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—never 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—,”
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.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“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. My feet 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—,”
“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.