Interitum Read online

  “Water, I can do.” Erim can’t deny himself a faint grin, but she doesn’t seem as amused. He conjures a mug of water and puts it on the table in front of her.

  “How long have you known my cousin?” she asks, inspecting his gothic ceiling.

  “I’ve worked with Sofia for my whole tenure,” he replies, artfully omitting that it’s only been six years. “She asked about you the day you arrived.” That makes Sofia sound oddly reasonable. “I’m not permitted to share information about the souls with Mediums. It’s meant to be confidential.”

  “You didn’t tell her I was here?” Sloane’s glance is gently probing.

  The question releases a nervous chuckle from him as he slides a hand through his hair. “I did.”

  “Not one for rules, are you?” She sits back, one of her eyebrows lifting.

  “We have that in common, it seems.” Erim nods. “After Ches… left, Sofia asked me not to tell you about her. She thought you’d want some time to adjust first.”

  “I was angry.” Sloane frowns. “I took it out on her.”

  Her gloom dispatches all of Erim’s training to the front of his mind. Protocol tells him it’s always important to validate people’s feelings. “It’s okay to be angr—”

  “Please don’t,” Sloane cuts him off. “We don’t have to talk about it.” Her short tone makes the request sound much more like an order. That didn’t go as planned. There’s an acidity about her tonight that makes Erim unsure of anything. Her gaze is so piercing, like she’s peeling back layers, it makes him shift in his seat.

  Sloane remains silent, amplifying the sound of Erim’s anxious fingers tapping on his knee. The light catches on her cheeks, illuminating the little freckles. “Sorry, I’m making it so difficult for you.” She shoots him a tight half-smile.

  Erim would refute her apology if he could, but she’s right. He’s never encountered a soul with such complications. His memory of all the placation rules becomes more elusive as she continues to resist. He decides to let her take more control of the conversation. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  Her hair slips over her shoulder as she looks down. “Not unless that piano’s a cleverly disguised time machine.” Erim’s fingers still. Sloane leaves a beat as if waiting for his answer. “No?” She folds her arms over her chest. “How about a magic wand?” Erim’s jaw shifts unintentionally, and he looks down. “There’s nothing you can do.” Sloane thumps her back onto the couch.

  She’s slammed that plan into a roadblock too. Erim’s thoughts flicker back to when he tried to send her home, when he gave her the way out. He was so shocked, angry even when she refused. Erim can remember the heat in his chest as he practically begged her to take her chance, and she didn’t. Erim mistook the decision as blind, stubborn stupidity, but he understands it now. He saw what the choice meant at her funeral, with Ches and his brother, Sofia, and Sloane’s mother. But now, her face makes Erim wonder if she would choose differently, if she would take her life and run. His better judgment suspects that she wouldn’t change anything. Saving Ches was more important to her than living; Erim’s sure of that.

  “My mother and I were going to fly kites off the Great Wall of China—like they do those unrealistic tourist brochures,” Sloane says. Erim doesn’t know what the brochures look like, but he can imagine Sloane smiling in the sun, her hair blowing about, as she tries to steer through the unruly wind. Her voice becomes softer, slower. “Sofia and I planned to backpack through Switzerland and try every type of chocolate we could get our hands on. ‘Ideally enough to put us into diabetic comas,’ Sofia would say. Adrain and I had a road trip planned to L.A. Comic-Con, and we would’ve found ourselves a Vader afterparty.” Sloane grins at the thought. “Long term, I might have opened a ceramics store. Homemade mugs and dishware, little toy tea sets, and Christmas ornaments. Maybe I would’ve discovered I’m terrible at the financial stuff and found something else to do with my life. Maybe I would’ve eaten, prayed, loved through Asia or something. Died happy and old in a small Ghanaian orphanage that I founded.” Her smile levels. “Who knows?”

  Her eyes anchor back on his, shocking him out of the fantasies she painted. He had momentarily forgotten himself in them. “You always think you’ll have more time, more… everything,” she says.

  Erim can see the ideas fade across her gaze, like the lights going out. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s never meant anything more. He knows those two words aren’t enough; they’re overused and trivial here. He knows the pain she’s describing. He always has. But it’s not about him.

  He’s validated Sloane’s feelings and empathized with her. Maybe he just needs to keep her focused on the positive things. “From what I could tell at the funeral, your life was filled with joy and people who deeply loved you. That must have been such a gift.”

  Sloane shoots him a resigned, flat smile. “And when it’s gone, all that’s left is a pile of empty regrets.”

  “Regrets are proof that you lived.”

  That flips a switch in her. Her demeanor shift stuns Erim as her brows draw down like she’s angry. “Stop with all that silver lining, glass half full crap. It’s all just automated, meaningless garbage like you’re a walking condolence card.”

  The harsh comment takes Erim aback. If she wants to know what he really thinks, he’s going to tell her. “Is that what you think I do here?” His laugh is curt. “Do you realize where we are? This isn’t some theme park. The people here are dead. They’re sad, just like you, sometimes broken.” The words are out of his mouth before he can blink, fast and harsher than he intends. The edge of Sloane’s lip twitches, morphing her face into a full scowl.

  He takes a quick breath, trying to reign himself back. She doesn’t know how enticing the bitterness is to him, how unnatural the bright side feels. He squeezes his neck with a sigh, vowing to give diplomacy another shot. “Look, you were pretty fortunate compared to many others. Maybe you can focus on that like your mother said?” Erim hopes that logic will win out but can tell by Sloane’s quickening breath and vehement glare that there’s no going back now.

  “Who are you to call me ungrateful?” she demands. “Why should I have to forget the rest of my life just because others had less?” Sloane looks like she wants to throw something. He’s grateful she can’t lift his piano. “Who cares that I didn’t live a long or fulfilling life, right? At least I didn’t choke on a jujube when I was three!” She scoffs.

  “What’s a jujube?” Erim asks, distracted by the odd term.

  “It doesn’t matter!” Sloane screams suddenly, the redirection clearly pushing her over the edge. Nim’s ears perk up, and she springs to her feet on high alert.

  Erim does not understand. Sloane got so much life he didn’t, and she’s even more powerful in this world than she knows. Yet, all she wants to do is wallow in anger. No soul has ever undermined his training so blatantly, made it seem so useless. The voice in his head imploring reason is becoming drowned out by the heat of his frustration. “So you’re just going to let the misery destroy you? What good will that do for your future?” He feels the water tremble all around them. His pool sloshes violently, and the tide is swelling outside.

  “There is no future.” Sloane leaps to her feet, towering towards him. “That’s the whole point. This is the end. It’s over!”

  “Well, I wish that were true.” He almost laughs. “Because then I wouldn’t be here getting yelled at by a spoiled brat who’s an enormous pain in my very dead ass!” Sloane’s hands matte into fists, the rush sending visible tremors up her arms. He tries to calm the rising aquatic energy but only intensifies, becoming more tumultuous.

  “I guess since you’ve had it so easy in this perfect little afterlife,” she swings her arm around the room, “why even bother with the life part, right?”

  The shrill tone sends Erim reeling into a senseless rage. He lurches to his feet, now being the one to dwarf her. “Are you kidding? I would’ve given anything to have the time you
did!” Water explodes around him, amplifying his voice through the room. “But that wasn’t my fate. I was only created to die.” The waterworks stun Sloane slightly, so Erim’s words snatch at the available silence. “Do you understand how ridiculous it is to hear you whine about nineteen years when I didn’t even get nine seconds? You don’t own the monopoly on dying young!”

  Sloane’s face twists up again, ferocity burning behind her eyes. “You’re judging me when you have no concept of this loss? You have no idea how I feel!” Nim responds with a loud warning snarl.

  “Now you want me to ask?” Erim throws up his hands, completely at a loss for what she wants.

  She steps right up to him, fast enough to make him take a step back. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your life stolen in a second!”

  Nim snarls behind him. He slides in front of her so she can’t lunge at Sloane. “Stolen?” He regains the distance she made him surrender until there’s barely air between them. “Sloane, your life wasn’t stolen; you gave it up. I begged you not to!”

  “You think I had a choice?” The fire in her eyes is almost the shade of her hair, the colors practically extinguished.

  “Of course, you did. There’s always a choice. What you did was honorable and selfless, but it was still a choice!”

  “If you think I had a choice, you’ve never loved anyone enough to know better!” Sloane screams. The sloshing water in the mug tips it off the table, shattering it spectacularly. Sloane blinks at Erim, a hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide.

  They stand there, breath heaving, staring at the shards on the ground. Erim has no words. But also no more jealously, hostility. It all whooshed out of him in a single gust. Now it’s just numb.

  Sloane swipes up her jacket and strides for the exit. Erim’s voice catches her just before she reaches the door; it’s sore from the yelling. “You’re angry at yourself for dying, and you hate the world for not giving you more time.” Sloane stops short, her shoulders rising and falling with every slowing exhale. “Me too,” Erim breathes. She almost glances back but stops. Without another word, she departs, flinging the door shut behind her.

  Erim’s breath is still uneven, his head light. Nim catches in the corner of his eye, just a tiny shape near the door. She watches, her tense body wrapped safely by her tail.

  “Hey, sorry about that, girl.” His hoarse voice cracks. He crouches down and holds out his hand. Nim slowly comes to him, sniffing his outstretched fingers. He scoops her up slowly, maneuvering around the broken mug. Agitated water that rushed in from the beach floods the floor. He leans back in his desk chair with a sigh, allowing the intensity to drain slowly. He strokes Nim’s head until she relaxes in his arms.

  The framed sketch of Kalith on Erim’s desk is glaring at him. Erim can feel it without even looking. It’s impressive that Kalith can still scold him from Onward. Erim knows just what he’d say. He can hear his voice in his head, telling him he could have handled that situation better. He shouldn’t have risen to the bait Sloane dangled so temptingly in his face. Erim doesn’t need the lecture; he already knows. Even with all his training, Sloane was able to push all the right buttons to nullify his years of preparation and send him spiraling. He was the first one to warn everyone he wouldn’t be good at this. He showed them for years. As if they needed further proof, he just alienated Aquae’s first Arc in centuries.

  When Nim has fallen asleep in Erim’s lap, he deposits her gently on the bed to assess the damage. He collects the pieces of the broken mug and pulls the water from any books on the bottom shelves that got wet. He ensures that the egress tide has relaxed before collapsing into bed, more exhausted than he can remember being in a long time.

  As he lies there with Nim curled up against his chest, he weighs different apologies in his mind. If he knows one thing, it’s that he needs Sloane. That is, the terrarum needs her. He rubs his sore eyes, dreading just how exquisite of an apology it will have to be. As he fades, he doesn’t even realize that the smallest portion of his mind lends itself entirely to wondering what a jujube is.

  UNDECIM

  Sloane flings her door shut behind her—hopefully, it’s her room. Her eyes are too blurred to see. She drives her fists into the closest wall and keeps punching until the pain blinds her. She collapses, wailing. The sobs wrack her body until she shakes uncontrollably. Every frustration, shock, and grievance that’s been damming up all week come bursting out, and she can’t hold back the flood.

  The anger of the fight kept her welded together, but that smashed mug shocked her out of it, and Erim’s last words were enough to loosen her into a cataclysmic breakdown. Angry tears stream down her face, soaking her shirt and making her slip. She curls into a ball, hugging her shoulders. Her mind is nothing but loud, blaring agony. It’s all-encompassing. Crippling.

  As the minutes count to thirty, her sobs dwindle, choked by lack of breath. She tries to control her fitful breathing. Her cheek welcomes the coolness of the stone beneath it as sleep sweeps over her quickly, mercifully.

  Sloane’s face is ice, her hands are on fire. She groans and rolls onto her back, retreating from the light of the outside. Her eyes crack open, then shut again, rejecting the brightness. She massages her eyes with the heels of her hands, but it doesn’t help much. She grabs onto the arm of the sofa and hoists herself to her feet. Sinking into the couch, her body rejoices in the softness, resentful about her sleeping on the floor.

  She inspects her throbbing hands. Dark gray splotches are spread over them, and where the skin is broken on the knuckles, a black liquid oozes from the wounds. She shuffles over to the pool and dips her hands into the cool water. She yanks them back with a hiss as deep pain shoots up her forearms. Her wounds burn even worse now, causing her eyes to well up. It’s an unbelievable amount of pain for a few busted-up knuckles.

  She’s able to tell herself that the pain is tolerable for about five more minutes until she caves and decides to venture out to find help. She doesn’t know where Charlotte and Dmitri’s dorm is, but she’s sure if she asks enough people, she’ll find it.

  She’s so focused on opening the door without straining her hands that she topples over the obstruction right outside. Small rounds of color spill everywhere, rolling around her tangled legs. A couple of bystanders, stifling laughs, begin to help her pile the little things back onto their plate outside her door. Sloane assures them that she can manage collecting all the runaway pieces.

  Sloane holds one up to the midday light and rolls it between her fingers. She hasn’t seen one in many years. They were her favorite when she was little, and her mom bought them for her all the time until Sloane got a cavity and had to say goodbye. But she could never be in their presence without the overwhelming sweet nostalgia for these artificial, squishy, rainbow-colored, fruit gummy candies, these—jujubes.

  Sloane knocks on Erim’s door with her elbows, but the vibrations up her forearm still set off another surge of pain. Her pride demands that she turn around and leave, but her hands are screaming louder and keep her planted firmly where she is. When the door swings open, Sloane throws her hands behind her back and puts on her most unapologetic face.

  “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?” Erim leans against the doorframe.

  Sloane winces when her hand brushes against the back of her pants. “Yeah, I’m masochistic like that.” She tilts her chin up, but it’s difficult to seem superior when he’s a foot taller.

  He allows a small smile and steps aside. “Well, come on in—if you dare.” His room seems much more inviting than last night. Sloane realizes that’s probably her fault.

  The pleasant scent is just as she remembers; it washes over her as she steps in. Jasmine and sharp mint mingle courtesy of the greenery on the entry wall. The sea air wafts in, mixing with the faint smell of old leather. The tall glassless windows to the left look out onto the beach, stretching all the way to the ceiling. They fill the room with light, better illuminating the uniqueness of each shelf. They’re a
ll carved of darker wood and crammed anywhere they can fit but in an orderly fashion. Some are taller, with embellishments carved into the sides or different legs. The books on the shelves are blue and uniform, with no titles on the spines. Papers on the cherry wood desk ruffle in the wind. The room looks the same, free of any mug debris or water.

  Nim trots over from the bedroom to hop onto the armchair of the small sitting area across from Erim’s desk. If foxes could roll their eyes, Sloane’s sure that’s what she would be doing.

  “Sure that you didn’t come back for these?” Erim holds Sloane’s shoes up by his smirky face. She looks down at her feet stupidly. Sure enough, no shoes. She hadn’t even noticed since she stormed out last night. Reflexively, she reaches out to snatch them from him, revealing her battered hands. “You were fine when you left!” In a split second, he’s by her side, inspecting them. “And then you went and got into a bar fight?”

  “A bar.” Sloane sighs wistfully. “That would be an improvement around here.” Erim grimaces at the sight of her hands. He examines them closely, careful not to touch. “Feels worse than it looks,” Sloane says.

  “Well, it looks like you fractured your knuckles.” He lifts his eyes from her hands. “We don’t really have anything for pain, but I’ll get you something to wrap them.” He disappears into the living part of his quarters.

  Sloane can see his bed through the large archway that connects the rooms. It has dark sheets and sits on a platform up a couple of stairs. There’s a small bath pool in the corner next to the bed, filled by a thin stream trickling down through the rocks.

  The grand piano sprawls between Sloane and the windows; it’s unlike any she’s seen. It’s navy blue, with a matte finish that reflects bright light as a dim shine. The sofa where they fought lies along the wall separating the office from the bedroom. It’s matched with a gnarly wooden coffee table and two tan leather armchairs. A tiny tin watering can sits in the middle of the small dining table, a little dented with speckles of rust.