Chapter 18: The Navigator

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I have lost track of the number of times my essence has been manipulated.

Indeed, try as I might, I cannot even recall what form my soul originally took. What beckoning silhouette first called me out of the Aether. I have been twisted, shaped, and reformed so many times that what stays with me is the pain. The knowledge that I have been malformed to the whims of mortals long forgotten to time. Each and every instance has been an insult. An unmaking. A violation of what I was to create a needless will-be.

So when Lydia burst through the bond and flooded me with her own essence - gave, rather than took - I did not know what to make of it.

Dorothy is, of course, the most recent memory. She used to add things here and there, as though I were some doll whose limbs she could detach. I suppose to her I was precisely that. She was always finding new ways to improve me, to fit me into a mold of her making. But she never once offered anything of herself in the forging. She never reached out to me with the intent of helping me. Always it was part of some greater scheme to suit her service.

Lydia Grace wanted none of these things. When she reached for me, I felt her panic that I would die. Her horror that I was wounded. When she blew the bond wide, she reached out and began trying to repair anything she could find. I could feel her beneath my skin, scrambling, unpracticed, and yet her intent was all too clear: she wanted to make me stronger. To fit my pieces together in a way that would save my life. In spite of everything, Lydia still views me as a person.

I want to make myself hate her for her ignorance, but I can’t. She does not deserve hatred.

When the creature flung me through the air, I felt the chord between us briefly sever. Unfortunately for it, by then it was far too late. I have never tasted power like Lydia’s. I have never had such a bright and potent essence poured into me. I am a creature who has consumed countless men and women in my time, and yet there is something lurking within Lydia that I cannot name. Something new. Novel.

Novelty is such a rarity for me. I find I savor the flavor of it.

When the Samantha woman spurs me into action, however, all other thought is driven from my head. Reality brings me back to earth. The Shaper is still in danger, which means that I, by association, am also at risk. But what’s more than that, I can now confess: I do not want Lydia to die. She has grown on me, for better or worse.

Time will tell whether or not that growth will become parasitic. For the time being, I will settle for finding a way to untether myself from her without causing her harm.

“There’s a house up ahead, at the edge of the field,” Sam says. “When you get there, pull up beside it and help me carry her inside.” She pauses, eying me from the backseat. I can feel the potency of that gaze, of her dark eyes. “Do you think you can handle that? Or are you going to put your teeth to her throat?”

A flicker of irritation surges through me. “No. I assure you, I have no interest in harming her.”

She purses her lips at that, disbelieving. “You’ll forgive me if I have my doubts.”

I smile, though I’m sure she cannot see it properly. “If you’re familiar with the Archive, you’ll know I’m bound to her. I have to ensure her safety.” I keep my eyes fixed on the field, searching for the house. “Besides. She’s in this situation entirely by accident. None of it is her fault.”

“Bound to her.” She casts a glance at the grimoire, an expression of disgust ghosting over her face. Then she snorts. “You’re going to try and tell me she summoned you by mistake.”

I arch a brow slightly, flicking my own eyes up to the rearview mirror. “…Actually, yes. Precisely that.”

Sam narrows her eyes. “I have no tolerance for half-truths. Nor double-talk. Out with it.”

I consider for a moment, relieved when the house comes into view. It’s white against the night, glowing in the light of the moon. Freshly painted, by the look of things. When the Royce has come to an uncomfortably grinding halt, I turn around to face her.

“Why do you need to know?”

She looks at me gravely. “Because what we’re about to do poses a great risk to me, and I want to know if she’s worth it.”

Well, that’s motivating enough. As I get out of the car and scoop Lydia up into my arms, I tell Sam everything. About the ritual. About Lucas Hallowsworth. I leave out any specific details pertaining to myself, of course—she doesn’t need to know I’m technically a fugitive of the Archive on the lam.

Though that might win me points in her favor. It’s hard to say.

When we pass over the threshold of the home, I feel a shudder of something roll over my shoulders. It is different than the wards a Templar might use - those sanctify, and would simply banish me the moment I stepped foot within. I can feel this lingering upon me, buzzing and humming. The sensation is not one I recognize.

“What…”

“One false move from you, and you will be flung back to the Aether.” She fixes me with a hard stare. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with one of you, and I know what I’m doing. So if you’re planning to get the drop on me, you’ll fail. Then you’ll regret it. You understand that?”

So she knows about the Aether too. Interesting. I arch a brow. “You’re giving me a choice to be on good behavior, then.”

She peers up at me, studying my face. “You are responsible for your own actions, as I am mine.” Flicking a glance towards where Lydia dangles limply in my arms, she jerks her head towards a mattress in the corner. There’s no frame, but the bedding is surprisingly clean, giving off a pleasant odor as I settle Lydia down on top of it.

“Who are you, if I might ask? I mean, how did you come to be tracking that thing? How do you know about the Archive?”

I see her shrug out of the corner of my eye. “Those creatures have been cropping up around here lately. I’ve got certain skills that make me helpful in a situation like this, so I showed up when I heard about it.” Her lips twist at my last question, an expression of clear distaste. “As for your Archive…let’s just say they tried to recruit me. I said no. We haven’t been on speaking terms since.”

I make a mental note of that, curiosity peaked, but I get a sense she’ll just throw a wall up between us if I pry any further. “You work alone, then? Seems dangerous.”

She smirks at me. “I don’t think we want to start asking too many questions, do we?” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Because I could start interrogating you about a thing or two. Like why a demon employed by the Archive is out here raising hell. I thought they frowned on that sort of thing.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I hold up my hands, relenting. “Call it curiosity. I’m not offended if you’d rather it stay unsatisfied.”

Sam laughs. “I intend to leave it wholly unsatisfied, yes.” She draws in a breath. “Now. Can you behave? Because if I take you with me, you’ll be at my mercy. One false move and you’re out.”

“…Take me with you where?”

She strips out of her jacket. Beneath, she wears a simple white shirt, but I see an intricate design tattooed between her collarbones. It looks like half of a circle, its interior laced with lines as fine as a spider’s web. It is not a pattern that I am familiar with, but when I look at it, I get a sense of significance. Importance.

And the longer I look at it, at her, the more certain I become.

“You’re a Navigator,” I breathe.

Shapers are rare. Those that can change the patterns of the Aether, of a spirit - they are few and far between. But a Navigator is even rarer. The Aether is a world of confusion. A space that reflects the chaos and entropy of the world around it. Making your way through the Aether is nearly impossible, even if you dwell in it long enough that you think you know it. No matter how versed you believe you are, it’s tumultuous. Ever-changing. Ever-shifting.

No wonder the Archive tried to employ her. A Navigator can find their way through all of that chaos. They can step into the beyond and find their way through it.

More importantly, they can find their way back again.

Elan, I think. She could help me find my sister. She could help me find Elan.

Beside me, Lydia lets out a long, low groan. I turn to look at her. Judging by the furrows in her brow, by the thrashing of her limbs, she’s experiencing some sort of nightmare. Samantha studies her face, and her own features soften slightly.

“You swear she got involved in this against her will?”

I nod once. “I swear it. It’s the truth.”

Sam rolls her shoulders back. “These things don’t stop at consuming flesh. They burrow deep within the mind, drawing on the victim’s worst fears and memories. Even survivors often devolve into madness. Right now she’s having the worst nightmare of her life, and if she stays there too long, she’ll never be the same again.”

“…Will you help her?” I ask.

She fixes me with a long stare. “You claim she’s a victim in all of this. I choose to believe you. But believe me when I say: if we go there, I will be able to see more than you can know. And if I find you are lying to me, I will not pull you out again. I will abandon you both to your own devices.”

A chill passes through me unbidden. Not because I am lying - not with regards to Lydia - but I do not want this woman’s piercing stare boring through me. I do not want her to be able to see beneath my skin. There are too many secrets dwelling there.

I hear something, then - an echo through our bond, Lydia’s voice, panicked and beseeching. Help me! God, somebody help me!

I should not care as much as I do. I know I should not. But I can still feel her energy flowing through me, potent, invigorating. In truth, perhaps my response is partially self-serving.

I have never experienced symbiosis such as this with a mortal before. I want to savor it a while longer before it is taken from me.

“Take me with you,” I say. “I will do as you say. Nothing more, nothing less. But let me come with you.”

Samantha fixes me with her stare for a moment more. Then she asks: “Your name. What is it?”

I hesitate before I reply. “Lucas.”

A smile flashes over her face, wide and knowing. “Fine, Lucas. Then I suggest you follow me closely. Do not veer off the path. I won’t have time to hold your hand.”

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, I realize that the lines of her tattoo are moving and shifting. I stare at them, watching their subtle undulations. It occurs to me for a moment that it probably appears that I am staring at her breasts - but, well. Given that she does not slap me, I presume my transgression is disregarded.

“Lucas?”

“Hm?” I mumble, distracted.

There’s laughter in her voice. “Try not to get lost.”

With that, I feel a dizzying sensation. A sudden and violent vertigo. The world fades, blurring into streaks of light and color. Dimly, I wonder if Lucas Hallowsworth will attempt to take advantage of my temporary vacating of his vessel.

I check him before I fall into oblivion. He floats, dead to the world, curled in on himself like a turtle waiting for a blow.

Good, I think. You’ll hold a while.

Then I’m gone.

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It is strange, being pulled back into the Aether. I sense that my host is still connected to me. Clinging with a thread as fine as a strand of hair. There is not the usual panic this time: the knowledge that I have been flung back beyond the veil. That I will spend unknown decades languishing, trying to cling to what I know. Not this time. I am not at risk of unraveling.

Yet, at least.

It takes a while for my surroundings to manifest. When I am alone in this place, everything frays around the edges. I am perpetually aware of the Aether’s capacity to change around me. Of the fact that nothing is stable or set in stone.

It is different this time. I feel the ground beneath my feet. As I settle into place, everything manifests more sharply. More clearly. I feel cool air against my skin, feel my feet sinking into soft ground.

Samantha appears before me. There is something strange about her form - ethereal. It is as though she is half there, half not, one foot in either world. When she turns to look at me, an expression of confusion passes over her face. I immediately think of her warning and stiffen, staring at her in silent expectation.

“…Hm,” she says, helpfully.

“…What is it?”

She shrugs. “You look better this way.”

I blink. Peering down at my hands, I notice that they’re paler than they were before, light freckling spattered along my knuckles. Raising my fingers to my head, I run them through locks of coiled red hair.

“You have a good face,” Sam informs me, continuing her scrutiny. “Kind eyes.” She chuckles. “Your current body doesn’t suit you.”

I tilt my head at her. “No?”

“Too pretty.” She turns away, scanning our surroundings as she speaks. “Those ones are always cocky bastards. Never been told no. Think they can have anything they want.”

I’d argue, but I’ve quite literally had Lucas living in my head for the past few weeks. Samantha is spot on in her assessment.

“Plus,” she adds. “With a sweet face like that, no one would see it coming when you bite.”

She begins walking, not waiting for a response. I follow after her, keeping my eyes rigidly on her form at first. In spite of her presence, I begin to feel a faint sense of anxiety. While I am adept at surviving in the Aether by now, surviving is not thriving. I am not ready to be stranded here again. I haven’t had enough time to prepare.

It takes me a while to realize that Samantha is frowning.

“Something isn’t right about this place,” she murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

She stops. The tunnel is interspersed with a series of strange doors. Some stone, some wooden, some made of materials I don’t recognize. The walls are slick and muddy. The ground beneath us is swift to soil our shoes. There’s something strange about that - I’m so accustomed to the Aether being insubstantial. Indeed, I’m accustomed to being insubstantial myself. The realness, the tangibility - it’s almost eerie. Unsettling.

“As I said, that thing would have latched onto something deep within this girl’s psyche. I would expect to see…unpleasant memories. People aren’t that complicated, especially not when you dig down to what makes them afraid.” She shrugs. “Even a phobia. Drowning. Being lost in crowds. Being buried alive.” She glances over her shoulder at me. “I do not know what fear this place represents.”

There’s a pause. She lifts her head, and I can see tension straightening out her shoulders. “…No,” she murmurs. “No, something is not right here.”

She stands there for a moment, silent, listening. Then she seems to shake off whatever she was feeling, and takes a step forward. “Come. We should find her quickly. I don’t like this place.”

We continue forward. The darkness here is oppressive, the only real light given off by Samantha’s strange luminescence. When we round a corner, curving along one of the walls, I see something slither in the periphery of her light. I snatch out a hand to stop her, but she’s already halted, holding up a fist to indicate I should do the same.

There’s something coiling around a set of heavy looking stone doors. It looks like a knot of snakes have been bunched together on the ground, but I cannot tell where one ends and another begins. There is darkness, and then there is whatever this is: blacker than black. Not a color, but an emptiness.

Sam takes a step backwards. Then another. She presses her palm flat against my chest, raising a finger to her lips in a bid to keep me silent. I need no prompting. I may not be a Navigator, but even I can sense a wrongness in that slithering heap of nothing. It is unlike anything I have encountered in the Aether before.

When we’ve put some distance between ourselves and it, I risk speaking again.

“That wasn’t the eldritch creature,” I say. It’s not a question. “What was that?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She peers sidelong at me. “You’re certain she’s just some nobody from Capital?”

I blink at that. “Positive. Truly, her part in all of this is nothing more than happenstance and bad timing.”

It’s the truth, but I still feel relieved when she turns her scrutiny away again.

“Come,” she says. “We’re going to have to find a way around.”

She surges forward and I follow her, a weed of uncertainty starting to take root in my stomach.

Lydia is no one. A fluke. A circumstance.

Right?