

    ¡°Why¡¯re you sleeping at this hour?¡± Leela yells. ¡°Ryz! I told you a Kild officer was coming to talk to you.¡±

    Lying on a ragged mattress is the most beautiful human I have have ever seen. He¡¯s wearing black silk pajamas. His torso is bare, his legs long and assured. A body comfortable with itself. The boy turns in his sleep and opens an eye, darkest brown, almost black. ¡°Didn¡¯t say I would talk to them,¡± he mumbles. ¡°Have you got coin?¡±

    Leela throws a purse on the bed. ¡°Half now. She¡¯ll get the rest later.¡±

    I nod even though it¡¯s not been sanctioned.

    After a moment, Ryz hoists himself off the mattress and stumbles to the kitchen where copper vessels are aligned in neat rows. He boils water in a pan, whistling. He dunks tea leaves in a pan. Still whistling. Then he leans back against the counter and stares at me as if he can see through my pores. ¡°They make you run from the hounds? I hear that¡¯s how you train.¡±

    I fix him with what I hope is a cold gaze. ¡°Your tea is overflowing the pan. What¡¯s this exciting news?"

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°New shape-shifting magic.¡± Ryz manages to sound gloomy and smug at the same time.

    ¡°There¡¯s been no new magic in Tri¨¨ste since the last time-spill.¡±

    Ryz shrugs as Leela steps over piles of newspapers and books to a device in the corner of the room. It looks like an old-style recorder. She hits a button and a girl¡¯s voice comes through. ¡°The potion¡ªit made me a different creature. Not human. Beyond human.¡± She begins to sob. A dry, hacking sound. The words are not the point. The words carry a charge that cuts through my empathic sensors like blood. My arms are instantly sore. The energy is mind-crunching, belly-clenching ennui. Stabs of light flicker in my eyes.

    ¡°Ah, you feel it.¡± Ryz crosses to me so fast that I take a step back. My hands travel to the knives at my belt. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect such fear from a Kild,¡± he says.

    ¡°I am not afraid,¡± I try not to look into his eyes which have sharpened almost unbearably.

    ¡°Oh yes, you are. Which means this is important.¡± Ryz shoves a faded picture in my direction. A middle-aged man with dazed eyes looks at the camera and on his face, down one cheek, a pattern. It looks like tendrils, slightly raised as if they could pop out of his skin, become real. ¡°One of the people who''ve taken the potion. We saw him at the recovery center in Kala Bazaar,¡± Ryz says.

    Leela fiddles with the knobs on the device, tunes to a different frequency.

    ¡°On such potions, they felt they were god or animal, superhuman, alien. When they finally came to, there were markings on their faces¡ªa symbol of where they had been or perhaps, what. After a while, it stopped happening. The potion disappeared from the market. There were no new people with markings. The old ones were quiet now, having got used to the change in their appearance. The story simply faded out.¡±

    ¡°This was the last recorded incident of shape-shifting in Raia, 3000 years before the last time-spill,¡± Leela says. ¡°It¡¯s possible someone found the ancient recipe.¡±

    <hr>

    Downtown Raia is hazy with smog but the gleaming spire of headquarters is visible for miles. It is meant to inspire people to join the force. Unlike me, some have a choice. My uniform is stuck to my back, soaked with sweat. My mouth feels like the desert. I need food, a shower, the sleep of the untroubled. None of it will happen soon. Swerving into the parking lot, I prepare to meet my boss, the Last Remnant of the Warlords, also known as Eniad.

    A glass elevator deposits me on the 51st floor. Eniad¡¯s office is cold as usual, AC too low, a room of artificial lights, screens and shadows. The Last Remnant is leaning back in her chair, eyes closed, surrounded by clouds of cigar smoke. Her ash-blonde hair falls in right angles around her shoulders and her lean body is clad in white. Her face is placid as an icy lake. Unflappable, the recruits call her. Now, she sniffs the air . ¡°You smell of Leela. Does she still wear that cheap perfume?¡±

    I examine my scuffed boots, hoping an answer is not expected, then deliver my update.

    Eniad seems unimpressed. ¡°It¡¯s probably a rumor but keep an ear open.¡±

    A strange foreboding fills me. I don¡¯t believe everything about the old religion but something about this makes me uneasy. But Eniad has already turned towards the screen. Her eyelashes glow in the light.

    ¡°When is your review?¡± she asks now, lighting a cigar. She knows I am waiting to leave the force. My request is up for review this year. I can hardly wait.

    ¡°In three months,¡± I say.

    Eniad flicks a fleck of tobacco from her lip. ¡°You¡¯re making a huge mistake.¡±

    The next morning, I float inside a glass cylinder. Crouching position. Lotus position. The hanged man. My neurons rest. Trainers say the Translucence is like a womb. We are made of water and to water we return. Then, breathing. A hundred push-ups. Weights. Ropes. Instructors strut and scream. Hounds circle. I climb rocks until ground is a notion.

    My name is Zaria. Goddess of dawn. My mother had high expectations. Which is why as soon as my Kild abilities were revealed at an unfortunate incident involving three schoolmates and a burning picnic mat, she shipped me off to HQ ¡°where my powers could be channeled and harnessed for my own good and society¡¯s.¡± I don¡¯t blame her too much. Most Kild do end up at in the force sooner or later to do mandatory service for ten years. I suppose she was accepting the inevitable. A little early. The up side is if I get through the review and prove I can be trusted as a civilian, I¡¯ll get out sooner. Not everyone wants to leave. It¡¯s good pay, a secure job, but I am restless for other things. Possibilities. The freedom to dream.

    Later: On a smooth oval of dirt surrounded by Mandarin trees, I run, slowly at first, then faster. Dusty earth. The air is sweet citrus, green leaves overhead, yellow-orange grapefruit, full and ripe. Little tangerines. Tart green lime. Buddha¡¯s Hand oranges which look like hands with fingers splayed.

    In the trees, swallows.

    When I raise my hand to touch the leaves, something moves. A swish. A resettling of air.

 TWO

    Pali Navya stands before a sculpture, arms crossed, legs like two pillars, a knot of thick, black hair coiling like a snake at the nape of her neck. Her hemp skirt is the color of river silt.

    ¡°So beautiful!¡± she says, voice high and breathless. The object of admiration is a metal octopus, about twenty feet and grotesque, its tentacles tangling into themselves. Trash sprawls for miles¡ªan iron clamp opening its jaws, a battered car on its side, wheels spinning, an assortment of devices and pendants. This is the largest junkyard in Raia and its horizons are impossible to map.

    Pali unravels her hair. ¡°I wanted to show you something. Come!¡±

    Pali prefers things simple except when she doesn¡¯t. She is quick to excite and to disappoint, quick to have love affairs too, though she never got over that boy in college who left her, got on a ship one day destined for some foreign country. She didn¡¯t talk about it much but she started having dreams, sleepwalking. One night, she found herself at the edge of the ocean, thirty miles from the college hostel with no memory of how she got there. She told me her arms ached. She started sleeping with the room locked, the key nested inside a set of bags. The dreams, the aching arms, passed in time. Or so she said.

    Now she strolls through the mess of disheveled refrigerators, metal parts of indeterminate objects, dismantled cabinets, abandoned trunks, and piles of utensils as if it¡¯s a garden.

    All I get is the sound of wind kicking metal, a tin can rolling. My patience is waning. The day has been equal parts strenuous and boring. The usual spasms are in their usual places, curling up and down my body.

    Pali drops to her knees. When she raises her hand, it is wet. Sopping her fingers is a liquid, oily and dark. ¡°It smells weird. Animal somehow. Gamey and pungent.¡±

    I step around her for a closer look at the puddle of slime-like substance. In some places, it has crusted to form a rock. Taking a glass vial from her voluminous pocket, Pali scoops some of the vile thing into it. I am used to her enthusiasms ¡ªPali works ate a biogenetic lab and often collects substances for testing¡ªbut a strange feeling comes over me now and I am trembling. Clenching my fists, I wrap my arms around my body, wondering why my energy reserves are so low.

    A little later, brass doors swing open as we pass the bouncer juggling two yellow balls in his enormous hands and enter Agniva, a bar in Kala Bazaar, which caters to an astonishing mix of people. Customers sit at mosaic tables spangled by strobe lights. Clocks everywhere, digital and analog pieces, display identical numbers. The tree rising through the center of the room is ancient, knotted and unwieldy, a gnarled monster. In its cracks and crevices, and on its many branches, creatures crawl and roost. A man¡¯s laugh booms. I feel lighter.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    At the circular bar, fairy lights shimmer on glass dispensers of tea and faha concoctions. Amber and gold. The bartender, a woman with a huge updo and huger earrings, chats with two men leaning forward on their stools. Pali beams at the woman. No words are exchanged but she is a regular here and the woman knows her order.

    ¡°Six months, they¡¯ve given me. Time¡¯s running out. Do you know what that feels like? As if some giant sits inside my chest and squeezes my insides every few minutes,¡± Pali says when we¡¯re sitting. ¡°Three nights a week, my mother comes home and falls into bed with a thump. Her body sounds lumpen even though she¡¯s so slender. I hate that sound. As if she¡¯s fattened on someone¡¯s blood.¡±

    I have no answer for the predicament that¡¯s haunted Pali her whole life. She belongs to a clan of paid mercenaries and will have to join them when she turns 25. ¡°It¡¯s legal, what they are doing,¡± I say. ¡°They have permits.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re assassins! Murderers.¡± Pali sticks a hand in her pocket, fidgets with the weapon she keeps on her, tiny and lethal. ¡°You should¡¯ve seen them when I took the job at the lab. All nudges and winks. Only a matter of time, the old biddies were thinking, before she gets tired of animal carcass and accepts her destiny. If I say no, they will throw me out on my ass and¡ªyou don¡¯t get what it¡¯s like to be without family¡ªyou become human junk.¡±

    ¡°You could live with me¡ª,¡±

    ¡°One step from being homeless. One accident, injury, mental illness away.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not going to happen to you.¡±

    Pali¡¯s face closes. ¡°Besides the clan would never stand for it. I¡¯ve seen what they can do.¡±

    On the blue craquelure wall, a television plays on loop, showing the faces of Concilium members, something about taxes, budgets. A wild-haired painter at a table gives Pali an interested look. She touches her lips and aims a half-smile at him, admires his canvas, full of squiggles, multicolored, almost psychedelic. The lines move and spin, the effect dizzying. After a few minutes, she gets up and gestures to him. The two disappear in the direction of the bathrooms.

    Once I asked Pali why her family was so strict about the family profession. ¡°It¡¯s all we¡¯ve ever done in Raia,¡± she told me. ¡°It was the condition under which they let us in. The clan is grateful and believes it is the ticket to the city. If we don¡¯t kill for the rich and powerful, who are we? A bunch of fisherwomen who belong in the backwaters.¡±

    Pali was born on the banks of the mangrove forests which sprawl for miles green and dense in north-east Tri¨¨ste. Palm, coconut and banana trees grew so thick that the settlement of thirty families was concealed from the rest of the world. A quiet and predictable life. Mornings, they caught crabs. In the afternoons, her father drank at the communal hut with the other men. Her mother made vague threats to leave but Pali never believed the threats: divorce was unheard of in those parts. The men woke from their stupor in the evenings and went to the long tables outside where the women had laid out food. Crab and shrimp curry, fried plantain, coconut water. There was more drinking through dinner until the men fell asleep again and the women cleared, washed, and talked until late in the night.

    Pali learned the traditional occupation of crab-catching early, was an expert by age eight at lowering the hook. Her father, lean and muscular with hard eyes in a weather-beaten face, tried to stamp out this hint of rebellion. He made her work long after the sun had risen in the sky, when crabs were near impossible to find. Don¡¯t get ideas above your station, he would say. The likes of us are not meant for the big city.

    Brushing Pali¡¯s hair every night, her mother whispered: don¡¯t listen to him. One day, this will make your fortune, you¡¯ll see, this and your beauty. Her hands were brisk, Pali had told me. Brisk and rough.

 THREE

    Lethe. The river of mindlessness. It flows around the cave of Hypnos and through the Underworld, and all who drink from it, must forget. On a good day, unleashing the power of Lethe can be fun. Sometimes I play with it. Sometimes, I imagine casting the fog on everyone at headquarters. How long would they wander the halls in a stupefied haze? On bad days, it makes me forgetful and dreamy. Today is such a day so when Eniad swings by my desk at noon and tosses me her car keys, I wince.

    ¡°Ki Gardens. You drive.¡±

    I had forgotten about the raid.

    Still, I am glad for the adrenalin until we near the bleak outskirts of the city. Here, there are fewer buildings and the land is barren. The streets are narrow, oiled and treeless, the houses made of red mud, an inferior variety. Tall weeds and grasses grow between them. Desultory boys stand in the landscape like clumps of young trees.

    ¡°The hollow promise of Raia,¡± Eniad says. ¡°Some uncle arrived here, told them it was amazing, the promised land. They got here and found nothing.¡±

    Maybe where they come from is worse, I think but don¡¯t say. Even after all these years, she scares me. In the years since the first incident, I¡¯ve been trained to control the Fog. I no longer let go accidentally. Eniad takes personal credit for that. I was one of her more difficult students, stubborn and silent.

    We pull up outside a house. A swarm of chickens riots outside, coarse and bustling. Across the street, children play in yards and doorways. Women are digging holes, sowing seeds, washing clothes. The ordinary rhythms of living. I kill the engine as another van draws up behind us. The women call to their children, pause.

    An officer gets out of the van, short and poker-faced with floppy bangs and hard eyes. We move like robots, bodies slicing through air, stunners out. The visc-hounds trot in and around the house. The chickens disappear, squawking.

    We are almost at the door when a boy comes out, arms up. I block the wave of fear-despair coming off him, kick the door open, and am faced with the reek of raw meat. About a dozen slabs of dead animal hang from iron hooks on the ceiling. It is a gigantic freezer.

    Animal rearing is strictly regulated in Raia, and managed through a central slaughterhouse. This is illegal. Contraband meat. Winding my way through the cold flab, I can barely breathe.The next room has more meat, piled in a ice box this time.

    Outside, the boy climbs into the van. Floppy Bangs pokes him with her stunner, then puts the visc-hounds in with him. The door closes on his haunted face as a team loads the meat in a truck.

    ¡°Dead goats,¡± Eniad says. ¡°From the shape and size.¡±

    Across the horizon, factories belch smoke into a sky scrawled with orange. Eniad is staring at it now. ¡°Raids are so beautiful, aren¡¯t they?¡± she murmurs. ¡°Really makes one feel alive.¡±

    Outside, the boy climbs into the van. Floppy Bangs pokes him with her stunner, then puts the visc-hounds in with him. The door closes on his haunted face as a team loads the meat in a truck.

    ¡°Dead goats,¡± Eniad says. ¡°From the shape and size.¡±

    Across the horizon, factories belch smoke into a sky scrawled with orange. Eniad is staring at it now. ¡°Raids are so beautiful, aren¡¯t they?¡± she murmurs. ¡°Really makes one feel alive.¡±

    Later that day, Ryz opens the door of his hut and leans against the frame, making no effort to adjust his disdainful expression. ¡°Are you visiting for pleasure or have you come to pay up?¡± he asks.

    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Can I come in?¡± I ask.

    He sighs as if I¡¯m wet toilet paper stuck to his shoe but moves aside. Leela is on the floor, cross-legged, eating peanuts from a paper cone. The mattress looks tempting. I could use a nap. I dump the heavy bag on the floor. ¡°Check it.¡±

    ¡°No need,¡± Leela says.

    Ryz gives her a look of such incredulity, it could turn a grasshopper into a fried snack but she remains focused on her peanuts. He opens the bag roughly, counts the bills. Taking out half, he stuffs them under his mattress and zips up the bag. ¡°Take this,¡± he tells Leela.

    Leela shrugs. ¡°I¡¯ll take it in a plastic bag.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not safe.¡±

    The concern in Ryz¡¯s voice makes a tiny pit of loneliness unfurl in my stomach. I move to leave but Leela flaps a hand. ¡°Sit. Stop being so nervous. We¡¯re not going to eat you for dinner.¡±

    ¡°I am not nervous. I have a nerve-related thing. It does not make me nervous.¡±

    Handing me a tumbler of tea, Ryz sprawls on the floor.

    ¡°Where you from?¡± I ask instead of staring at his thighs. ¡°You don¡¯t sound like you¡¯re from here.¡±

    Leela tosses a peanut at him. ¡°This one came to Raia to study architecture¡ªgave it up. Now he''s a petty thief. He should go back to his education. Drill some sense into him, no? Maybe he will listen to one of his own kind. He¡¯s from village #8¡ªyou know it?¡±

    I do. Village #8 is a sophisticated seaside town of salons and parlors, soirees in the evenings and the clink of wine glasses. In upper class homes, people with fine tastes and finer degrees acquire culture like it is currency. Why is he living in this mean hut? Ryz returns my quizzical look with one of his own.

    ¡°None of your business, what her powers are,¡± Leela says, teasing.

    The afternoon bustle of Kala Bazaar filters in¡ªtaxis blaring music, vendors hawking vegetables but I am beginning to feel curiously relaxed. The cha is delicious and their camaraderie infectious. I idly wonder what brought them together, two people from such disparate worlds.

    Leela grew up in Sector 5, an abandoned waif, and belongs to nobody but these streets. Her accent is Effaiti, suggesting ancestors from far lands. People from Ryz¡¯s village on the other hand, are local and come from money. Ryz carries that air about him even while trying to disown it. He frowns as if he¡¯s guessed my thoughts.

    ¡°Why are you living here?¡± I ask again to detract.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with here?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re from village #8¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Slumming it.¡±

    ¡°That makes no sense.¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t have to make sense to you.¡±

    ¡°Ryz,¡± Leela scolds. She pushes a tome towards me, a volume of the Old Texts. Indicating an entry with one slender finger, she says. ¡°Look what it says¡ªa shape-shifter needs meat when they¡¯re transforming.¡±

    ¡°Goat meat¡­.¡±

    ¡°Exactly. If more people are using the potion, more meat is required. The city¡¯s usual supplies are not keeping up.¡±

    After a while, I leave the somnolent calm of the hut. Past chicken bone hangings and dreamcatchers, past ivy jasmine growing up the walls of houses. A bus rattles by with tourists waving flags.

    The river is full of glittering boats, decked with fairy lights and blaring music. The city has the air of a festival but my mind is not on festivities. Eniad confirmed the Tests are coming up and if I can prove I¡¯m in control, I may be able to leave. Kild teens are drafted when their powers misfire. In my case, the misfiring was literal but maybe, just maybe, I can win my freedom.

    Someone¡¯s energy, like a caterpillar crawling down my leg. The day is not ready to calm down. Tourists and stragglers have crowded before one of the windows. When I get closer, it is cold, almost freezing. The woman inside looks more like a girl than a woman, with a round face and pale-moon skin, bright red hair hanging to her waist. A foreigner. She is sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed as if meditating. Her white dress has frayed edges and she looks hungry, a bit feral. A narrow bed to one side holds a pile of clothes but there is nothing else in the room. There is a roar in the air, a harsh clack-clack-clack and the girl opens her eyes, wide and startling. Two red beads.

    She looks at me.

    Later, I will wonder if I could have blocked it if I¡¯d known, if I¡¯d been warned, if I¡¯d been less lulled into some sense of warmth from Leela and Ryz¡¯s company. I am not prepared for the force of the girl¡¯s energy. It slams into my body, a physical entity, a live thing, and I am on my knees before I know it. Like a shadow, it looms above me, a great building, a monolith, solid as a concrete structure. It changes form, becomes black and livid, a hive of wasps. Anger/pain in great, gasping, gulping lungfuls. Not the kill-someone kind of anger but close¡ªI have an overpowering urge to smash my boot into someone, or through the glass. To hear it shatter. Make it dust¡ª

    ¡°What is happening to you?¡± Leela yells. She is beside me. Strange. She grasps me by the arms.

    ¡°Is she making that noise?¡± I mouth as nausea engulfs me. Oceanic waves. Inside the display window, a red silk scarf floats upwards from the pile of clothes, twirls in air. People cheer. There is blood on the floor, a drip-drip originating from the girl¡¯s feet, as if she has walked on glass.

 FOUR

    Something soft against my back, soothing. I burrow into it. The familiar shapes of Ryz¡¯s hut swim into place but I can¡¯t raise my head.

    ¡°Shh.¡± Leela¡¯s hand on my forehead. ¡°You fainted. Take it slow.¡±

    I groan because a freight train is making its way through my skull.

    Leela pushes a glass into my hands. ¡°Drink this.¡±

    I take a sip of the bitter liquid and try to speak. ¡°What was that? Who is she?¡±

    ¡°Her name is Emi,¡± Leela says, sitting back on her haunches. ¡°New girl around here. She was captured in the Borderlands.¡±

    ¡°The Borderlands,¡±I say, my heart constricting. The no-person zone at the eastern edges of the country is high desert and baking heat, visc-hounds salivating across its desolate miles. Some migrants are killed on the spot. Others are taken to camps. A lucky few slip into the capital and disappear in the crowd. Emi is clearly not one of the lucky few.

    ¡°Hm,¡± Leela says with a grimace. ¡°Hungry and desperate. Her powers clashed with yours in some way, maybe combined, and you couldn¡¯t handle it.¡±

    I shiver. Power amplifications are common but this has never happened to me before, the magnitude of what I felt, the girl¡¯s presence almost inside me.

    [12/16/22, 6:11 PM To be answered ¡ª the potion is aimed at changing people into host creatures but with some Kild, it starts malfunctioning and gives them mind-control abilities. Osiris will realize this and start using.]

    ¡°I¡¯ll take you home,¡± Ryz says.

    Summoning every ounce of strength, I get to my feet. ¡°I¡¯m fine now.¡±

    ¡°Why are you so stubborn?¡± Leela says. ¡°Her head is a mess and she¡¯s shy for some reason,¡± she tells Ryz.

    I want to kick Leela. With both feet. If I had more than two feet, I would kick her with all of them.

    ¡°Kick me when you can stand without swaying. Ryz will drive you back in your car.¡±

    ¡°¡ªdon¡¯t read my thoughts,¡± I mutter. It¡¯s pointless. Leela has the obedience of an untrained chihuahua.

    ¡°But first¡ª,¡± Leela says. ¡°I heard the girl. She¡¯s plotting something¡ªI don¡¯t know what, I couldn¡¯t get that, but it¡¯s not good. Speak to the chief, tell her to get her out of here.¡±

    I stare at Leela, baffled. ¡°You know it doesn¡¯t work like that. They have raids. At specific times. And¡ª,¡±

    ¡°You know I wanted to be a painter when I was a kid? I spent hours, covering paper with doodles and scribblings. I was quite good, I think. Who knows where I could have got, with the right training. One day, I stopped. Gone. The dream. Pfft.¡±

    I have no idea where she is going with this.

    ¡°Emi is young. She still has a chance to become whatever she wants to be. Just speak to Eniad. I¡¯m sure you can do it.¡±

    Leela imagines all problems can be solved with a little determination and a strong pack of ganja. She underestimates Eniad who is famous across four zones of Tri¨¨ste for being as strong-willed as the entire extinguished race of warlords she comes from.

    There is silence in the car as we drive back. For some reason, Ryz is eyeing me like a rat someone left at his doorstep. I am confused, still unsteady, the girl¡¯s energy a beast at my shoulder. The gates of my schufon have never looked as appealing.

    He finally speaks as I¡¯m getting out and his voice is a shard of ice ¡°Whatever your problem is, don¡¯t drag Leela into it.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s an informant,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s part of her job.¡±

    ¡°Your lack of control is not part of her job.¡±

    Ignoring him, I climb the stairs to my apartment. As I wash up, my mind is on the girl. She was afraid. Her fear is what created the energy pulsing between us.

    Strobe lights at a cafe flicker as a toddler bounces on the sand-colored couch, his face scrunched, mouthing half-formed words. The lights flicker. A hummingbird flits on the leaves of a plant nearby. Tingles scurry up my neck; strange energy in the vicinity. The source is a woman silhouetted at the door, nearly seven feet tall with arresting features and a beaklike nose. She is surveying the place. Black robes cover most of her body. Her features are foreign, bolder and stronger than most people in Tri¨¨ste but I can¡¯t place where she¡¯s from. Two other women stride in behind her, similarly dressed. They could be sisters.

    The Concilium will have a say in the control and manipulation of Kild impulses.

    If a Kild is not able to control their powers, the Concilium may detain or imprison them.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Even after leaving service, a Kild may be called on at any time if there is an emergency where their powers are required.

    They must adhere strictly to the list of jobs. For a full list, turn to page¡ª.

    I am trying to cram for the tests that will be part of my review. To win my freedom, I have to prove I know all the rules.

    The women settle at the counter and one of them points upwards and laughs, a brassy sound. On the blackboard above the bar counter, scrawled in white chalk are the words: We believe that if we foster a culture of inclusivity, success and longevity will prevail. People like thinking of themselves as inclusive everywhere in Tri¨¨ste. It¡¯s part of the national image, a lie maintained despite the camps lining the eastern edges, the refugees in brothels. Neighboring countries like Omeira and Plieisa are closed-gate. At least we allow them in, some people say when the subject comes up.

    The toddler has stopped bouncing and is beaming at me, cheeks flushed, hands reaching up. I ask his parents and pick him up, resting his solid warmth in my lap. It¡¯s been a while since I touched anyone without feeling singed. Children are easy. Something about the kid reminds me of Emi again. I can¡¯t get invested in every girl who looks pitiful. There are thousands of them in this city.

    A screen in the center of the room is nattering on about the next time-spill and what we should do to prepare for it. 318 years left. Tri¨¨sti think of time-spills as neither good nor bad but as a force. Each time lasts 700 years. Knowing their progeny will only last about eight or nine generations, many choose not to procreate. We have a shortage of people so we don¡¯t close the gates but there are opinions on who is desirable and who isn¡¯t. People with certain genotypes aren¡¯t wanted, nobody with disabilities, nobody outside productive age. Beings or entities from certain lands are banned. Visc-hounds, guards and the underground prisons make sure only the most desirable inhabit Raia, and the most grateful.

    I turn my eyes back to the text and feel a sudden desire to give up. The Review is excruciating, I¡¯ve heard. The tests take place behind closed doors and there are secrecy pledges that forbid anyone from revealing what they entail. I grind on.

    On my way back to HQ, I run into Eniad standing outside the building, her eyes on a silver car [12/5/23, 9:00 PM Indicate later that it¡¯s Osiris¡¯s car] that¡¯s pulling away. Something is different about her. She looks¡­.emotional. It¡¯s so unlike her that I almost stop in my tracks. Her expression shifts when she notices me. ¡°What is it, Officer Sol?¡±

    It¡¯s probably the wrong time but I take the plunge anyway. ¡°One of the girls in Sector 5. She¡¯s Kild. She shouldn¡¯t be there. We should draft her, seeing as she¡¯s Kild.¡± It comes out in a rush. Not how I planned it. In the past year, Eniad has ensured safer working conditions for sex workers and closed 400 under-age windows but now her tone sharpens.

    ¡°You and I don¡¯t have to like sex work. It¡¯s irrelevant because there is a market. Is that what this is about? Are you being a prude?¡± A wave of ineffable negativity comes off her but I can¡¯t place what it means. Eniad is practiced at blocking Kild powers.

    ¡°She could be useful to the force,¡± I say. ¡°I saw her powers, felt them. They were¡ªformidable.¡±

    ¡°Formidable?¡±

    ¡°Yes, telekinesis, levitation¡­and something else possibly. Something I felt.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have someone look into it. Maybe we¡¯ll pick her up at the next raid.¡±

    ¡°She looked under-age,¡± I mumble despite the lack of encouragement. ¡°I was thinking we could do it sooner. I could take care of it.¡±

    ¡°My. You¡¯ve taken quite the interest.¡± Eniad snaps her fingers, ¡°¡ªspeaking of Leela, I heard from our sources in Omeira. They¡¯ve heard of this shape-shifting potion there too. Organize more raids. We have to smoke these pests out before it gets to the notice of the Concilium.¡±

    ¡°Yes chief. And the girl¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Zaria. Forget about the girl. She¡¯d be in a hound¡¯s stomach if she wasn¡¯t in the brothels. We can¡¯t save everyone.¡±

    I wish I could find some wellspring of courage. A brief urge to hit Eniad besets me. Mother always said I have a temper.

    Eniad touches the pendant at her neck, a silver snake. Unlike my salamander, it is not embedded because nobody is allowed to track her movements. Regulars have certain privileges; they are not interfered with. They have bodily autonomy. Anger rises inside me at the thought. I tamp it down.

    Disheartened, I head to the gym and do the float before the salamander buzzes. Leela¡¯s panicked voice fills my head. Come now. Emi.

    I get there to find chaos. The cold hits my face like a wet sheet. Inside her glass box, Emi is floating, dress flying, objects swirling around her head. A hair brush, a syringe, a scarf. Behind Emi, two men, the managers of the house, lie on the floor, unconscious or dead. The look on the girl¡¯s face is exultant and frightened, full of disbelief at what she¡¯s done. The undersides of her feet are sticky with blood. It rivers the floor.

    Leela is watching, terrified. ¡°She turned on them and injected them with the shots they came to give her. If they contained compliance drugs at Kild dosage, these guys will be out for a few days at least. I called you as soon as I heard what she was planning¡ª,¡±

    The noise in the air is louder today. A reckoning.

    I am frozen, uncertain.

    A man yells. ¡°The little devil is going to escape!¡± Others are shouting too, excited, anxious to avert danger, to prevent trouble, to get involved or not; some schadenfreude mixed in. A woman on the sidewalk slaps her child in shock. He begins to cry.Kites circling overhead. The other girls of the house burst into the display window.

    ¡°They will kill her,¡± Leela says. ¡°The owners of this brothel¡ª,¡±

    Emi is focusing on the chair now, moving it toward the window.

    ¡°What is she doing? The glass is unbreakable. Doesn¡¯t she know that? Zaria, go in, stop her¡ª,¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d have to arrest her.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I would have to arrest her. She¡¯s assaulted those men, used her powers for harm. The punishment for that is¡ª,¡± I can¡¯t finish. Leela knows. Ten years or more in the Underground.

    ¡°So we just stand by?¡± Leela asks, her antennae whirring and frenetic but I have no time to answer because the wail of sirens assaults us. A van screeches. Four officers and a hound, its devilish face upturned. Storming the lock on the door of the brothel, they go in.

    ¡°No¡­oh no no no,¡± Leela whispers as they overpower Emi. One of them smashes her head into the floor. Her eyes hold a piteous terror so great, I can hardly breathe. The officers start tying Emi¡¯s feet together. Tears on the girl¡¯s face in rivulets. She looks up at me and our eyes lock. Something passes between us, what has passed before but more. Greater. Some knowledge or power or devastation. Something cracks. Like a dam or a held torrent. I don¡¯t know why I do it. I raise my hand.

    The officer holding Emi falls with a howl of confusion and rage. Only I can see thedisc-shaped blister on his forehead. My aim never fails. Then, the glass shatters.

    A crackling in my ears, a popping, heat, smoke, a balloon of it, thick and deep. I fall.

 FIVE

    The aisles at the grocery store are endless and I feel like I¡¯m trapped in a tedious movie. Food pills, taffy-like and cheap. Face cream. A mutton roll. I pick things off the shelves and put them back. Savings will run out soon but I¡¯m trying to get a flatmate to help with the rent. Maybe I can take an extra job on the weekends. I¡¯m hungry and tired of living on soup. The past few weeks have been a blur of psychiatric checks at headquarters and the weight of days. I¡¯ve been suspended from regular duties and put on minimal pay in a room of musty files where my limbs cramp. Intrusive thoughts come and go like old friends. I think of my body as a beast, a force to be leashed. I avoid people at HQ as much as they avoid me. Disgrace can be contagious.

    The girl at the counter takes in my attire¡ªshapeless pants and crumpled tunic¡ªand smiles, her eyes full of pity. Glancing away has become second nature to me.

    Outside, leaves russet the ground and the wind is high, swirling dust and objects in its wake. An empty juice box shudders toward the parking lot. Next to a broken tire on the sidewalk, a boy with hunger pinching his brows. I pin up my ratty note asking for a roommate, then drive home.

    I don¡¯t remember much from that day. I came to myself later, alone in a room. Noise and silence. Noise and silence. A door to the room opening and closing many times. Someone brought me food. Someone else helped me pee. This is how time passed. As Kild, I was a priority patient but even so, the intervals between nurse visits were long and the food greasy meat squiggles with watery cabbage.

    Eniad was waiting in the lobby when they discharged me. I got in the car, wondering what had warranted the visit. Eniad took the winding road up the hills.¡°It¡¯s being investigated,¡± she said, her tone more clipped than I¡¯d ever heard it and that¡¯s saying something. ¡°You know we don¡¯t tolerate Kild teaming up.¡±

    I managed to make words despite the fear thumping in my chest like a wounded raccoon. ¡°I don¡¯t even know her. It must have been a collision, an accident.¡±

    ¡°You were asking for us to rescue her¡ªand then this. What am I supposed to think?¡±

    It started raining. We stopped at a cha vendor at the top of the hill and the city sprawled below us, glistening. ¡°You¡¯re disqualified from the Review. You¡¯re on file duty with minimal stipend for now.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to do anything.¡± I wanted to beg. Final pay would barely pay the rent.

    She lit a cigar with a silver lighter. The city continued with its merciless churn of cement and desire. The wind prickled with dust. ¡°My son, he can hear sounds from many miles away,¡± she said. ¡°Amazing really. He works as a prison guard, spends most of his time underground.¡±

    I¡¯d heard about the boy. He used to be an officer, fell to the ground one evening, cowering, sat there, rocking himself, sobbing, as others stood by discomfited and helpless. Nobody was sure what to do. It was such an embarrassment to them, that volume of sorrow, the intensity of it. [12/20/22, 5:52 PM Osiris knows about the boy and helps him in many ways and has promised to get him out.]

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡°He messed up during a case, let the guy go,¡± Eniad says. ¡°I had to pull a lot of strings to keep him out of prison but that was the deal¡ªthat he spend his days down there.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s talk after some time,¡± she said. ¡°I like you Zaria. Let me see if I can find a way to help you.¡±

    We drove down the hill and I got out at some point. The river was steel hard, the moon loud and full.

    My tiny schufon is groaning under trash¡ªempty packets, cans and bottles, and if I want a roommate, I should make it appealing. Maybe I should spend my last coins on a potted plant which will die in two days. A roach in the sink eyes me. Another appears at the drain opening. I can¡¯t afford the expensive pesticide. I watch them while eating oats out of a can and wonder if there are roach eggs in my lungs, my heart, my head, if they flow through my bloodstream.

    It would be easier if we found the girl.

    If the investigation goes badly, I am looking at three years underground. They have to be convinced it was collision, an accident.

    Bronze heads and slender legs. Creeping. Breaking into flakes, they cast their dust all over the apartment. I kill some roaches, sweep, mop.

    Some evenings, I get in the truck and drive through the city, up and down freeways; trundle on the inner streets of central Raia where starlets stroll and junkies sprawl; roll down the window, breathe smoky air; pull up to sunset point and stare into the distance. The hills to the west stretch for miles, bathed in fog. Mustard flowers have created patches of brilliant yellow. Today I¡¯m too tired to drive so I go for a run by the river, breath pummeling in and out, compelled by the heart¡¯s need to continue.

    Grasses ripple in breeze. White flowers gloam in moonlight like sprinkled powder. It is calming. I slow down when I get to the tunnel under Shi Bridge where bonfires cast their vivid glow. Men from the Bhulg tribe warm their hands and talk, their faces an amorphous mass of flesh with no distinguishable features, their energy a void I could fall into.

    To my surprise, as I walk past, their faces sharpen, assume features where previously there were none. As if they¡¯re sculptures emerging from rough-hewn stone. Austere and ethereal. [12/20/22, 6:07 PM Maybe this is something to do with her genetic inheritance / powers being stronger because the women are in town.]

    One of them speaks. His manner is halting and I have to strain to hear him. ¡°She gave it to you, didn¡¯t she?¡± he says. ¡°Passed it on.¡± His voice is barely above a whisper. He looks like a weakling but he scares me. ¡°The girl. She gave it to you. You can¡¯t start something like that and expect it to be contained.¡± He points at my cheek with a gnarly finger. ¡°I can see the signs. You¡¯ve seen them too? Ah, not yet. Not yet. But soon. Soon.¡±

    ¡°What signs?¡±

    Others have started to pay attention. One of the men is rising to his feet. The tunnel feels smaller, suffocating. The second man is standing next to the first now, pulling at his arm. ¡°Leave her alone,¡± he says.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Nothing ma¡¯am. He gives warnings to people. We are not supposed to do that any more. It¡¯s nothing. He misses our old profession. Some things stay in the blood longer than others.¡±

    I search my mind frantically for what I know of the Bhulg. They used to be priests. That must be the old profession. They must have done some fortune-telling. ¡°Tell me what he¡¯s talking about and I won¡¯t say anything.¡± My voice is stronger than I feel.

    ¡°I really don¡¯t know. We don¡¯t see the same portents, not at the same time. He thinks you are in some danger.¡± The man casts a furtive look around us and pulls himself back to the present. ¡°But we don¡¯t do that any more. We don¡¯t have the skills. It¡¯s been two generations since any of us practiced the old ways.¡±

    The first man shakes off his hand and comes toward me. I freeze. Raising his hand, he touches my cheek, tracing a line down it. ¡°I can see it,¡± he says, his eyes feverish, his breath on my face, stale and full of hunger. ¡°So clearly. The tendrils.¡±

 SIX

    The next morning, Leela is standing outside Emi¡¯s previous residence, lips tight with concern. I called her last night and asked if she would help me find Emi and I must have sounded desperate because she agreed. A part of me expects the window to be broken but the glass is new. A woman in her twenties sits at the dresser, brushing her blonde curls with elaborate strokes. The display has been changed to that of a rich woman¡¯s boudoir, complete with plush fur coverings and a poodle. Irrational anger flails inside me. How easy it is to be replaced. All the mess and muck of the other night has been replaced by a smooth, glossy shine. A sheen that reflects off bare white walls and fills me with quiet dread.

    ¡°I¡¯m not getting anything from this woman,¡± Leela says. ¡°Where is Emi and how is she hiding from the brothel owners who must certainly be looking for her? How will she use her powers? She flicks her antennae with an idle hand. I think it may hurt but she seems unbothered. ¡°Why did Emi allow them to capture her in the first place, considering her powers?¡± she continues.

    ¡°Maybe she was outnumbered. Or ingrown. Most Kild manifest by age twelve¡ªbut some show late like me. Our powers are more unruly. Harder to control.¡±

    The woman smiles at us, a blank smile made of compliance and pills.

    ¡°Who are these Bhulg people?¡± I ask Leela.

    ¡°They used to be priests in some other land. Powerful at one time as oracles. During the last time-spill, they were overthrown, cast out, appeared here for refuge. Tri¨¨ste took them in on the condition that they would live in isolation. The Concilium didn¡¯t want them using their powers here. They were given that land under the bridge and that¡¯s the only place they can live.¡±

    ¡°How old are they? The men, they looked young.¡±

    ¡°Hundreds of years? Nobody knows.¡±

    Leela sighs. ¡°This isn¡¯t working¡ªI can¡¯t read her. It¡¯s a void. Let¡¯s go see Krista. ¡°She¡¯s one of the oldies, knows all the gossip. She tells fortunes as well.¡±

    The house is a regulation one-storey glass house with three names engraved on the door in gold calligraphy. They must have lived here a long time to have that done. Every fantasy is acted out in these glass houses; every fantasy, fairy tale, mythology, legend and dirty dream. In fantasies, we preserve our psychic history. Half the houses here don¡¯t even practice sex work. They practice story work.

    Krista is a tall woman in a leopard-print dress whose sadness settles into the corners of my body. She leads us down a white corridor to a small, concrete room. A gilded mirror stands next to a bed topped with a silk canopy and the walls are covered with more mirrors, each as tiny as a moth wing. A pack of hologram cards are splayed on the table, their multicolored, fanged deities indulging in childish antics.

    Settling on the bed, Leela chatters about her week while I swallow my impatience. Small talk is the oil that runs social life; I wish I was half as skilled at it as Leela. When she brings up Emi, it is inserted into the conversation as neatly as a coin in a slot machine.

    Krista scowls. ¡°That showboat. Attracting more useless tourists and then what can we do to keep up with that? Good thing she left. One of ¡¯em Kild as they¡¯re called. They give me the creeps. Hard enough to manage life as a regular, if you ask me.¡±

    I turn up my collar to hide the salamander. ¡°Not that many Kild here, right?¡±

    ¡°Ya¡ªhard to keep ¡¯em in. You saw. Don¡¯t know why she didn¡¯t cut out sooner if she had such them powers and whatnot.¡± Krista drops her voice dramatically though there is nobody around. ¡°Must be some strong drugs involved. Anyway, I don''t know much about her. She was sixteen. They said she would be moved soon.¡±

    ¡°To where?¡±

    Krista stares at the mirrors for a while. ¡°Sometimes girls are taken away,¡± she says, finally, ¡°and they don¡¯t come back.¡±

    ¡°One more thing,¡± Leela says, ¡°¡ªwas she on the new shapeshifting potion?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Krista says. A chill runs up my legs, soft but distinct. Krista is hiding something. She ambles to her dresser and starts applying orange shimmer to her eyelids. ¡°What¡¯s your power then?¡± she asks me with an edge in her voice.

    Turns out I wasn¡¯t successful at pretending to be normal. ¡°I¡¯m an empath,¡± I tell her, leaving out any mention of the Fog.

    ¡°What a useless piece of shit power.¡±

    ¡°Yes, very useless,¡± Leela says. ¡°Poor girl. She¡¯s been having some trouble lately. Do a reading for her, okay, please? I told her you¡¯re the only one who can help.¡±

    Krista looks like she wants to refuse but after a moment, she takes the pack and shuffles, lays out two cards face-up, her hands trembling. Her voice falls two octaves for effect. ¡°You feel like you¡¯re stuck. Love comes your way but sacrifices will be necessary. Blood must be met with blood. You will learn much before this is over.¡±

    ¡°What sacrifices?¡± Leela asks.

    Krista shrugs. ¡°That would be the premium package. Doesn¡¯t look like she can afford it.¡±

    When we¡¯re outside, Leela lights a joint, inhales and squints at the dumpsters where gulls peck and jab at garbage with sullen beaks.¡°If Emi is still shape-shifting, every transformation would require the breakdown and transportation of cells. That requires energy, and thus food, making the person incredibly hungry while changing.¡±

    I wonder where she¡¯s going with this but I know better than to interrupt.

    She continues.¡°Where would she get that amount of food? She had no money.¡± Finally, she looks at me. ¡°Krista was lying. When I asked where Emi could have gone, she was thinking of the slaughterhouse.¡±

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    It is a pretty day even in Ki Gardens where pretty days come rarely. Cooler weather has settled on the landscape, making it look less harsh, less baking. The patches of grass are greener. A group of boys outside a mud hut, in a circle. A few of them in orange bandannas. I shiver for some reason. They give me the chills. Leela has been slouching in the passenger seat but now sits up with some interest. ¡°You¡¯re right. There¡¯s something wrong with them.¡±

    When we reach the low-slung red buildings of the slaughterhouse, the security guard lets us in with a cursory glance at Leela¡¯s appointment note. Inside, it is a maze.

    The manager, a blue-haired woman with large ears and slim legs leads us through corridors, heels clicking. The warm smell of blood is everywhere and I grimace. ¡°You''ll get used to the smell,¡± she says with a smile. ¡°It takes a few minutes.¡± Pushing open a door, she sighs. ¡°These are the goats. Some of them are ready.¡±

    We are in a large room with tiny enclosures. It is stifling. I try not to gag. ¡°Why are they so small, the cages?¡± Leela asks.

    ¡°So they get minimal movement. This helps keep the muscles soft and makes for juicier meat. I¡¯ll leave you to look around. For a science article, you said?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Leela says. ¡°Some people are suggesting hybrids as easy meat but goats are still the best, aren¡¯t they? How long have you worked here?¡±

    ¡°Been here a while, thirty years or so.¡±

    We are interrupted as a man brushes past us and disappears into the shadows. We hear the sounds of a pen cranking open and he leads a goat out. It is agitated, frisking about. With a firm hand, he takes it through another door at the back.

    ¡°What¡¯s in there?¡± I ask.

    ¡°That¡¯s where the butchering happens. It¡¯s hard to kill a live being. Mentally taxing too. Anyway, I have to get back to work. Come on out and talk to me if you have more questions.¡±

    After she leaves, we walk around the goat pens, uncertain of what we are looking for. Suddenly, the bleating of goats fills the air and Leela drops down, face alert and body tense. I follow her lead but it is only the butcher, making his way past the stalls, whistling a tune as he does, and after he passes, we get to our feet.

    Later, we sit in the cafeteria with the woman, whose name we learn is Carla. She tells us about her early days at the slaughterhouse, the horror she felt about the conditions, and how she¡¯s tried to make improvements. Giving us a hopeful look, she says, ¡°Maybe if you write abut it, we can get more funds from the Concilium. We¡¯re so underfunded.¡±

    I feel sorry about duping her. ¡°It must be a tough job,¡± I say.

    She sighs. ¡°It¡¯s alright. Only, two months back when goats went missing, it was hard. Had some explaining to do with the authorities.¡±

    ¡°Goats went missing?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yes, someone broke in and stole all the goats. Every single one of them.¡±

    [3/6/24, 1:50 PM. The gang stole the goats to feed the samples in the experiment. Reveal later.]

    I have no will to do anything the next day but Pali drags me to a biology convention where the main speaker is Osiris Manatios, the founder of Alke Corp.As he approaches the stage, she clutches my arm as if she¡¯s glimpsed a particularly interesting creature in the wild. It is only then I notice Pali has matched her silk skirt with a cream silk top and a string of pearls. Her hair is a waterfall down her back, her lips painted crimson.

    The MC introduces Osiris with gushing praise which he waves off as he strides to the podium. For a few moments, he stands like a statue, lit from behind. ¡°It is going to be a cold winter,¡± he says. ¡°Imagine crossing the desert in the cold. Imagine a child.¡±

    With his salt-and-pepper hair artfully ruffled, shimmering burgundy robes and fierce eyes, Osiris is commanding. He looks like he genuinely cares about what he is saying, and about the people listening to him. His voice is rough but his words are soft as he urges them to be more welcoming of refugees. I begin to understand why so many people are charmed. Pali leans forward in her chair, tucks her hair behind her ears.

    ¡°To speak only of actions done from the motive of duty implies that people should fix their minds on something so large and wide, that it¡¯s unimaginable. The World. Who knows what that is? The great majority of good actions are intended for individuals. The multiplication of individual happiness is what we should be aiming at¡­¡±

    I drift in and out.

    ¡°Even for those who believe in the old gods¡ªand I know some of you do. It¡¯s okay, I¡¯m not telling on you,¡± he elicits a laugh from the audience, his eyes twinkling with mischief, ¡°¡ªOne has to believe that he desires above all else the happiness of his primary creatures. That this was his purpose in creating us. And if we believe we arose, from the nether, through sheer luck and might, then taking care of individual happiness, even focusing all our energies on it should be natural. But we have to help others do the same for themselves. Otherwise, it is meaningless. If we believe in individual happiness, we must believe in it for everyone¡ª,¡±

    I am bored out of my mind but there is thunderous applause at the end of his speech.

    Afterwards, people mill about in the grand hall, pecking at a feast. Dumplings and algae nubs, eel roe, decanters of wine, brew from the northern lands, banana flowers, lace pasties made from rare weeds so delicate they had to be hand-picked.

    ¡°I recognize these! We used to get them in our village. They must have imported them from there,¡± Pali says, putting one in her mouth. She wriggles through the crowd, pulling me with her. ¡°I loved your speech,¡± she says when she reaches Osiris. ¡°Particularly the bit about refugees.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡± His eyes are warm as he turns to us. ¡°May I ask what work you do?¡±

    Pali starts talking and I excuse myself to use the restroom. I am worried. Pali has always loved men who lie across a chasm, men impossible to love. ¡°We traveled a long way,¡± she told me once about her childhood, ¡°stopping little and sleeping even less, more than five hundred miles west across mountains and desert to find Raia.¡±Sometimes I pictures them crossing the miles. What longing might have driven such determination? In Pali¡¯s face, there is some of that hunger.

    I wander out into the patio which adjoins the grand hall. Laden with star jasmine and lit with golden strobes, it is a magical setting, but Pali is deep in thought as she stares at the grounds beyond, her dark eyes flashing. I try not to think about the heavy energy coming off Osiris. I don¡¯t mention it to Pali. She seems broody enough as it is. I practice my sensor on some unsuspecting people, get no images of interest beyond illicit love affairs and in one case, an unusually strong desire for cured meats.

    Afterwards, I tell Pali abut the Bhulg prediction and my search for Emi. She clutches my arm. ¡°Zaria! The Bhulg people are weird but their predictions were always accurate. The guy seemed to think the girl had passed on some condition to you, the same condition that causes those markings on the addicts¡¯ faces¡ª,¡±

    ¡°I tried but we¡¯re at a dead end.¡± I stare out at the abyss of the garden in the dark. ¡°The girl is connected somehow¡ªto everything, but I have no leads ¡±

    ¡°Slaughterhouse?¡± Pali runs hand over her eyes. ¡°Slaughterhouse. Slaughterhouse. There¡¯s something else. I don¡¯t know what to make of this but remember that slime I collected at the junkyard? I ran it through some tests and it had goat blood in it.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all connected to the shape-shifting potion,¡± I say slowly. ¡°But how? And who is making it?¡± I am exhausted and frustrated, the same questions circling my head.

    ¡°Maybe I can do some digging around,¡± she mutters. I am not paying enough attention to her in that moment so I don¡¯t say anything, don¡¯t warn her, don¡¯t insist she stay out of problems that are not hers to solve. Later I will wish I had said something.

 Interlude

    Pali follows a man through the market. His shoulder-length hair is dark, his eyes hooded and drawn. Her body feels fluid. She tries to remember why she is doing it. She has always liked someone who walks ahead of her, guide-like, parent-like, ever since she walked away from the mangroves with the women and left that life behind, left her father behind. She blinked the thought away, her father, bless his soul, buried by the tsunami. The village that drowned. Not a single survivor. The women, who were far away by then, listened to the news in silence. They observed a moment¡¯s silence for their dead husbands, then got up to light the cooking fires. They did not talk about the men they left sleeping in their huts. Or how they took the children and walked west when they sensed it was coming. Wouldn¡¯t want to wake the men, they whispered with red-stained lips. That was ten years back.

    The air resonant with morning bells. Shawl over head, Pali slips into another life, an old life. Her clan do not cover their heads anymore. Nor do they chew betel nut but these memories are as fresh for her as new clothes. Where we come from must remain behind us, the women said, shedding their saris and wrapping black leather skirts around themselves. We must forget, they said, cutting up their nets and forging iron spears that sparkled black. Hers lurked in the corner of the closet. I don¡¯t need it, the ugly thing. I don¡¯t belong with them. Pali believes she will find a way out of the dreadful destiny her clan has carved for themselves. She cannot deny carving knives fascinate her as do daggers. Anything with a blade. She ignores this fascination most days.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    The man¡¯s face turns toward her and this time, she notices a scar above the eyebrow. She looks like a woman built for strife, hair cascading down her back, eyes like charcoal. There is something sad in them but it is so deeply buried, it may not exist.

 SEVEN

    Stepping out of his hut the next morning, Ryz takes in the haggle of florists, fruit sellers, jewelers, fixers, and assorted vendors. Tensing his jaw, he flexes his fingers and a feeling descends on me; sounds are muted and my mind is calmer. It is delicious, languid, as if my neurons have stopped sparking. I want to say something more to Ryz but my faculties are giving way to something else, something deeper. Everything is clearer, more finely-etched. The buildings, their architectural details, blue walls, green shuttered windows. Mangoes glisten in vendor carts. A drop of sherbet blossoms in a glass. A car tyre rolls through a puddle of water, each droplet visible. I gasp in surprise. So Ryz is an Enhancer¡ªit¡¯s a rare ability, to sharpen the powers of anyone you choose. It¡¯s the opposite of my ability which can be used to make people duller.

    My power makes people view with me with suspicion and fear while his makes him an excellent ¡®team player¡¯. I am almost jealous.

    ¡°Some warning would¡¯ve been nice,¡± I say, trying to ignore how much I¡¯m enjoying the feeling.

    ¡°I don¡¯t give warnings,¡± he says, sullen. I can tell he doesn¡¯t want to help me. I wonder how Leela persuaded him.

    Now she pulls at his arm. ¡°Please Ryz, be nice. Remember those shoes you want.¡±

    ¡°Of course. You¡¯re paying him for this.¡± I say, sounding more bitter than I meant to.

    ¡°You think people work for free?¡± Ryz is on edge. As usual.

    Shaking off my irritation, I try to focus on the task ahead. If anyone knows more about the potion, it will be the runners, the secret errand boys of the city. Through nooks and crannies, they wander and lurk doing jobs for whoever will pay them¡ªbusiness tycoons, the cops, ganglords. They pick up secrets like lint in their cloaks which they are willing to sell for the right price sometimes, to the right person.

    We turn into a one of the more decrepit streets. Here, the buildings are crumbling and dirty water flows in the gutters. It is one of those areas which the city inexplicably forgot at some point. Raia is full of such places¡ªyou turn a corner and it¡¯s like falling into another world. It used to scare me in the beginning. The village I grew up in holds no such surprises. There are few people around and those that are pay little attention to us. It is only when somebody almost walks into me and Ryz pulls me aside with an impatient look on his face that I realize we are invisible. Apparently, he can do more than enhance other people¡¯s powers. I had not counted on his powers being quite so impressive and it unnerves me and I wonder again why he is hiding out in Kala Bazaar. And how has he managed to evade being drafted?

    He would be a prize catch for the Concilium. It is not the time or place for questions so I bite the inside of my cheek and remain quiet. After walking a mile or so, we are faced with the Gustad, a building with monstrous faces etched into its mud walls. Rusty pipes travel its length and it looks like the brainchild of a mad scientist obsessed with gargoyles. It is hideous.

    Inside, the building is hollow, walls between rooms having crumbled long back to create a cavernous space. There are no ceilings and the roof, high above, has holes through which sunlight lances in. Pigeons waddle, pecking in the dirt for bugs. In a corner of the large hall, four boys sit cross-legged around a game of cards, nursing sweaty green bottles of beer. They are aged between ten and sixteen. Their eyes are like grey marbles, whirring in their sockets.

    Leela approaches them while we hang back. Ryz is quiet, sweating as heheightens Leela¡¯s powers. I am also more alert to the brooding and secretive energy of the city¡¯s underground, its runners, the underdogs of crime, not just these four boys but everyone who comes to this space, almost overwhelmed by the sensations. A rose blooms in my mind. I have no idea what it means.

    Closing my eyes, I give in to the images crowding in, shapes I cannot distinguish from each other. Emotions flood me: anger, fear. A bitter fatigue cloaks all of it. This, I¡¯m guessing, is the boys¡¯ predominant energy. I cannot hear them but sense they are telling the truth.

    Once we¡¯re outside again, Ryz draws a shaky breath and coughs a few times, then drinks water from a dirty fountain even while grimacing at the mud that gets in his teeth. His face is pale. Lung-based side effects, I¡¯m guessing. We all have them; nobody likes to talk about it. How the use of our powers erodes our bodies. Talking about it would make us feel weaker and less useful to the Concilium. I turn to Leela. ¡°What did you find?¡±

    ¡°They know about the girl but not where she is. They think a man is after her, maybe more than one man. They don¡¯t know his name but he wears a orange bandanna¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Orange bandana¡ª,¡± something is troubling the edges of my consciousness.

    Leela cuts in. ¡°Yes, like the boys in Ki Gardens but she hasn¡¯t been seen there. She was last seen in the mountains, somewhere near the Celadion Underworld. Near the forest called Cretin¡¯s Angel.¡±

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°That¡¯s a good thirty miles away, to the north-west,¡± I say, trying to piece it together. Cretin¡¯s Angel is part of the contiguous hills that run from the ocean to the desert on the western edge of Raia. ¡°So she can¡¯t have anything to do with the stolen goats.¡±

    Leela looks as confused as me but Ryz is still looking a bit sick and she grabs his arm. ¡°Let¡¯s get you home.¡± Ryz nods weakly.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with him?¡± I ask because side effects are not meant to be this serious or this obvious, for that matter.

    She looks uncomfortable. ¡°It¡¯s because of me, because I¡¯m not fully human. It takes him more effort.¡±

    On the way back, we are all lost in our separate thoughts. Leela keeps a protective hand on Ryz¡¯s arm and he allows it. He doesn¡¯t look at her much but a faint blush creeps up his face, disturbing his usual pallor.

    The next day, I meet Leela at the foothills of the mountains and we drive up the crest. The temperature falls as we ascend and pine cones litter the ground, some the size of small rats. At a cha station near the top, we stop and Leela gets out, her body cold, curling into itself. I describe Emi to a vendor and ask if he seen her.

    ¡°No, no, here¡¯s your change,¡± he says, shaking his head and pushing coins at me. The flags on this summit are black, a sign that people around here do not like strangers. I step away from his energy¡ªthe smell of blood, eggs, the smell of lies. Is he lying to avoid contact or for some other reason?

    ¡°Are you sure?¡±

    The lines on his face deepen. Leela makes an impatient sound to indicate it is a waste of time.

    We get back in the car, drive on, and a few miles later, the official limits of Cretin¡¯s Angel begin. ¡°We should walk for a bit,¡± Leela whispers. ¡°See if you can sense something.¡±

    The forest is foreboding even during the day, its paths dark. The trees are taller here and more dense, their branches tangling together. Twisted trunks cover the forest floor. Leela examines the bark and earth for clues, peers into tree-holes. We go on like this for a few miles, sometimes meeting a lone forager, but for the most part, it is steep and deserted. Halting under a tree, I drink water. Leela collapses on a stump and pushes her long braids out of her face, glares at a leaf on the ground. It moves and shifts, revealing its insect nature. For a while, we remain like that, overcome by fatigue and the sounds of the natural world. Then, they continue.

    After what seems like half a day, I touch the bark of a tree and sense something. Human fear. Longing. Grit.

    Maybe Emi was here, walking among the Douglas fir that rises thirty feet into air, her feet bleeding and dirty, exhausted and scared, not knowing how far she had run or what miles lay between her and Sector 5, knowing only that she couldn''t stop, that she must keep on¡ªI slap a mosquito off my hand and it leaves a smear. It is deathly quiet. I¡¯ve lost Leela. She calls out. I run, tumbling through the forest until by a stream, I come to a stop and it is with horror because there she is, Leela, except she looks like¡­nothing. She is blurry, almost faded. Her pupils are darker than usual, almost forest green, almost black.

    ¡°Leela,¡± I say, an undertone of panic in my voice despite my effort to act normal. As if I see women growing wings every day because that is undoubtedly what¡¯s happening here¡ªin place of arms, she has wings, tiny at first and then as I watch, they grow in size, brilliant yellow with white spots. Leela looks at them in wonder, then moves them slowly, an experimental look on her face.

    I am afraid to speak again.

    From from tree to tree, Leela flies, touching bark more intimately than humans ever can. Minutes pass. Time has become a loop. Leela¡¯s body moves in the forest like a breeze. I wait.

    Leela comes back to herself in fragments as I watch, transfixed and discomfited at having witnessed something so private. She seems both bewildered and enchanted by what happened, but unafraid. ¡°I transformed,¡± she says, looking at her own hands with a sort of wonder. Her eyes are mesmerizing. One could drown in them.

    ¡°It¡¯s happened to you before?¡± I manage.

    ¡°No. Or maybe only once, a long time back¡ªI don¡¯t remember it clearly. I was very young. It was after something really bad had happened and I thought I was dreaming, hallucinating.¡±

    ¡°You weren¡¯t. I saw them.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard it happens to some of us but it¡¯s rare. Old magic.¡±

    She hesitates. ¡°I heard something.¡±

    ¡°What was it?¡±

    ¡°I think it was her.¡± She close her eyes and chants as if from memory. ¡°I¡¯m so hungry.A little further, maybe another animal I can hunt. The last one was so small.¡±

    A twig snaps at my feet. The forest rustles and sighs.

    ¡°Is that all?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yeah, the voice fades in and out. But it means she¡¯s been here recently. In the last two days. I wouldn¡¯t be able to pick up signals from earlier than that.¡±

    Without speaking much about it, we go back the next day and the next but find nothing further. After that, we return once or twice a week, reluctant to give up altogether. For a month or so, there is nothing, only the changing of leaves, the shifts in weather. By now, the girl could be anywhere but traveling to the mountain gives my days a structure, a form. After a time, I begin to enjoy the wandering, the conversations with Leela. I have almost forgotten the Bhulg warning, dismissed it as superstition. Perhaps, my over-wrought imagination saw the entire incident as more meaningful than it actually was. The thought is both terrifying and reassuring. By now, the search is an excuse to get out of the house, forget the worries around my future and the suspension.

    On the third week of our visits, Leela and I lose each other for a little while as we are prone to doing sometimes. We inevitably find our way back to each other so I¡¯m unbothered but when she calls out to me, her voice is pitched oddly and I clamber up the brush in her direction. When I reach Leela, my breath is fog and the trees are eerie, thickening in the dark as if they might pull me into themselves. Leela is staring at something on the forest floor. An animal. Quite dead. A variety of moose perhaps, it sprawls on the ground, body engorged and out of proportion, eyes open, mouth slack.

    ¡°What the hell happened to it?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Leela mutters, pointing to where next to the corpse, lies an egg. Large and luminous.

    A perfect blue egg, the size of a coconut, lying in the grass, rolling slightly from side to side. Unbroken.

    ¡°What is it?¡± I ask.

    ¡°No species I know.¡±

 EIGHT

    ¡°The poor will suffer the most. They always do. I know it sounds cliched, doesn¡¯t it? There goes Leela, still so affected by her childhood, by her own memories of being on the street.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to say that.¡±

    ¡°But people like you always do. You look at me and think, isn¡¯t it time she stopped talking about it? How to talk about poverty even¡ªall my words standing in the open like young cellphone towers.¡± When Leela speaks again, her voice is rough. ¡°Before I became one of the poor,I want to say I saw them everyday and felt it, saw it but I walked past on the way to school or back and saw nothing.¡±

    ¡°You were a kid,¡± Ryz says.

    ¡°There is a temptation here to insert wan faces, to say look at the physical signs. As if there needs to be proof, visuals before we understand. Things spelling out this is what it looks like¡ªhunger manifested. Brittle yellow. Stomach pain. Yes there were children. There was sky and fishermen¡¯s nets hanging between poles. Bodies upright. Bodies prone. Can you imagine, a woman like you from fancy lil village 6, what happens to the body in hunger?¡±

    That¡¯s not fair, I think.

    Leela is in a state. She seemed fine when we dropped off the egg at Leviathan yesterday. It seems like an unusual species so we thought that would be best and despite our lack of leads on Emi, it had caused some excitement, a minor reward for all our hunting. And weeks later, nothing has happened to me so I¡¯m guessing the Bhulg guy was mistaken about Emi passing on anything to me. We both agreed that he had been fanciful, perhaps, and parted in a good mood so I was surprised when she called me earlier today, frantic, babbling about a gang of vigilantes in the city, convinced they have something to do with the shape-shifting potion and Emi.

    Desperate for leads, I got in my car despite a roaring headache and hightailed it to Ryz¡¯s house where I was met with Leela ranting and unable to focus. It¡¯s been an hour and I¡¯ve got nothing useful out of her.

    ¡°I saw a child lying face down on the street once. Like she had appeared out of thin air.¡± she says. She is talking about the last time-spill. It is not a story most people want to recall.

    It was the year of the wolf moon. It hung low in the sky with its glittering ferocity, reminding people every night of the prophecy. It had been foretold that the next time-spill would happen under its watch but it had been a century since an inexplicable time snag reset the earth so there were those who scoffed at it. Still, at street cha stalls and in smoky bars, the fears gathered and proliferated. There were whispers over the mead they drank in those days. Conspiracy theories abounded.

    There are few records left from that time but hybrids like Leela can live a long time, the only living witnesses to how things went down. It was the little things at first. Small cracks in the structures that held life together. Mildly collapsed governments, tectonic shifts, quantum particles behaving in unpredictable ways. Once the momentum picked up though, there was little anyone could do. Continents went under or merged with each other. Strange species started to appear. One small country was wiped out by a new kind of worm. The wars and riots that followed wiped out most people. Most survivors became migrants and refugees, roaming the planet in search of pockets of peace, food, and in the end, water.

    It has taken half a century to build Tri¨¨ste again, only one of three or four lands that managed to retain some semblance of their old selves. It bears this legacy. A constant anxiety running through the veins of our people. How long before the next time-spill? And would we be so lucky next time?

    Leela¡¯s reaction is not uncommon among those who saw the old days and lived to tell the tale. Like all hybrids, she is ageless in appearance. Her weight has been steady since her thirties. Her hair is still luxurious brown. Her face never changes. Such elixir of youth would be in high demand if it could be passed on. Since that has been deemed impossible¡ªand there have been many unhappy experiments on hybrids over the years to arrive at this conclusion, she is as close to being worshipped as is possible in a godless state. Oh, we mention the old gods often¡ªBastet and Ra, Shiva and Vishnu, Athena and Zeus and Odin¡ªbut their use being declared null and void in Tri¨¨ste means all manner of worship is banned. Religion is recognized as farce, pantomime, myth. The stuff of make-belief.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Leela¡¯s rambling, on the other hand, is about things all too real. The scourge of poverty that spread across lands and the ghastly destruction in its wake. It is hard to imagine anyone living through that and not being frozen in a state of perpetual horror. Hybrids are known to be less emotional than humans but it has taken a toll on even the strongest of them. In any case, there are only a handful of them left in Tri¨¨ste. Much in demand at headquarters, they all work as informants, spreading their telepathic net across the country. And if sometimes they break down and weep, it is tolerated, even revered, as a sign of wisdom. I wonder how much her temporary transformation unnerved her yesterday. It¡¯s known to be rare. She seemed to take it in stride at the time but maybe this is some sort of delayed response. She is crying now, her face flushed, her hands quivering. I glance at Ryz, wondering if she needs to be dragged to emergency care, given a sedative. Once in a while, such extreme measures are required.

    He raises an eyebrow at me and gives the slightest shake of his head. His lip curls in a half-sneer. I can tell he thinks I¡¯m too trigger-happy with meds. I don¡¯t need the judgement right now and I almost erupt in frustration but Leela¡¯s next words stop me.

    ¡°I heard something last night. Not like usual. More than usual. A multifarious whispering, many voices shouting, a stampede. I don¡¯t know what I was hearing. What was it? Why won¡¯t someone tell me? It¡¯s never happened to me before.¡± Her eyes look wide and wild. A child¡¯s eyes.

    Avoiding Ryz¡¯s eyes, I take her hand. ¡°We¡¯ll figure it out,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll look at some of the Old Texts at headquarters. Maybe there¡¯s something in there that can help us.¡±

    ¡°Now,¡± she whispers. ¡°Please go and look now.¡±

    I am buried in the Old Texts for the rest of the day, wading through tomes on ancient languages, algae types and tree forms. If the texts have some order to them, I have yet to figure it out. A few hours of reading has led to nothing on eggs or shape-shifting girls so when the salamander lights up with a message from Pali, I am happy for the distraction but my relief quickens to worry. There are no words at the other end, only a frantic breathing which sends a ghastly finger of ear poking my insides. Before I can find out where she is, the line cuts off. There is no answer when I call back.

    I can sense Pali easier than other people but she is miles away. I come my eyes and possibly grunt with my efforts because I open my eyes to see two school kids laughing at me. Teenagers. Whatever. I try again. After ten minutes of this, I am no closer to knowing where she is. Frustrated, I hope out of seat and pace for a bit. The teenagers giggle some more. One of them points at my salamander and mouths ¡®crazy¡¯ to the other. I make an evil face at him and stumble out into the murky evening. I try to remember what Pali told me of her plans for the week and can¡¯t¡ªwhy wasn¡¯t I paying more attention? I try her number again. Nothing. Not even a ring. It is getting dark. Panicking now, I decide to try Kala Bazaar¡ªit¡¯s where Pali likes to go some evenings when she¡¯s had a hard day at work.

    As I walk to the car, an owl hoots, its long cry piercing the night like a dirge.

    The salamander buzzes again and it is Pali¡¯s voice, low and almost unrecognizable. She mumbles an address and I am already flying through freeways, past neighborhoods I know, not exactly Kala Bazaar but just beyond, towards the east where the grit becomes less glamorous, where tourists are warned not to venture. I am calling out mentally even though I know she can¡¯t hear me. The streetlights are a joke after a point. The doors are a confusion. Many of the houses here don¡¯t have numbers or they are obscured by age and dirt, mere smudges of address. I find an approximate number but not the right one. I slam open the door to a flurry of women in the midst of what looks like a seance. The next door opens to three men playing cards. Panic is making my vision blur. I have never heard Pali sound like that. I felt her terror in my bones. The streets are a whirl, a maze. Then, through the finest crack in a window, something, an essence of a known person, and I follow the scent like a visc-hound.

    When I burst in through the door, Pali is sitting by a pool of blackish substance. It is oozing out of a wound in the chest of the man lying next to her. Her eyes are vacant as I help her up, ignoring the stench emanating from the black ooze. I postpone all questions. It is not the time. ¡°We have to go,¡± I say as calmly as I can. ¡°Come on, come on.¡±

    As we shut the door behind us, I start a small fire to burn the house and everything in it.

 NINE

    We go to the ocean. It is where she wants to go. I wait while she walks into the water to wash off the blood. Afterwards, sitting on a rock, she tells me what happened.

    She had been following the man for a few days, drawn by nothing but impulse. A strange curiosity, she says. Her brow furrows. ¡°I could not understand it, which made me want to understand it even more.¡±

    On the third day, she entered the same store as him and he turned to look at her and it roused her instincts. It had started as a lark but something about his eyes cautioned her. Something about his manner.

    Outside two boys sat on the wall, kissing. A girl widened her mouth in a skull-grin. An oak leaf fluttered in dusty wind. So dry, Pali thought, licking dust off her lips. Always so dry.

    ¡°Hot in there, wasn¡¯t it?¡± He was behind her and she realized he had followed her out, was now expecting something from her¡ªwhat? Her mind whittled it down to the obvious possibility. She had decided against pursuing him. At least she thought she had, was almost certain, but certainty does not come easy to Pali. So he fell in step with her and she did not protest. It was just a walk. Besides his hands looked as if they worked with iron. She imagined them on her breasts. His body on hers, its substance. Some darkness was rearing up in her that she could not name, some urge to court danger.

    They walked past the colas and kadas, bags, brass ornaments, lime juice and lassi, the junk of centuries up for sale. The man walked slowly with the hint of a swagger. His eyes were on her face, sharp as the tip of her spear. He nodded at one or two people they passed. He had a serious face, a purposeful face, older than his years.

    ¡°You have a lot of friends here.¡±

    He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, gave a self-deprecatory smile. She considered running but was mesmerized by the smile. Since age nine, she had been trained to be strong and quick, to run and climb, to fight. Guards, they called themselves but they were elite assassins. Fast and untrappable. It was almost time for her to join them. She was determined to find a way out before the next initiation ceremony. Six months.

    Her mother was on her side. Laxmi Navya closed her heavy eyelids when the other women brought it up, and raised one sizable hand. She¡¯s young yet, give her time. Pali¡¯s frustrations had brewed within her for a long time. Her fears had become a hive of wasps, and this man was a welcome distraction.

    When they went into the Museum of Martyrs, she let the man take her hand. Her bag felt heavy against her side and sweat prickles her back, but her face remains impassive. It is easy for her to be sophisticated. When they came west, the first thing they learned alongside combat skills was an overt sophistication that would allow them to serve Concilium members, business tycoons, the highest military, and the force. The man was talking to her, his eyes flitting over her forehead, then her mouth. They were standing at the sacrificial well, a bottomless pit guarded by a fence.

    ¡°This was where the Tri¨¨sti died when they fought against the first immigrants,¡± he said. ¡°The immigrants were too powerful back then. Our people had to fling themselves into the well as a sacrifice to the gods.¡±

    ¡°Those were invaders. Today¡¯s immigrants are poor and powerless, nothing like the marauding hordes that landed so many aeons ago.¡±

    ¡°History repeats itself. We should learn from history.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s what that lesson means.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re one of those¡­the smart kind.¡± She noticed the aggression; she was drawn to it. ¡°What¡¯s the fence for?¡±

    ¡°So nobody else jumps. So nobody is tempted by history, its vertiginous pull.¡±

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    She looked into its depths, thought of the dead stacking up like slippers in there. Something desperate moved inside her and she wanted to forget this thought, this place, all this gloom. She wanted to do something wildly joyful.

    ¡°They suffocated to death. Imagine that.¡± He drew a breath, gazed into the pit. His eyes looked dead suddenly. As if someone had switched off a light. She wanted to bring it back.

    ¡°Shall we have some chai, or something else? Faha!¡± Sunlight rippled in her eyes. She smiled. It was a wide and trusting smile, an infectious smile, a smile that most would find hard to resist.

    ¡°I have some faha at home,¡± he said.

    He lived in a one-room hut, red brick with a low door. They stooped to enter. He poured two glasses of faha in the makeshift kitchen, gulped his down, then took off his shirt. He lay down on the bed, a ravenous expression on his face. Pali laughed, nervous now.

    ¡°Nice place,¡± she said, with false cheer, going up to the desk in the corner. The notebook on it looked expensive, engraved with a tiny golden rose in one corner.

    ¡°Don¡¯t touch that.¡± His tone was bland. ¡°It¡¯s a gift.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to,¡± she said, flashing him a smile, beguiling.

    He softened. ¡°Come here.¡±

    He was attractive, she thought, and it had been a while. Despite their growing friendship, Osiris had been a gentleman so far, oddly so, according to Pali. Maybe he wasn¡¯t that interested. And the sheets were clean and a high window looked out on a patch of sky. And during sex, an image always floated into her mind like a large blot of ink, an image she found intoxicating. Light or dense, always complicated. Mesmeric, even. The image heightened her pleasure.

    As their bodies entwined, he smelled of the air freshener sprayed at the temple. It reminded her of songs and pigeons, the sensuous swirl of orange cloth, the linger of perfume in breeze. In the black waters of her mind, something stirred and stirred.

    Later, when he got up to go to the bathroom, Pali leaped up. Hearing the shower come on, she carefully opened the notebook. Le Fleure. The words on the first page.

    ¡°You think you¡¯re so smart.¡± His voice at her shoulder. Pali turned. The man smiled. It was a sneering smile and it reminded her of everything wrong with the world.

    When he came toward her, his hands were like two bats, rough. She sprang away but he was too quick for her and tripped her up. She fell, the floor hitting her chest. As she tried to crawl away, he kicked her in the stomach. Her forehead smashed into cold concrete. She smelled its dust, vomited. He bent and caught a handful of her hair, then kicked her again for good measure. She vomited some more. Blood, this time. He caught her by the hair and pulled her upwards into a sitting position. ¡°I hate too-smart bitches like you. Who are you? Who do you work for?¡±

    ¡°Nobody,¡± she whispered, spat. The man let her sit up but his hand tightened, wounding her scalp. Strands of her long, black hair came off in his hands. Tears leaked out of her eyes. A flash of memory: her mother combing her hair, saying it would make her fortune.

    ¡°Who do you work for? I¡¯ll kill you if you don¡¯t tell me. And I will enjoy it.¡±

    She thought of her childhood, the creature in the water, [3/5/24, 11:16 AM In the end-reveal, tell the story of the creature.]its muscles. ¡°Please.¡±

    He loosened his grip slightly and in that instant, she pulled back a leg and struck him with it, putting all her strength in it, her considerable strength. He was taken aback. He had not expected it of a woman, especially one whom he had just bedded. Incensed, he slapped her hard and dragged her across the room. Throwing her in the bathroom, he locked it.

    Time passed. She did not know how many hours it had been but it was dark and she was hungry. Her stomach rumbled. The squeak of a rat. A scratching against tiles. She closed her eyes and prayed.

    The next morning, he opened the door and pushed a plate in with a piece of bread. She ate. She went to the window but realized it was barred and the thick glass let no sound out though she screamed. Every part of her body hurt.

    In the evening, he came in and hit her until she bled. She said nothing. There was a burning sensation near her ribs. In a half-lucid state, Pali dreamt of her childhood. Of mangroves and monsters. Of betrayal and destination. The bland white tiles of the bathroom floor began to merge into each other. The toilet bowl gleamed and dulled. Gleamed and dulled.

    On the third day, he came in, squatted down next to her, pulled her face up by the chin and looked in her eyes. What he saw there had a strange effect. He could not move.

    He remained struck as Pali struggled to her feet, fell over when she kicked him. Again. And again. His puzzled brain took it in but he was able to do nothing. Pali did not know what had happened to him and she did not care. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny silver knife almost invisible to the human eye. She had not been able to reach for it before this. She cut his throat before she could think about it. Blood spouted out of his mouth and he made a gurgling sound. As he closed his eyes, the blood changed from red to black, spurting. A continual stream.

 TEN

    Three months later

    The wedding is beautiful. A flock of doves is released into sky the color of bruises. Fire-eaters swirl and parade on the beach, kites spangle the air, and thousands of candles flicker for as far as the eye can see. The waves are calm and shimmering as Osiris holds Pali¡¯s hands over the fire, and her robes are burgundy like his, her veil the same rich color, her face behind it aglow with love. The priest pours oil into fire, heightening the flames. The flowers are a deep shade of maroon, almost black. Roses. The smile on Osiris¡¯s face could light up the heavens. Maybe he does love her after all. I slouch further back against the silk cushion of the seat and stuff fish gills into my mouth.

    That day, after we left the man¡¯s house, I drove in a state that was frantic and calm at the same time, foot steady on the accelerator, heart shaking with what I¡¯d done. I had covered up a death, a killing. I was an accomplice. But Pali was scared, her energy full of a fear so raw I was experiencing it as spasms all over her body and it was all I could think of. ¡°It¡¯s over. It¡¯s going to be okay,¡± I repeated despite the slurry in my head. ¡°You did what you needed to. You need to forget about it, move on.¡± I took Pali home later and put her to bed in the extra room. She fell asleep but whimpered in her sleep at intervals and I spent the night, waking to those sounds.

    I wince now, coming back to bright lights, shouts, celebration. The flames are lower now, the main part of the ceremony over. The radiant couple are greeting guests.

    What I know about Osiris is this¡ªhis parents died in a sea accident when he was in school. He took over the business at the time and now Alke Corp has interests in almost everything, especially gems, metals and pharma. Also, horticulture, which is a personal interest for him.

    Clouds. That¡¯s what I noticed when Pali told me that Osiris had proposed. Up in the sky where they scurried, white and plump. I tried to change her mind and failed. No exhortation worked, no reminder of how short a time she had known him. Pali was adamant. She argued with me, her voice a hiss in the wind. I was surprised and hurt ¡ª we had never really fought before this. She accused me of being jealous of her.

    The beach continued around us with its waves, sand, throw-ball players. I looked away from her. When did Pali find the time to decide on love? When did she go from thinking about death to allowing desire?

    As if realizing what she had said, Pali¡¯s face shifted to something like despair. ¡°You said I should move on. You said!¡±

    ¡°I did. I didn¡¯t mean¡ª,¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the perfect solution. I don¡¯t have to join my clan. He¡¯s so powerful, they can¡¯t get in the way. I get to move out. I get to have my own life, be free. Besides, we¡¯re in love! Why can¡¯t you believe that? You don¡¯t think someone like that could love me?¡±

    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    I stared at Pali, mute and miserable, filled with foreboding.

    ¡°You don¡¯t think I¡¯m good enough for him?¡±

    Pali pulled on her diving fins and walked into the ocean. Water swooshed over my feet which were tense, spasming. She was now a black speck in the distance. I drew a line in the sand with my big toe and another one, branching out from it. I drew a tendril.

    Getting up, I started walking, then jogged. Shells and crab paced underfoot. Tof birds circled each other on shore, calling in high voices. In the distance, a woman in black robes stood on the beach, looking in my direction. My feet quickened.

    Maybe Pali was right. My troubles had made me too afraid. Osiris was rich, handsome, successful, everything a woman could want. He would keep Pali safe, help her forget the terrible incident. If anyone ever did find out what had happened, Osiris had the resources to protect her.

    When I got back, Pali was lying on her stomach in the sand, her hair wet and sand-flecked.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m happy for you. It will¡­turn out fine. I¡¯m sure of it.¡± A tingle started in my hands but I ignored it. ¡°The wedding will be so beautiful. Coastal wedding, right? What color should the flowers be? Let¡¯s talk about the flowers. Roses, you¡¯ve always loved roses. We¡¯ll get them from that florist in the Caves. She has the best ones, god knows how, some magic perhaps.¡±

    Pali spoke with her face buried in her arms, her voice muffled. ¡°I need you,¡± she said. ¡°The family has refused to come. I don¡¯t have anyone else.¡±

    We haven¡¯t spoken much since then. She has been too busy and I don¡¯t want to intrude on their happiness with my mood of gloom and doom.

    After the wedding, I get home to find the lights have gone out. Everyone is in the grounds, standing around the pool with flashlights.

    ¡°Went out ten minutes back,¡± a voice says. Esha, my neighbor, nearly sixty with a sweet smile and short hair that turns up hopefully at the ends.¡°We¡¯ve called the manager. I had so much to pack. I am going to Omeira to visit my daughter.¡±

    I turn to her shadowed face. ¡°It¡¯s been a while. Three years?¡±

    ¡°Ya. I want to bring her here but they never approve it.¡±

    ¡°How old is she now?¡±

    ¡°Nearly eighteen.¡± Esha stares at her own palms as if they contain all answers. ¡°Every time I am afraid they won¡¯t let me came back but I have to see my daughter, no? Now I have not packed and lights are gone. I hate leaving things to the last minute. Why won¡¯t they approve her?¡±

    Esha¡¯s sadness makes me uncomfortable. It is a slow, piercing ache. Using the emergency light on my salamander, I venture up the stairs into my unlit apartment and sink onto the toilet seat. The sound of the flush is loud in the dark.

    As I wash my hands, my face is an outline in the mirror. Some instinct makes me brighten the salamander and in the glow, my breath catches. Beneath my right eye, there is a curved line, like a mark in ink. A tendril.

    As I watch, another mark loops out from it, and a third branches out from the second. Panic is a shark. My chest feels as if a hammer will break it. Half my face is covered with the markings, which are a luminous blue, almost black.

    I rinse my face, then scrub it. The marks remain stubborn. Dripping sweat, I scratch at them. My mind is a piston. I feel like I¡¯ve been poisoned. After washing my face a few more times, I give up, leave the bathroom, and light some candles. I check the markings in the half-lit mirror every few minutes. I spend the night pacing.

    They resemble the markings on the addict. It makes no sense¡ªI consumed no potion¡ªbut the Bhulg man¡¯s warning comes back to me. Contagious, he¡¯d said. Fear buzzes in my throat. I am shivering. I feel light as a feather, like anything could knock me over.

 Vladis

    It is the sky they will remember later. How it changes, each shade of purple or pink more magnificent than the one before. A finger-painting. Across the island, pools and ponds reflect color, shifting and playful. The creatures of Vladis splash in the waters, squealing in delight, climb in and out. Avoiding bogs, they tread water to rise out of muck.

    Everything about the island is oversized. Gigantic white flowers sprout in ponds and marshes. Mammoth birds with silver feathers peck at bugs. With a high cry, some fly up. A young creature answers, raising his head. The cry rises and falls in the evening sky like a clarion call.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    The creatures have existed on the island for a long time, in peace, far from most other land masses. Now as part of the island sinks underwater every year, they need a different place. A refuge.

    Late in the evening, low over tree-tops, they travel. A brood. Pointy, burnished heads shining gold in the sun. In the bogs, a loon calls. A young creature waddles into a lake, picks up trout with its delicate snout and chews. Its thick tail swishes with pleasure. There is a thundering in the sky. Nervous heads as the storm comes like a sudden pour. They rush toward the hills, bellowing, the young clambering onto the backs of elders, as the water now rears, snake head, as large as anything else in the land. Torrential rain. The ocean rises, a black mass like tar.

 ELEVEN

    Daylight brings a measure of relief. When I stumble to the mirror after a restless night, the markings are gone. I wash my face again, trace where the lines crawl. The possibility of Emi infecting me seems ridiculous. Or does it? I have begun to doubt my own sense of reality. What is possible versus what isn¡¯t. Some days, I fear I¡¯m heading into madness.

    My thoughts are fuzzy. The markings are gone but they could appear again. I know some people have episodes while others are stuck with them forever. Permanent scars. But in all my frantic research, I¡¯ve found no cases of contagion. Only active shape-shifters have been affected so far. Is it possible I imagined the whole thing?

    Still I visit the neighborhood doctor who can be counted on to be discrete, mainly because he forgets patients when they leave his clinic.

    Matty is in his garden, dressed in a beige overall, grey hair in a loose pony-tail. He listens to me while on his knees, tending to basil. Around him, the wild abandon of parsley, thyme and chocolate mint, releases its sweet ganache smell. Rosemary sticks up, sprightly. Varieties of sage, oregano, dill, curry leaves. Cilantro dies in great sheaves.

    After I explain, Matty straightens, moves his deft hands through the air. ¡°It could mean a new stage of energy. Something you haven¡¯t discovered yet.¡±

    We go inside to his clinic where on a green velvet sofa, medical books and journals compete with a snoozing cat. ¡°And you have not taken this potion?¡± he asks while examining me. ¡°They¡¯ve left nothing behind, whatever they were. Are you sure you¡¯re not imagining them?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Then you must have taken it at some party, by mistake. Maybe someone put it in your drink.¡±

    I tamp down my irritation. ¡°I¡¯m sure that hasn¡¯t happened.¡±

    Matty speaks as if every word requires a great deal of thought. A woodpecker taps away at a palm tree outside the window. ¡°Maybe you are sad? Are you sure that¡¯s not the real issue? Plain old sadness. It can make mountains under our skin, erupt like volcanoes in some inner space.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sad,¡± I snap. ¡°Maybe I just need stronger suppressants.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s impossible to tell what the mind does with unprocessed energy. A new manifestation of power. An old complaint. Maybe you should see a Healer.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like strangers touching me.¡±

    ¡°It could help you.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a bore. To explain myself, over and over again.¡± I want to sleep for many years instead of talking to one of the Healers. With their masked faces and hollow eyes, they creep me out. We are told only the most evolved beings qualify to be Healers. Why that must come with the fashion sense of an expired mummy costume, I¡¯m not sure.

    Matty pulls at his hair and fixes his pony tail. ¡°Some of the healing lies in the explaining.¡±

    Despite my pleas, he refuses to give me the pills. He is afraid of prescribing anything the HQ hasn¡¯t and I¡¯m not in a position to go tell them about this. They¡¯re still investigating the collision. I want to stay out of their way until they clear me.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    The next time the markings appear, I am outside. Walking past a store window, I notice my reflection with horror. The tendrils have formed a chiaroscuro down my cheeks and around my mouth, the pattern almost beautiful. I take to wearing a hooded cape when I go out. The markings come and go with no predictability but always disappear in a few hours. It¡¯s not too much trouble. They are never permanent and people are used to those who look different¡ªafter all, alternate species and Kild have been around for a long time.

    I ache to tell Pali but she hasn¡¯t called since the wedding. I wonder if it¡¯s safe to call, then wonder why I thought of the word safe. Osiris is just a man.

    Researching the potion and its possible cures leads me to blackmarket shops and bootleggers. I hang out at traffic junctions where men in masks ply illegal herbs. I scour shops selling potions and incense in Kala Bazaar. At one of these, somebody recommends Dr Miro¡¯s Apothecary and I go looking for it in the Selgrid Caves one afternoon.

    It is damp in there and cold at all times of the year but some species like living in those conditions: certain Kild, newer squam who want to move in from the outskirts and have the money, some migrants. Fronds of staghorn fern hang over the entrance, a live curtain. I tramps past shops selling electronic devices, Kild equipment, pills. Above the shops, people live in tiny dwellings lined with raccoon hide on the inside. The walls of the cave ascend to a ceiling overgrown with ferns and moss. Thousands of selgrid hang upside down, round heads wobbling, red eyes casting light over the walls and floor of the cave. Their wispy bodies and monkey-like faces make me uneasy. In the glimmer of lanterns, the shops seem to grow closer together. A child¡¯s face appears in a dwelling above, curious and resigned.

    Dr Miro¡¯s apothecary is announced by a nameplate embossed with gold letters. The murky glass door whispers shut. My eyes adjust to the light and I see a stooping man with a mustache, two rd sideburns that jut out on either side of his face like horns. He sets down a glass of water before me. It looks suspiciously earthy. I hand him a note, which he reads without expression, then disappears into the back. It is safer, I¡¯ve heard, to not speak around here so I take in the shop. Cabinets line the walls, each of them containing tomes on ancient symbols. The tinted glass-paned counter holds mysterious equipment, vials of serum, de-addiction microchips. I leaf through a book and something catches my eye.

    Birds were first caged in ancient Ravensland. For their beauty. The motivation for caging has not changed through the time-spills. It is about what they contribute to our lives. Their needs are unimportant. Caged birds sometimes exhibit destructive abnormal behaviors such as feather plucking, excessive vocalization, fear and aggression. This should not be attributed to suffering. They may be prescribed certain drugs to control the behaviors.

    When the doctor comes out of the room with an envelop and hands it to me, I take the plunge and ask. ¡°Can someone get the markings without taking the potion?¡±

    ¡°You haven¡¯t touched the water. There¡¯s nothing wrong with it.¡±

    He seems offended so I take a sip of the brackish liquid. A bit of seaweed catches on my tongue. ¡°The markings, you¡¯ve seen them?¡±

    ¡°Sometimes.¡± He rings up my purchase, squinting at me through the shadows. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you this. Between two Kild, anything can be happening, hasn¡¯t been studied enough, that kind of energy exchange. I¡¯m sure they are doing research at the big labs but where they be releasing such things to us? We have to figure it out on our own.¡±

    As I make my way out, the selgrid seem to have come lower down the walls. The shops are a claustrophobic mess, angles jutting out oddly. A spasm at my neck. I touch the tell-tale indentation of tendrils on one cheek and shudder.

    At home, I mix the herbs with water, drink the bitter concoction, say a small prayer, moving my mouth over the forbidden syllables I read once in a book. I am so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss the message that comes in. Some is interested in renting my extra room. I had forgotten all about the ad I put up at the store. The timing couldn¡¯t be worse but I need the extra money. I agree to meet the girl the next day.

 TWELVE

    Saira Lian sits on a chair as if she would rather not be sitting down. As if her limbs, clad in flaming red shorts, would rather grapple with something. A tree perhaps. Or a mountain. It is the muted green of old lichen, her skin. I haven¡¯t any other response and I¡¯m I¡¯m feeling a bit desperate but I pretend to have choices, conduct an interview of sorts. ¡°You¡¯re from Village #10¡­why do you want to move to Raia?¡±

    ¡°Work. I¡¯m a herbal designer ¡ª you know what that is? I want to work here in Raia ¡ª and I¡¯m taking a few courses at the academy.¡± Crossing and uncrossing her legs at the ankles, she gives me a grin which manages to be cheeky and prim at the same time.

    I narrow my eyes, more from fatigue than suspicion. Herbal designer sounds fancy and vague. ¡°You make plant arrangements? You¡¯re Kild, you said in your application. How did you escape draft?¡±

    ¡°My father paid the Concilium. Do you have a lot of applicants?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s your ability? If you don¡¯t mind me asking.¡±

    Running a hand through her crisp red hair, Saira shrugs, then presses her palms together. When she draws her hands apart, there is a stem, brilliant green, and leaves sprouting from it. ¡°Fairly harmless,¡± she says. ¡°Been doing it since I was six. I¡¯ve got all the certification ¡ª here¡­.¡± With a swirl of her hands, she disappears the vine and briefly, the veins on her arms are illumined. She rummages in a satchel at her feet while I try to sense her energy but a wall ricochets off her body. It is a startling sensory response, only practiced by those with rare talent and the urge to be secretive. Biting back my curiosity about what Saira may be hiding and why, I ask when she can move in.

    ¡°A month from now? I¡¯ve got a job at a herbarium in Kala Bazaar and I want to start work there soon.¡± She is giving me an amused look, mouth all crooked, as if she¡¯s guessed my failed attempt to sense her.

    ¡°I¡¯ll show you the rest of the apartment,¡± I offer, standing. ¡°We¡¯re on the third floor. There¡¯s some outdoor climbing equipment in the grounds.¡±

    ¡°Sure you don¡¯t have more questions?¡± she asks with a sly smile.

    ¡°Yeah, all good.¡±

    As we climb the stairs which run down the eastern length of the building, we hear someone. ¡°Do you know what they are doing? What they are allowing?¡± It is a woman¡¯s voice, high-pitched and frantic. She is at the threshold of an open door, talking to someone inside the apartment.

    ¡°Stop being insane.¡± A man¡¯s voice, gruff as iron nails. ¡°Get inside. I¡¯m sick of your hysteria.¡±

    Saira clenches her fists. So she has a temper.

    ¡°Inside!¡± The voice again, more urgent this time.

    The woman complies, banging the door behind her but we can still hear her. ¡°The warrant on your head from last time is still not dry.¡±

    ¡°What if she¡¯s in danger?¡± Saira demands.

    Getting involved with other people has brought nothing but trouble recently so I shake off her question. ¡°I¡¯ll keep an eye out for her.¡± I say.

    Reluctantly, Saira follows me to the climbing ropes which she swings up with ease, immediately looking freer, happier. ¡°How¡¯s the air down there?¡±

    ¡°The place is empty in the afternoons,¡± I call out. ¡°Lots of time to practice.¡±

    Are they cagey about us? The neighbors?¡± she asks when she comes down after a few minutes.

    ¡°Not really but best not to attract too much attention.¡±

    ¡°Is that why you dress like that?¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡± I look down at my functional black shirt and pants.

    ¡°Sorry, that was rude. Are you still giving me the room, are you?¡±

    ¡°I need the rent to start as soon as possible.¡± We agree on a week from the date and she shakes my hand with a mischievous grin. I¡¯m not sure what the shared joke is but I can¡¯t help smiling back.

    The central square of Kala Bazaar is wet with rain and pigeon-filled, the street below my feet amber and tawny, the stones shimmering. Dust motes troubled by sunlight. Boys flick jade marbles.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    I feel a familiar sensation of calm, a wash of relief,and Ryz emerges from behind a pillar. ¡°Leela will meet us there,¡± he says, sauntering up to me. I dislike the fact that he affects me like this so I scowl at him, well aware that I¡¯m being childish. I don¡¯t feel like being mature today. He¡¯s eating peanuts. What is it with these two and their peanuts?¡°Where¡¯s there?¡± I snap. ¡°Has she found something on Emi?¡±

    His eyes are broodily fixed on my hair for some reason. I check the scrunched-up burst on top of my head to see if it¡¯s any different. Nope. Still scrunched up and bursting.

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with it,¡± Ryz says. ¡°I was just¡ª,¡±

    The blare of a high-pitched siren interrupts us as people scatter in panic. Officers have caught someone, stunned them most likely. The sound has come from the fish market, a building of white marble over which hawks circle continually in hope of food scraps. Now they fly lower as if sensing blood. I start toward the source of action with no fixed plan but Ryz grabs my arm.

    A shriek of wounded birds. One of the officers must have fired upwards. My internal energy circuits are going crazy as pigeons beat their lament against stone and air. Women gather their children. Shops down their shutters.

    ¡°It¡¯s only a boy,¡± someone says, flurrying past. ¡°They¡¯re using this stuff with Pliesia to act out.¡±

    My neck spasms. The victim will be inert for weeks, months even, in a cell underground where he will wake, frightened and ravenous, wondering where time went. I¡¯ve always hated the concept of stunning. To send people underground while they¡¯re unconscious seems inhuman. They wake to the dark, unsure of how they got there.

    ¡°What stuff with Pliesia?¡± I ask Ryz.

    ¡°Have you been in a coma?¡± he growls. ¡°Started two days back when officers raided an abandoned warehouse around here and found more goat meat and a hundred tons of explosive. They¡¯ve been on high alert since then. Ergo, they¡¯re acting out. Everyone¡¯s terrified of being taken in for questioning. There are rumors of a gang making this stuff.¡±

    We¡¯re on the move now, passing closed shops, then stone walls on one side and the river on the other. Canoes carry people back and forth on gentle waters, seemingly unaware of the violence just unleashed a few miles away but Ryz is right. There is a palpable current of fear in the air.

    ¡°Emotions are running high among Pliesians but most want to keep their heads down and do their work,¡± Ryz says as we turn into his street. He pushes open the now familiar blue door of his hut. ¡°They¡¯re scared to risk the life they have here, poor sods.¡±

    Inside, I stand by the window, awkward. Ryz is sweating even on this cold day. It seems like his body does not have adequate thermal defenses and for a second, something in me softens towards him.

    ¡°What is it?¡± he asks, catching my look.

    ¡°Nothing.¡± I shake off the feeling. It¡¯s clear the guy despises me for some mysterious reason.

    The door rattles and Leela bustles in, a profusion of red and gold, her arms full of brass bangles. She plonks down a crate full of bottles. ¡°Here is the faha you asked for.¡±

    ¡°Partying while the world burns?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Tomorrow,¡± Ryz says. ¡°Want to come? Have some fun for a change? On second thoughts, you¡¯ll probably pass out or something.¡±

    Leela washes her hands at the sink and gulps down some faha, then hurrying to the window, peeks through the shutters. ¡°I was followed,¡± she says. ¡°There¡¯s someone who comes to the center, a recovering shape-shifter, or that¡¯s what he claimed. A few days back, I looked at the records and saw there has been no evidence of him taking the potion. None.¡±

    ¡°Why would he come to the center if he¡¯s not a shape-shifter?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know but he¡¯s been following me. What¡¯s going on with you?¡±

    I tell her about the markings. Her expression of concern threatens to melt my steely expression. I am half braced for Ryz to laugh at me but he casts an odd glance at me and goes to the kitchen, gets busy opening packets of food, ladles curry and rice into steel bowls. ¡°We should look for the girl,¡± he says. ¡°If she passed on something to you, she may know how she did it or be able to reverse the effect.

    I do a double take. Since when is he interested in helping me?

    ¡°It¡¯s not because of you,¡± he says. ¡°I have a hunch.¡±

    ¡°You have a hunch?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Gut feeling. Instinct. Intuition.¡±

    ¡°I know what hunch means.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all connected somehow ¡ª the potion, the contraband meat, the girl, the guy following Leela¡ª we need to find out more before something else goes wrong.¡±

    ¡°Thank you for catching up.¡±

    He ignores my snark. ¡°I think, this gang is making the potion or selling it or involved somehow. Maybe they¡¯ve got wind of Leela investigating¡ª,¡± He points a finger at her. ¡°You need to be more careful. You could be in real danger. These people are trouble.¡±

    Leela tosses her head. ¡°I¡¯ll be okay, I¡¯ve handled worse rats than this.¡±

    Being semi-immortal does make Leela slightly arrogant. I am thinking of how to put this gently when Ryz¡¯s voice cuts through the haze. ¡°Stop being daft. There¡¯s no reason to give in to such hubris.¡±

    ¡°Hubris?¡± Leela guffaws. ¡°There¡¯s your fancy-schmancy education showing itself. Why don¡¯t you go back home, go back to school like a good boy. That¡¯s where you belong.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t mean it badly. Her tone is rough but her vibe affectionate. I can tell she wants what¡¯s best for him. She fixes me with her glittering eyes. ¡°What should we do first? You could snoop around at HQ, see if they know something.¡±

    ¡°Are you kidding, I can¡¯t¡ª,¡±

    ¡°¡ªwith Ryz¡¯s help. You won¡¯t be alone! He can keep you cloaked. They won¡¯t know you¡¯re there.¡±

    ¡°Leela, I¡¯m already in a mess. They¡¯ll send me underground¡ª,¡±

    ¡°You want us to help you but you can¡¯t lift a finger to help yourself?¡± Ryz¡¯s tone is curt but the derision is unmistakable. He clanks bottles into the fridge without looking at me again. A cricket on the wall chirps. Leela casts another glance out the window. The man is still there, lurking at a cigar stall. It seems like we have run out of ideas.

 THIRTEEN

    Dinner is always elaborate in my parent¡¯s home. Soup, two kinds of cooked vegetable, salad, rice, meat curry, fish curry, dessert. After living on canned food and pills, I am ravenous.

    ¡°You¡¯re not eating properly in the city,¡± mother says. ¡°Eat more. Here, eat more, take this.¡± She ladles curry onto my plate, steaming rice. Wine flows around the table. The candles burn high.

    Alezan is voluble as always. ¡°Sedimentary stone comes from organic elements such as glaciers, rivers, wind, oceans, and plants. The pieces are tiny and they bond over millennia. This rock does not seem to be made of tiny pieces. Limestone is calcite, smooth, can be polished. This is not smooth. Sandstone is durable sand. Quartz grains. Soapstone is soft and made of talc. Clearly, this is neither. Then there¡¯s the stone made of sea-shells and plants. Travertine contains holes and¡­,¡± And so on. I indulge him. I have never known my real father; mother refused to speak of him, said he did not matter. Alezan is all the father I¡¯ve known.

    Our talk turns to the Celadion Underworld, a grotto rumored to lead into past worlds. Runes. Secrets. Nothing has ever been found down there. Alezan tells me stories about the many explorers who have vanished in their quest to find what lies beneath that ground.

    In all the excitement, I almost forget my problems until dessert when my mother sets her fork down. ¡°Zaria, you must go back to your old position, you must find a way to convince them that you were innocent.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do,¡± I mumble. The respite was short-lived.

    ¡°The force is where you belong.¡±

    ¡°I hate being there. I was going to do the tests. Now they won¡¯t let me.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the only good thing to come of this.¡± Mother pushes her chair back, looking stricken, and leaves the room.

    ¡°Zaria, leave it please,¡± Alezan says, shaking his head when I rise to follow. ¡°She¡¯s been worried about you, that¡¯s all. She thinks you¡¯re safer as long you work for the force.¡±

    ¡°Safer? How? I have to put myself in danger all the time.¡±

    He shakes his head, looking as baffled as I feel, and I force myself to continue spooning flan into my mouth. For all his knowledge, Alezan is clumsy and innocent when it comes to mother. I get it. Even I have never been able to tell what my mother is thinking or feeling. Or control it, for that matter. My powers have no effect on her.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    At night, I dream of a maze of rooms and wake at dawn, three steps from burning. A fever. Egg-yolk dawn outside the window and the view is endless fields, rolling hills in the distance, prairie grass.

    Mother appears at the door, already dressed for the day in black robes and shawl. The fog of illness overcomes me. I close my eyes against the spasms. The bed is hot. Ants crawl on the inside of my skin. The past and present become a mix in my head.

    Once my mother bit a tree in anger.

    Once she cooked and served perfect yellow marigolds like egg yolks.

    Often, she walked into the street, barefoot and looked up at the sky as if searching for something.

    I have never questioned these things, merely accepted them as part of her. Like her height or the shape of her nose.

    Children will forgive their parents anything. It''s the biological need to survive. I don¡¯t remember ever being angry with her. Only her voice in the night, whispering to Alezan when she thought I was out of earshot. ¡°But she is so ordinary, so very weak, even her powers are so useless. What am I to do?¡±

    I sleep most of the day and wake with a start in the cool dark. A breeze floats through the open window and the fever has passed. A sound drifts up from the lower floor; mother is singing an unfamiliar tune. I find her in the living room, tending to the indoor plants which frond and frolic, green beans shooting out of them.

    After dinner, the fire casts a warm light on brick walls in the study where we settle to read. The wind is high outside and the candles flicker, casting long shadows on the walls. Mother dislikes white lights so the house is lit by fires and candles most evenings.

    ¡°What were you looking for, in my hands?¡± I ask. For this is what she did in the morning when she came into the room, examined my hands, then gave me a strong medicine that tasted like ironweed floss.

    ¡°Nothing.¡± She sets down her knitting. ¡°I must go check on the dogs.¡±

    ¡°The dogs are right here.¡± Alezan points at the white retrievers snoozing at his feet.

    ¡°There they are,¡± she says as if in surprise. ¡°I''ll just close the windows in the other room then. It might rain.¡±

    ¡°The new medication¡­,¡± he says as she leaves the room. ¡°It makes her less sad but she is so distracted.¡±

    Outside the window, the backyard is lit by soft lanterns. Red geranium blooms in oak barrels. I wonder why it is always so much cleaner than the front, why she has never liked working in the front yard.

    Mother comes back and settles in an armchair, surveys her knitting project which nestles in a basket near her feet. She does not take it out, tucks her hands under her shawl instead as if she is cold.

    It strikes me that she¡¯s aging. On impulse, I go to her chair and standing behind it, wrap my arms around her shoulders. Mother sticks her pale arms out of the shawl to clasp my hands for the briefest moment.

 Interlude

    It takes Saira six hours by train to get to her village. Her father is still at the bar so she creeps into the house and falls asleep. Her hair does not spread out on the pillow. It is too short for that, a fact her father hates. Saira can¡¯t remember the last time her father loved anything. She sleeps, eyelids trembling as if beneath them, flit a terror they do not want to witness.

    That green skin will be your ruin, her ma said before her death. By that time, she was gibbering with pain and barely lucid. A voice from far away, as if part of the dream. Wake up¡ªbut she is still in the dream, walking in the forest now with someone breathing harsh and quick. She runs, thrashing through the twigs and branches, her face becoming bruised and scratched, and still the breathing continues. There is no sound of footsteps. As if the person is floating on forest floor.

    Saira opens her eyes to her father¡¯s face. ¡°Wake up, you¡¯ll be late,¡± he says, laying clothes out: a delicate white maxi dress, a hat. She will swap these out later. She moves her fingers in sunlight, flexing in an ancient rhythm to make a few quick plants, set them in jars of water on the window sill. Nothing good happens to show-offy little girls. Keep your head down, keep your voice low. The world will eat you alive if you attract its attention. Ma¡¯s voice again. She gets dressed, eats eggs in relative silence. Only the crackle of the newspaper as her father turns pages. Only the lone magpie outside. Only the cricket on the curtain rubbing its legs.

    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Later, Saira climbs a sequoia tree in the nearby forest. Relaxing on a high branch, she calls out and a loon answers. An eagle soars close. The village stretches around them, its deep green forests laid out like blocks. In between them, log cabins. The wooden walls remind her of dead trees. She grasps a bunch of rough, pointed leaves and chews idly. Monstrous, her father calls it; this ability to eat raw leaves from any plant. Why can¡¯t you be more civilized? Like your mother.

    Eyes up to the sun, she stretches with the pleasure of her defiance. Her shorts are orange today, the shade of sequoia bark.

 FOURTEEN

    I return to a city at war with itself. When the first Pliesian house is blown up, there is shock and outrage but not enough to stop the shooters from entering the second and killing 5 people. The Concilium denounces these acts and launches a hunt for the gang which has issued a set of demands including more jobs for Raia ¡°natives¡±, stricter entry rules for other Tri¨¨stiand a complete ban on all foreign refugees.

    That evening, darkness falls over the city, over the streets of central Raia, over the bridge els, stacked stone and construction sites, across fancy schufons, tenements and hovels, past oil drills moving like slow cobras, over boulevards of broken dreams and grit-filled mouths and hungry hands. I am in the dark living room, clenching and unclenching my hands, feeling the raised tendrils on my face. The food in the house is over. I have no choice by to head out. The girl at the grocery store is used to my hooded face by now and I avoid making eye contact.

    Afterwards, on some strange impulse, I drive past the houses of the dead. Their ramparts seem torn open to the sky, their beams lost and purposeless. The debris has still not been cleared and there are streaks of human blood and feces in places.

    I have to stop the car to retch. And when I see the black bile I¡¯ve emitted, a mix of revulsion and fear curls in my stomach. I drive home in a fogged state and find an unlikely visitor. Standing outside the gates of my schufon is Ryz.

    He looks as if he hasn¡¯t slept in days. I sense he is in a state of deep shock, waves of it ricocheting off his body.

    ¡°What is it?¡¯ I ask.

    ¡°It¡¯s Leela. She¡¯s gone.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean gone?¡± I scan his face, confused, then lead him into the house where he stands in the middle of the room as if he doesn¡¯t know what to do.

    His voice is flat when he speaks. ¡°If I had not been tired, maybe I would have seen what happened.¡±

    ¡°How did she¡ª?¡±

    ¡°We were at the top of the tower. Leela leaned off the railing at the tower to see how far she could lean without feeling afraid. I love this city so much, she said, and laughed. Childlike. She was such a topophiliac. It means someone who loves places. It¡¯s not a common emotion but some people feel like they¡¯re in love with places. Geography. Topography. Architecture. That kind of thing. Places had always held her far more than people had. Her eyes lit up like fairy lights.¡± He coughs, looking stunned. ¡°This was our Friday evening routine¡ªto explore the city like tourists. It started when I first moved to Kala Bazaar and told Leela I wanted to explore the city. She offered herself as guide. In time, I realized she enjoyed the excursions as much as me.¡±

    ¡°Ryz¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Leela was leaning out. The next thing, her body was in the air. I was trying to catch her. I couldn¡¯t. I watched Leela¡¯s body fall. Like a piece of cloth. I ran down the stairs, by the time I got there, it was gone.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean gone?¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t there. The body. She was gone. I don¡¯t know¡ª.¡± He looks around my room wildly as if she might be hiding in a corner.

    ¡°Sit down,¡± I tell him.

    He sits on the couch, staring blankly into space.

    My mind is whirling. The doorbell, like an unholy jangle. Some delivery or the other. We ignore it. My hands are shaking. Leela¡¯s bright smile, her green skirts, her vehement finger in the air when she was making a point.

    In the dim light, Ryz¡¯s face is ghastly, desperate. He looked as if he has aged a few years. A faint odor hangs about him as if he hasn¡¯t been showering. I shake myself out of my stupor. ¡°You have to eat something.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not hungry.¡±

    ¡°It is very hard for a hybrid to die. Maybe she was injured. Somebody must have taken her to a hospital. Have you checked the hospitals?¡±

    ¡°Nothing.¡±

    ¡°You have to eat something.¡±

    He shakes his head, but I boil some eggs anyway and he eats them without salt, slowly and in silence. After he¡¯s done, we go over questions for hours. The room is humid with fog and unshed tears.

    We''ve been following some members of the gang,¡± Ryz says. ¡°One of them visited the refugee camps twice in the last two weeks. The gang is an anti-immigrant organization. So what is he doing volunteering at a refugee center? I want to do what Leela wanted, go to headquarters and see if we can find something.¡±

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    I set aside my fears about what would happen if I was discovered. I owe Leela this. ¡°We¡¯ll go tomorrow,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯ll have to use my powers I guess, stupefy people who see us. There¡¯s no¡ª,¡±

    He hesitates. ¡°I should tell you something.¡±

    I wait.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to. I¡­I¡¯m not just an enhancer.¡±

    ¡°What else?¡±

    He speaks two syllables that send a shudder through me. ¡°The fog.¡±

    I probably gasp or make some sound because he casts a quick, furtive look at me as if he might have stumbled upon a trap. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t tell. I¡¯m just surprised.¡±

    ¡°The fog of palimpsest¡­¡± I stammer.

    Ryz¡¯s eyes are quiet when he nods. It is the oldest known power, possessed so rarely that only one such is born in a generation. The ability to be invisible, and to make others invisible. It¡¯s one of the few powers the Concilium is unable to control and I understand now why Ryz hides out in Kala Bazaar. He would be gold for the force, a goose they¡¯d never stop mining for eggs. I want to ask more questions but it would be intrusive and this is not the time. We talk some more about Leela, going over the same scenarios, over and over, and at some point, Ryz falls asleep, curled up on the couch like a boy. ¡°When you die, you just don''t ever do anything ever again¡­,¡± he mumbles.

    By the time I wake the next morning, Ryz has already left. A washed cup by the sink tells me he helped himself to cha but nothing else. When he returns at noon, he is wearing shades and a uniform that looks very much like officer¡¯s gear. Camouflage. From afar, he could pass off for someone in the force. Just in case. When we enter the main building at headquarters, we are already cloaked. The sensation of being enwrapped in Ryz¡¯s fog is calming, as if I¡¯m in a warm bath. I¡¯m afraid that sound will give us away but loud sirens and other mechanical noises of HQ drown out our human footsteps.

    We slip past security unseen but outside Eniad¡¯s office, I am uneasy. We have to wait until she leaves. From behind the door, her voice is a low rumble and then, a deep, gravelly voice that belongs to another. The energy is a lurching, powerful thing. A lure. I recognize it. Osiris Manatios.

    ¡°If this is true, they must be stopped,¡± Osiris says, ¡°but the Corporation can¡¯t lend its mercenaries at this point. They¡¯re busy with issues on the Omeiran border.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re looking at civil unrest,¡± Eniad says. ¡°Citywide destruction. Targeted killings.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re a tiny group, Lori. Hang on for a bit. Let¡¯s get the situation in Omeira under control and my guys will be free to investigate whatever this little group is up to.¡±

    I have never heard anyone call Eniad by that name and some instinct makes me back away.

    ¡°What did you get?¡± Ryz hisses as I pull him into a nearby bathroom.

    I tell him in low whispers. ¡°She goes to the training center at noon, we will have one hour at that time to¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Sshh.¡± His face tenses and he pulls me closer as someone opens the door. Osiris strides into the room, his tread heavy. My breath is caught like a bird. Osiris pauses, sniffs the air, then goes into one of the cubicles. I clutch at Ryz¡¯s t-shirt as we try to stay as still as possible.

    When Osiris emerges, he washes his hands, remains standing before the mirror for a while. He wipes his hands and applies moisturizer from the little bottles lined up on the shelf. Excruciatingly slow seconds. Ryz grimaces in concentration. A drop of sweat winds its way down his face.

    Osiris sniffs the air again, as if he can smell us. I feel the inconvenient urge to giggle. When he leaves finally, I drop to my haunches. ¡°Too close.¡±

    Ryz lets out a breath. ¡°I agree. We should¡¯ve gone into one of the stalls.¡±

    ¡°What if he decided to come in there.¡±

    ¡°That would¡¯ve been unpleasant.¡±

    And at that, we¡¯re both laughing, despite shock and heartbreak, guilty about finding laughter in ourselves at such a time.

    Eniad is still in her office and we have no choice but to give up. I almost punch the button in the elevator. ¡°I hate being here,¡± I say.

    ¡°Nobody can see you.¡±

    ¡°What if there¡¯s a Kild around with x-ray vision or something?¡±

    ¡°That would be unfortunate.¡±

    ¡°Maybe this isn¡¯t the best plan.¡±

    ¡°You have a better idea?¡±

    We are outside by now, walking quickly to where we¡¯ve parked three gullies away.

    ¡°Maybe we should go back to the camps,¡± Ryz says as we get in the car.

    ¡°What are they like?¡± I ask, curiosity taking over.

    ¡°People packed in like bugs. Children crying. Not enough hygiene or water.¡±

    ¡°Why did you go there?¡±

    ¡°I was curious. I¡¯d read about them in class.¡±

    He stares out the window and I sense a tension between us. Maybe I overstepped by asking a personal question. In working together to find Leela, I forgot his earlier disdain.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to¡ª,¡± I start to say.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t do anything.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Stop apologizing. Your guilt is getting tedious.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s out of line.¡±

    ¡°Tell me I¡¯m wrong. You¡¯re laboring with it right now. I can¡¯t read minds like Leela but I can see that.¡±

    ¡°If I¡¯d listened to her and followed up on the gang¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Do you always make it about you?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not fair. If you¡¯d rather be alone, you can get off here,¡±

    He shakes his head quickly. I drive in silence for a while, exhausted and irritated, but trying to be patient because I know he is in grief.

    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right,¡± he says. ¡°This is pointless. I¡¯ll keep trying to find out more about this gang. I¡¯ll call you if I need you.¡±

    ¡°I want to help.¡±

    It takes more energy for me to cloak both of us and right now, I¡¯m not high on energy.¡±

    ¡°Why did you involve me in this then?¡±

    ¡°You know your way around HQ.¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you¡­come over for a while?¡± I am as surprised by my offer as he is. ¡°I mean¡ªI could use the company.¡±

    He quirks an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m not company right now. You just want to keep an eye on me.¡±

    ¡°Are you always this suspicious?¡±

    ¡°Are you always this pushy?¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯m worried about you.¡± As soon as the words are out, I realize they are true.

    He looks bemused. ¡°I can take care of myself.¡± The memory of Leela sits like a breaking boulder between us. It¡¯s the sort of thing she would say. He gives a faint laugh and shakes his head.

    ¡°How do you even know you can trust me?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t, but life is full of risk,¡±

 Interlude

    Interlude

    Alezan comes home to the whistle of the kettle. He goes into the kitchen and turns off the noise. The house is hushed. The figurine of an ancient god continues its wrathful dance. Some believe it is bad luck to have an old god in the house but Televiva insisted. She found it beautiful. He walks into the study where she usually is at this hour, reading or writing an article on childcare in the new century, and finds her slumped forward on the table, unconscious.

    Revived with water on her face, she cannot remember what caused her to pass out. She is puzzled, brushing her long black hair out of her eyes, rubbing her eyes which have become smaller, less keen. What is going on? What is going on? She says again and again as if repetition holds the clue. As if the answer lies just in front of her, eluding her, winking like a firefly.

    It comes to her in a dream that night. She saw something unimaginable through the window of her study. It stood there, a gloaming. A looming thing. Animal or mythological creature. She was filled with wonder and extraordinary terror, fainted because of the combination of intense feelings. She wakes Alezan in excitement and tells him. He blinks in the dark, puts on his spectacles. It sounds outlandish to him, her story of a gigantic creature standing in the fields.

    ¡°How could it not be noticed? It would have been all over the news by now. Perhaps you were reading something.¡± Alezan lays great store by books changing people¡¯s brains, possibly more than is warranted.

    ¡°Don''t tell me what I saw. Do you think I''m mad? I''m going to report it. Maybe they¡¯ve had other reports.¡±

    The next day, rays of sunlight are just beginning to dapple the stone building of the local police station when they get there. The cop is ruffled and sleepy and when Televiva impresses on him that she has seen something magnificent, he scratches his head. ¡°Doesn''t seem likely. A creature, you say. I''ve got no other reports.¡±

    ¡°But that''s impossible. It was so huge, so unusual. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. Can I speak with your chief?¡± Her cheeks are gaunt with the effort of getting through to this man, this dullard, she thinks in her head.

    ¡°He¡¯s at headquarters in Raia,¡± he says. ¡°Important stuff happens there, in the city. Not here. Never here.¡± He yawns widely. ¡°Perhaps, madam, you are imagining it¡ªwomen of a certain age¡ª,¡± he stops and yawns again, having thought better of what he was going to say.

    In the car, she gives vent to her rage. ¡°That stupid excuse for a human being. How could he think I was lying, imagining, Trying to insinuate menopausal hysteria, the nerve! Drive to the spot.¡±

    ¡°Which spot? Televiva, we can''t just drive around the fields.¡±

    ¡°Yes we can. Now drive where I tell you. Call work and tell them you will be late.¡± Alezan does as he is told. He has not seen his wife this riled since the days when she thought Zaria was born ordinary. I refuse this fate, she used to say, spitting out her words. The world will not treat me this way. The same fury seems to lurk in her eyes now. Alezan does not know what to make of this sighting and worried that his wife is becoming unhinged. What deep longing or complex has awakened in her, what long-buried secret?

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    When Alezan first saw her, she had been a newly-opened dandelion. A wildflower. A weed. She argued with people. She talked back. She created trouble. So bright that it hurt him to look at her for too long. How did he gather up the courage to ask her out? Or had she? The details are hazy now, twenty years on. Maybe it was mutual, simultaneous, understood. The relationship that followed was unlike anything he had ever experienced, richer, fuller, more. He felt excoriated by it, rejuvenated. There was no way he could have given her up and she had been as committed, giving up more than he could even understand.

    When Televiva Sol first saw her malformed child, the story goes, her eyes lit up with the lambent energy of a mountain lion. The story has been told to Zaria many times, mostly by her. She cradled the delicate head against her neck, her breathing a song of triumph after all the pain that had came before. She counted the extra fingers, one on each hand, and was both proud and relieved. Proud her child was different, relieved the difference was slight.

    Released from hospital later that day, Televiva took Zaria home and began to feed her. She did not let her energy flag even when her breasts ached with the pinch of infant gums, when she developed a rash all over her body, when her vagina itched from being sewn up too tight after childbirth.

    The elders had always believed malformed children possessed powers. Televiva spent her days in a sweet haze, watched her daughter for signs, read tomes on the Kild and their possible powers, consulted physicians, conjured Kild-friendly diets, bought supplements and boosters to incorporate in meals.

    Months passed. There was no display, no unusual incident, no accident or mishap. To her utter disappointment, Zaria did not sit up or walk faster than others, did not change water to ice or dance up a storm. Instead, she dreamed of birds, wandered fields barefoot, brought pedestrian, childish offerings¡ªa painting, a story, a leaf¡ªto her mother who smiled and made appropriate noises.

    When Alezan met her, she believed her daughter was not Kild and was inexplicably panic-stricken by this.

    Alezan is a man given to analysis and as he drives towards the fields, his mind hovers around this question. He has spent a lifetime trying to understand Televiva. Nobody could live with her and love her unless they had¡ªand love her he did, despite her flaws. In recent years, she has seemed calmer, less upset, more accepting of the limitations of life. Now this development. He worries about how it will affect them. He cannot afford to slack off at work and he remembers Televiva''s sulks during the early years. They had affected him badly. He had wanted to stay home, soothe her through it. She was like a magnet to him. He found it hard to leave her when she was in this mood.

    They drive the tiny country roads, up and down, back and forth, with her desperately searching the horizon, her eyes reaching as far as they can go for a hint of the shape they have seen. Her body is tense in anticipation. Or is it excitement? Her hands grip the seat. Her left leg bounces. At one place, she insists they stop the car. Lifting the hem of her black dress, she gets out and walks into the cornfields, towards the mountains in the distance.

    After that, Televiva travels to the field everyday for a few days but she does notsee the creature again. ¡°It was so large,¡± she says to Alezan. ¡°How could it disappear? It must be in the neighborhood.¡±

    The creature haunts her in dreams. She stirs and groans in sleep. Sometimes she laughs or talks to it as if it were a pet or a long-lost child. Alezan wonders if the seed of illness that had been floating in her all along has broken through to the surface.

 FIFTEEN

    Ambulances shriek past. The reek of fire hits us hard even from a distance. People are milling around a coach which has burst into flames. The crowd is jostling, arms and legs in each other''s faces, bathed in sweat and fear. We park on the side and push past them. Nobody seems to know what caused the fire. Ember flicker. Smell of char.

    ¡°All refugees,¡± someone says. ¡°That coach was one of those specials they run from the refugee camps, for them to look for work.¡±

    Ryz touches my arm. ¡°Are you okay? You¡¯ve gone white.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, gruff, touched by his concern.

    For a while after that, we help the paramedics and by the time we¡¯re done, it feels like it¡¯s been hours but perhaps it¡¯s only been minutes. Time has become elastic. The world seems to be collapsing around me, its edge unraveling. Is this the beginning of a time-spill? Isn¡¯t this how it starts, with local fires and riots, small disturbances?

    Ryz and I don¡¯t speak but he gets back in the car and and it¡¯s clear he has taken me up on my offer to stay, at least for another night. I¡¯m glad. I don¡¯t want to be alone.

    When we get back to my schufon, there is a throng of officers in the complex and my neighbors are standing at their windows and balconies. ¡°What now?¡± I mutter, pulling Ryz to the side as two officers lead a woman out from one of the apartments. She is more disheveled today but I recognize her from the day Saira came over. Her despair is palpable as the officers manhandle her on the way out. She is crying, mouthing protests. ¡°I don¡¯t know where he is. I really don¡¯t know. He comes and goes when he wants. I don¡¯t know where he goes¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Your husband has already been arrested,¡± an officer says. ¡°For being part of that new gang.¡±

    I am about to ask him for information but what happens next dispels all other thoughts from my mind. The salamander buzzes with a text from Eniad. ¡°I want to see you tomorrow. Come to my house.¡± It¡¯s followed by an address.

    There is no other information.

    Question swoop like vultures all night and I wake to markings on my face. I cover them with make-up as best as I can. To Ryz¡¯s credit, he pretends he hasn¡¯t noticed them.

    Eniad¡¯s mansion is hushed when I get there. A silver car is parked in the driveway, next to her sleek white one. The huge metallic doors swing open and a uniformed butler stands in the doorway, beckoning me in. I touch my face and am grateful the markings have decided to vamoose. For the moment. The help leads me through the living room to glass doors which lead out to the garden. I am momentarily awe-struck as I step into Eniad¡¯s sanctuary.

    The air is thick with raspberries and ivy. The sun is warm and bright. There is a long brunch table covered with preparations of raw fish, algae salads, smoothies. Bees buzz in the white star jasmine. Glasses of juice sparkle orange. Dressed in glossy white robes, Eniad is at the head of the table and at her right, to my surprise, is Osiris Manatios.

    We exchange the customary greetings and I take a seat at a deferential distance from them. They look like a monarchial couple at the head of the table, both dressed in white, both silver-haired. I wonder how Pali is. I have not seen her in months and this hits me sharply right now as an ache in the solar plexus.

    ¡°Pali tells me you have some interesting powers,¡± Osiris says with a smile, as if guessing my thoughts. ¡°We¡¯ve been busy since the wedding but you should come over and see her.¡± He picks a chicken leg off the platter and takes a bite out of it.

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Interesting would be one word.¡± I take a piece of flatbread onto my plate. My reflection stares back at me from its pewter base.

    ¡°But you have not managed to control them,¡± he says. It is not a question. ¡°The collision with the girl,¡± he says by way of explanation when I look at him. ¡°I have a proposition for you. I¡¯d like to help you.¡±

    Eniad nods as if in encouragement. She has not said a word to me yet. For all intents and purposes, Osiris seems to be in charge of this meeting. He outlines his plan. ¡°A team of experts will work with you, train you and fit you with neural adjustments. He says the last word with a slight emphasis on the ¡®d¡¯ sound so it sounds like ad-justment.

    I stare at him. I don¡¯t know what to say. A numbness has spread through my limbs. I have a feeling I¡¯m not being offered a choice.

    ¡°After you finish, you will still have the option of going through your review,¡± Eniad says. ¡°If you want to.¡±

    That is mildly reassuring but I have so many questions, I don¡¯t know where to start. ¡°Why?¡± I blurt out. ¡°I mean, thank you. But why me?¡±

    ¡°Why not you?¡± Osiris says. ¡°Besides, in return you would work with us for a while. On a small project. Don¡¯t worry. Nothing you can¡¯t handle.¡±

    I glance at Eniad and shovel food into my mouth. It spares me from giving an immediate answer. It¡¯s true that Alke has a stellar reputation. They have worked with the Concilium on several projects, never been found guilty of violations, not even the simplest tax-related ones. Their Kild products and training services are known to be the best and most expensive. Now here he is apparently offering them to me for free. Why?

    ¡°The investigating committee has almost cleared you,¡± Eniad says. ¡°If you want to do the review, apply to leave the force, the training will help you prove you can be trusted outside. Of course, we would still call you back for any special missions that required Kild but I told you I would try to help you. I like to keep my word.¡±

    I fork a piece of fish, chew the delicate pink sliver, take a sip of turmeric tea.

    ¡°One of my brands, the tea,¡± Osiris says. ¡°Like it?¡±

    ¡°Yes, thank you. What about side effects?¡±

    ¡°You''ll be monitored closely.¡±

    ¡°Can I have a few days? To think about it?¡±

    ¡°Of course. You should not take any decision without thinking.¡± He smiles and his face acquires a ragged charm.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I have a meeting,¡± Eniad says. ¡°I have to leave.¡±

    ¡°Stay and eat some more,¡± Osiris says, helping Eniad with her coat. ¡°You will need your strength.¡± His eyes twinkle, full of humor and challenge. I can give you the world, they seem to be saying. And despite his obviously domineering nature and his weird energy, he is charming. Suddenly, I can see why Pali agreed to marry him. It might be hard to refuse Osiris anything.

    I wait for them to leave, then stealth my way into the house, hoping I won¡¯t run into any of the help. The living room is huge, with white leather couches that could seat twenty. There are no screens. In a corner of a the room, a glass terrarium runs from floor to ceiling. Inside it, a snake coils, its frigid eye watching me.

    A door to one side leads to what looks like a study and I go in.

    It is a large room with a Mahogany desk at one end and bookshelves lining the walls with tomes on history and politics. There are three paintings on the walls, large-scale photographs of forests. The room is warmer, more full of heart so maybe this is where Eniad spends more time. Going to the desk, I scan the top which is clean except for a brass paperweight in the shape of a mermaid.

    Riffling through drawers and cabinets. I find papers, notebooks. I open one of them and something catches my eye. A tiny gold flower embossed in the corner of each page. An insignia. It comes back to me. Pali mentioned a flower on a notebook¡ªit was what she was looking at when the man attacked her. Could there possibly be some link? Maybe it¡¯s a similar brand. It¡¯s an odd coincidence and something about it disturbs me. I have almost forgotten where I am when a noise outside makes me scurry for cover. I drop to my knees, heat building in my chest.

    A man, liveried, a dust cloth in his hands, pauses at the door. ¡°Is there someone here?¡±

    My heart is thudding. If I could pray, I would. His feet advance towards the desk ¡ª very shiny shoes I note ¡ª and I have only seconds to decide. I concentrate on what I must do.

    Control. Aim. Flex. Focus. Unleash. I watch his eyes glaze over.

    When I get up from my position and walk out, he is still staring at a spot on the wall. I can only wish that he will come to his senses before anyone notices.

 SIXTEEN

    Saira is a delightful flatmate and in the past month since she moved in, I have become almost dependent on her presence. She loves to cook. She sings sometimes, beautiful and low sounds that ease all tension. She bakes flatbreads so soft and warm that neighbors beg for some. Aromas fill the apartment. Roast hare, goat ribs, shrimp curry, khoya purple or red with berry stain seeping to the top. I haven¡¯t seen Ryz since that day at the waterfall. He said he would go undercoverat the camps trying to find out more. Meanwhile, I¡¯m due to start at the training center soon and I¡¯m alternately nervous and excited. What if I lose control? What if my face breaks out in vines?

    One night, I go to a party at the beach. It has been a while since I attempted socializing. Wandering through the crowd, I idly tune into a stray conversation. All around me, snatches of conversation. ¡°They¡¯re saying the rock has now affected vegetation for about three acres around it. All kinds of plants¡ªgrasses, sage scrub, walnut woodland, southern willow scrub, southern cottonwood-willow riparian forest, sycamore-alder woodland, oak riparian forest, salt marsh, and freshwater marsh.¡±

    I pause, my curiosity stirring. ¡°Are you talking about the Celadion Underworld, the rock that was found there?¡±

    The speaker is a tall man in brilliant blue robes. His short, spiky hairdo is silver and he has a lean face with high cheekbones and oddly innocent eyes. An intricate ear ornament made of bronze curls around his earlobe. ¡°We meet again,¡± he smiles a smile of such genuine joy that for a second, I stop thinking.

    Heat and flowers in my peripheral vision. ¡°We¡¯ve met?¡±

    ¡°Xise. I saw you once, at Agniva.¡± He laughs, easy and high. It is disconcerting in a pleasant way.

    The other man is talking now, eager for attention. ¡°I think this slime is that rock¡ªthey¡¯re calling it Delta Spew C4 by the way. I think whoever dumped it on the cliffside, tried dumping it in the city first, at the junkyard. But then it got too much in quantity or whatever so they needed a larger space.¡±

    ¡°Which means whatever caused it was happening over a period of time¡ª,¡±

    ¡°¡ªmight still be going on.¡±

    ¡°Nobody¡¯s come forward to claim responsibility,¡± Xise adds.

    ¡°Betcha nobody will,¡± his companion says.

    ¡°That¡¯s not right,¡± Xise says, looking troubled. There is anearnest quality about him. It is oddly touching.

    ¡°Do you want to get a drink,¡± I ask, on impulse. He inclines his head. His eyes are faraway, yet strangely focused on me. It is thrilling.

    Taking our drinks, we move further up the beach. Xise talks a lot, his words spilling over us. His school days were a haze, he tells me, full of complicated emotional pathways to navigate. Most people, even children, were governed by fear and insecurity; they committed acts of violence in the classroom and in the playground driven by these emotions. He tried to stop them. His strong, lithe body dodged blows easily but he did not fit. I find myself listening closely. There is some quality to the way he tells his story. It makes me forget my own life and I could use some oblivion right now.

    Xise gazes out at the boats as he speaks, his eyes lost. I sip my drink and something warm hits me on the inside. Wedding gongs resound across the beach. Xise stops and gives me another look, amused. ¡°I¡¯ve been going on, haven¡¯t I? I ramble sometimes. Forgive me. They forgot to code that out of me.¡±

    ¡°Code? You¡¯re a¡ª,¡±

    ¡°Sinnefer. Second gen.¡± He touched his ear ornament and grins. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯re not dangerous.¡±

    I rearrange my face because it has given away something. ¡°Of course, I am familiar with Sinnefers, the concept I mean. Humans who have neural code inside them, trained for speed, efficiency, logic.¡±

    His eyes travel my face. ¡°I¡¯m not fond of pity. I¡¯m too sexy for that, don¡¯t you think?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not pity. Why would it be pity?¡±

    The next day, I pick bananas from a basket at the open air market, fragile hope blooming inside me. The day is cloudy and cool, the air fresh with a new season, and the markings have not appeared in a while. The aroma of dumplings fill the air. It is at that moment I look up and see them, the women. Three of them, wearing identical black robes, eerie and familiar. For a moment, time pauses and splinters. An ache. A flood of anger, frustration, grief. So voluminous, I almost reel. I stumble backwards, away from them.

    I puzzle about it for the rest of the day but when Xise arrives at my door that evening, a few minutes late, all other thoughts disappear. He insists we ride his bike. The restaurant looks expensive and I am anxious as he takes my helmet. ¡°My treat,¡± he says. ¡°I get paid a lot.¡±

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Modesty in a man. I like that.¡±

    Over several courses of food¡ªXise¡¯s lean frame belies his appetite¡ªhe tells me he enlisted in the Sinnefer program at 12, that he comes from a town in the south, a dustbowl, a landfill. Few people choose to become Sinnefers and it is common for the poorest to enlist so I¡¯m not surprised.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t you miss your mother?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I don''t know what that means. I don''t think so. Though occasionally I felt weird. A sensation in my chest. That faded as the neural mesh got stronger. The coding did not allow for emotion and I didn''t have much to begin with. An ideal candidate.¡±He laughs but with no trace of bitterness.

    When he talks, I am mesmerized. One day, walking along, he kneeled in the sand and wrote his name and when he looked up, the sun had retreated behind a cloud. In the distance, there were a group of people who looked different from the usual people he saw in his town. He could not put a finger on it, what created this difference, but knew it. They stood in a loose formation of sorts, a triangle. In their midst was a man in pink robes with a sweet, deep voice. Xise stood on the fringes and tried to listen but the words were flung away in the wind. The girl closest, looked at him. A frisson. Recognition. The girl¡¯s eyes alight with a coolness that Xise had only seen in the mirror.

    The sun emerged from behind the clouds. A seagull alit next to them, pecked the sand in hard jabs. The man in pink robes glanced at him. Xise felt like something was being said but did not know what. He walked home through narrow by-lanes, dusty alleys where children played in the mud, trash-filled creeks and ravines. Nothing had changed in years. Money was collected and it disappeared into the pockets of the councilmen. Sometimes a road was cleared. A few children were put in school. Hunger and their parents'' poverty soon drove them into the waiting arms of the street.

    Crows. A lone tree. The smell of asphalt.

    He remembers Selene, his mother, pouring water into a tumbler, passing it to him. She ladled rice and green chillies into a steel bowl. The pungent hit would make them less hungry. The man¡¯s face came back to him. The group of children standing by the waters, so certain. The distance in their eyes.

    His eyes flicker, then he grins at me as if none of it matters any more, as if time and memory have withdrawn like the tide on that moonlit beach. ¡°I left the next day. I¡¯ve spoken for a while, I''m sorry. Tell me about you.¡±

    ¡°Village #6, dad¡¯s a research scientist, ma¡¯s a teacher. Average childhood. Very boring. Discovered as Kild at 16. Drafted at 21.¡±

    ¡°Being Kild is not average. And a late bloomer.¡±

    ¡°My powers are¡­undeveloped, erratic.¡±

    He gives me a probing look but doesn¡¯t ask for more because loud voices slice through the cheerful atmosphere.

    A scuffle at the bar counter is escalating into a full-blown fight. One of the men is involved, his incensed face looming over a smaller man. ¡°You Pliesian fucker,¡± he says. He swoops, holding the other¡¯s head down to the counter, a fistful of hair in his hand. The abused, a dapper boy, is crying, sweat pouring into his eyes. Dark stains blotch his shirt at the armpits.

    ¡°Sir, please, let him go,¡± the bartender says, his voice high and scared.

    ¡°How dare you allow these fuckers in¡ª,¡±

    His companion watches. A few people move as if they might interrupt. Nobody really does.

    I am on my feet but Xise overtakes me. He places a hand on the brute¡¯s shoulder. If it is possible for rage to take on more rage like a deepening layer of dirt, this is what happens to the bully¡¯s face. His lips ooze spittle.

    ¡°Put the gentleman down and let me buy you a drink.¡± Xise says, sounding like he is making a reasonable offer.

    ¡°Fuck off.¡±

    Xise¡¯s hand is at his ear, lingering on the spikes of his ornament, and the man¡¯s face goes slack. He glares at his victim, confused now, lets him go and steps back, sits down on the floor of the restaurant. His eyes are glazed and drops of sweat gleam on his face which have turned faintly blue.

    I have no time for surprise. The other man has swung off the stool, serious now, glinting.

    ¡°What did you do to him?¡±

    ¡°Xise!¡± I manage to warn before flinging myself at the man¡¯s arm where something silver and sharp is held. He drops it, curses, eyes murderous now and takes a swing at me, a powerful fist catching my cheek. Pain explodes through my jawline and head. I allow the charge to flow through my nerves and into my hands, flex, breathe, and as he comes back for me, I aim at his chest. The briefest contact. With a bewildered howl, he stumbles backwards and tears off his shirt, staring in horror at the red-raw imprint of my hand like a bruise swelling over his flesh, blistering where I touched him. ¡°You fucking witch.¡±

    Cursing loudly, he lurches out of the restaurant. My hand hurts and I¡¯m bleeding. I look around wildly before I fall.

    Xise lives in a building in downtown Raia, the more expensive kind where each floor homes one resident. His dwelling has bare walls and expensive furniture that looks like it¡¯s never used. I wake up in a sleek white armchair and want to sleep immediately.

    ¡°How did you stop that guy? What does your earpiece do exactly?¡± I ask. My eyes are still closed and I register his fingers on my face.

    ¡°Sorry. Hold still.¡± He dabs a potion onto my cheek.

    ¡°What did you do? When you touched your ear thing?¡±

    ¡°It works like a mild sedative. It wipes the brain clean for a short time.¡±

    ¡°You could do that to me? ¡ªI mean, technically? You could use it on anyone.¡± I open my eyes and he¡¯s not looking at me.

    ¡°I would not use it on you. You have my word.¡± He gets to his feet, an inscrutable expression on his face.

    ¡°Are there rules? Of usage?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to use it except for self defense. It¡¯s to protect me from anyone trying to infiltrate my systems. I would not use it on you. Besides,¡¯ he says with a grin, ¡°¡ªtechnically, you could use your powers against me. You haven¡¯t even told me what exactly they are.¡± He narrows his eyes but a second later, lets out a laugh. ¡°Never mind. I don¡¯t care.¡±

    Opening a low cupboard, he fishes out a wristband, clips it on his arm. ¡°I have to recharge. You can sleep too.¡±For a second, his eyes are luminescent.

    I start to protest but fatigue steamrolls me and I fall asleep again.

 SEVENTEEN

    Sunlight streams in through the windows the next morning and there is no sign of Xise. There is also no sign of food in his kitchen. His fridge is empty, its shiny cubicles look as if they¡¯ve never been touched by organic substances. Maybe he doesn¡¯t eat at home. I am strangely moved that he trusted me to be alone at his home. His apartment is bare and white, cabinets and drawers gleaming. Apart from his recharging wrist strips, they hold a variety of mysterious electronic devices.

    On the way home, I stop at a cafe and eat some bread with cheese while staring at the pigeons outside. Someone opens a window, arranges flowers. At another table, two women talk of the migrants, passing the word between them like a gift nobody wants to hold for too long. I wonder how Ryz is doing and if he has found anything useful at the camp. Why would the shapeshifting gang be interested in migrants? And why would they take Leela? I have no answers and I am tired of circling the same questions.

    On impulse, I take a trip to Cretin¡¯s Angel. It is wild with flowers and I walk past the white stamens, yellow petals, green tendrils, knowing they bloom for only two weeks a year. So fleeting their thread of reality. What crowds my mind is flocks of birds. Owls. Gulls. Ravens. The way kites circled the fish market the last time I saw Leela, as if waiting to devour.

    I don¡¯t hear from Xise for the next few days but one rainy morning, I get home from the store to find him at the gate, leaning his long frame against the wall. Water drips off his hair and into his eyes and he looks tired. I brush his hair off his forehead.

    At a low-lit Omeiran joint, we eat and talk. ¡°They came after me, the gang,¡± Xise says. ¡°I was walking into my building one night, and there were two of them, standing there in the dark, faces covered with black cloth, they had clubs in their hands¡­it was bad. Later I got to a cab somehow, got myself to Phenix. It took me a while to heal.¡±

    ¡°Did you file a report?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I went down to HQ. Nothing yet.¡±

    ¡°You think they might come back?¡±

    ¡°I don''t think so but Phenix gave me a new update to be safe. Self defense arts, combat skills, that kind of thing.¡± He hesitates,. ¡°While I was at Phenix¡¯s clinic, I¡ªnever mind.¡± He shakes his head and grins. ¡°Let¡¯s order that roast duck.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s Phenix?¡±

    ¡°Like my father. More than my real father.¡±

    ¡°What is he like, your real father?¡¯ I ask, swigging faha a little faster than I usually do. ¡°Or would you rather not¡ª,¡±

    He waves a hand casually. ¡°Riki Valesch. When he walked into the house, it is as if sunlight had walked in with him. My mother shone with a fierce light, angry and overjoyed at the same time. She never questioned where her husband had been. She cooked his favorite meal, laid it out in the best copper ware. He always brought money and gifts which she exclaimed over and put away carefully in a mahogany cupboard in the corner. Her eyes flashed when she looked at him but she knew the rules. If she asked a direct question, Riki would be obligated to answer honestly. She feared the answer would taint her with sadness and jealousy for days, would become a shackle that tied her to bed and not allow her to rise in the mornings. Once I asked her why she did not leave with someone else. The rules allowed both men and women such exploration. Who would look after you, my love? she said. Besides I don¡¯t need anyone else.¡±

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Did you wonder¡­I mean, regret leaving her?¡±

    ¡°Doubts are pointless,¡± Xise says in the tone of a man arguing with himself. ¡°What would they achieve besides making me perform badly at my job. They would cause anxiety and possible ill health. Anxiety has been linked to ill health in 87 percent of the human population.¡±

    ¡°Do you always use facts to avoid feelings?¡±

    He looks self-conscious and then amused.

    Later: The river smells of stone and flowers, a profusion of hyacinth, lilies and roses on both banks. Xise stops and leans against the fence that separates us from water, gives me a purposeful glance.

    ¡°Hard to believe there are prison cells under us,¡± I say and immediately regret my gauche response to flirting but he is watching me now, a quirk to his mouth.

    ¡°Yes, they are ancient, built in the pre-time spill era. When the world did not reset itself every thousand years. Hard to imagine now. So they grow and regrow. Apparently all paths out lead to the ocean eventually. It¡¯s possible to escape but arduous. For those who have the courage and strength, there is the ocean but what then? A cold death.¡±

    Sahar is visiting her father so I have the house to myself. I fall asleep on the couch and wakes a few hours later, hot and itchy. The lights are still on. Myfeet are tingling. A spasm travels up my body. There is an ominous sense of dread booming in my head. I find my pills. As I fill my glass with water, a spark leaps from my finger and hisses into the sink. Dropping the glass, I plunge my hands in water. The markings, thin and blue-black, grow upwards from my wrist like snakes slithering. They cover my arm like a tattoo sleeve. I see black.

    Hours later, I wake up, clammy with sweat. My head is still swimming. To my relief, the markings are gone but as I drift into consciousness, a scream lodges in my throat. In a corner of the room, something hunkers. It is a bird.

    Large and grey-black, about two feet tall and wider across, it resembles a hoopoe with a long down-curved bill and black crest. Fixing me with one red eye, it plucks at its feathers.

    I can¡¯t believe what I¡¯m seeing. With as little sound as possible, I get off the bed and inch toward the door. The bird begins to disappear, dissolving until all that remains is a whisper in the air, a hint, and then, an emptiness.

    Xise appears at the door, silver hair sparkling in morning light. ¡°Good morning. What were those marks on your arm?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± I stare at where the bird had been a moment before, then take in Xise, standing at the door, immaculate and logical. ¡°I¡­the markings? You saw them? They¡¯re gone. What time is it? What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°Just past 10 am. You slept 12 hours. I slept on the couch. It was comfortable enough though I would recommend a re-upholstering. I have some excellent resources if you¡¯re interested and there¡¯s this one guy who combines microns with¡ª,¡±

    ¡°How did you get in?¡±

    ¡°I accessed the code. What were those marks? Did you eat something, take drugs?¡¯ His tone shifts into something like concern. ¡°I didn¡¯t find any on the preliminary data scan but I know those markings are linked to the shape-shifting potion. Are you on that?¡±

    ¡°No. It¡¯s hard to explain. Why are you here?¡±

    ¡°You called me before passing out.¡±

    ¡°I did?¡±

    ¡°A panic dial, perhaps. Tell me what¡¯s going on?¡±

    There seems to be little choice. With a slender finger, he fidgets with his ear ornament as I recount the incident with Emi. I have no idea why I want to be vulnerable with him, why there is an impulse toward trust. Almost as if he¡¯s guessed what I¡¯m thinking, he takes my hand. ¡°Listen, I know someone who may be able to help,¡± he says.