When the evening brings despair, wiser heads wait for the dawn to make decisions; Yasha believed this firmly. He therefore stayed his hand that night, as brimming as he was the urge to act.
(Alex had always scorned this, night-owl that he'd been. Yasha supposed dawn looked different when one came at it from the other side.)
The streets were desolate as Yasha made his way home. Every shop was closed for the night. The earlier autumn breeze became a biting, howling wind, like a dog who'd lost its owner and gone mad from grief.
For the last three years home had been a one-room affair on the attic floor of a three-story, three-apartment house. Yasha slogged up the stairs, then had to mind not to crack his head on the ceiling, which slanted at odd angles. In Yasha's worst moments he wondered whether this was truly structurally necessary or simply an attempt by the landlord to torment him personally. It was clean, at least, and nobody else was there to hog the bathroom or get in his way as he cooked.
Yasha flung himself down on the bed, a double futon mattress that he never bothered folding into its sofa state. Surely he'd be better come morning.
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Yasha beheld the information available to him with mounting dismay, his breakfast forgotten on the side of his desk.
Of course Yasha would not dream of violating Alex's privacy, heavens forbid! But the Noether Club's wiki was completely open to the public, right down to the edit history.
They had a neat little section about finance transparency – that this was meticulously kept was no surprise; Ilse ran that thing with pinpoint precision. The calendar, however, was raising some concerns.
The calendar – all of the wiki – was nominally editable by any member of the club. In practice, outside of Ilse's reign in finances, Alex was the only one updating the god-forsaken thing. For a very loose value of "updating"; the last Yasha had seen the calendar, it had listed events from eighteen months before then.
Now the events for the next year were listed in clean, easily legible order.
Perhaps Alex had finally agreed to accept help from someone else – but no, as Yasha viewed the edit history he saw only Alex's username. If Yasha tried to harbor some hopes that Alex had merely lucked into a streak of inspiration and belted the whole thing out over a sleepless night, those were shattered by the cruel rigidity of the changelog. Alex had been updating this once a week, like clockwork, for the last two months.
Feeling sick, Yasha shut his laptop. The time had come for action, indeed. He needed to speak to someone closer to the source.
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The apartment building was a tram and a light rail away. It had a charming hedge for a fence, and a carved pumpkin containing a snuffed-out candle grinned at Yasha as he entered. He always did find ringing doorbells to be the spookiest part of Halloween.
He had to steel himself, but he did it anyway, pushing the button labeled Schneider.
No response.
Yasha was just debating ringing again versus running away when the intercom crackled into life. “Who is it?”
Time to face the music. “This is Yasha,” he said, smiling automatically, “you may recall me–”
Another crackle. “Leave before I call the cops.”
Ilse was not a woman to bluff. Yasha made a strategic retreat.
As he took three steps away, however, the intercom crackled again. Curious despite his terror, Yasha stepped closer.
“Tomorrow at eight,” she said. “Westpark bus station. Wear decent shoes.”
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At 07:52, Yasha stepped off the bus at the aforementioned station. Ilse was there already, back ramrod straight, carrying a backpack that Yasha was uncomfortably aware could contain an entire full grown human body. Alex had tested it, way back when.
“Your shoes are shit,” she said, voice and expression as flat as ever.
Yasha’s shoes were perfectly serviceable hiking ankle-boots. He refused to rise to this bait, instead adjusting the straps on his own backpack. He had three liters of water in there, and some snacks; he dearly hoped she wouldn’t try to actually camp out there with him. “Shall we?” he asked.
Ilse huffed out a breath and began walking. Yasha followed.
Westpark was at the edge of the city, where cultured greenery slowly melted into wilderness. Trees rustled around them, their remaining leaves a fiery riot. It was, he had to admit, quite beautiful.
Ilse showed no intention of stopping to admire the view. She didn’t even wear a proper coat, only a black hoodie sporting the chipped remains of some logo or another. Her boots were the same ones he remembered: she used to say she’d inherited them from her grandmother, and Yasha had never dared to ask if she was joking.
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Neither of them said a word. Ilse was never much for chatter, and Yasha needed all his air to keep up.
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They had been walking for perhaps half an hour when Yasha realized that Ilse’s assessment of his boots had been, alas, accurate. In addition to being out of breath and the burn in his calves, Yasha was now plagued by a painful chafing sensation about the ankle.
Still, not much to do but keep on walking, and try his best not to step in the deceptively shallow-looking puddles that littered the road.
Ilse, of course, was showing no signs of taking a break, let alone stopping.
Alex had said that Ilse’s brand of bonding required long, arduous treks through the countryside. Those walks had always left Alex with sunburn and blistered feet. If Ilse had not been inclined to mercy then, why should she be now? Yasha supposed he ought to be grateful she’d deigned to allow his presence so far.
In Yasha’s defense, while the great outdoors held many charms, usually Yasha preferred to appreciate it through a window somewhere well-insulated with a warm drink in hand. This was one of the reasons he didn’t pursue anthropology or archeology, despite an earlier interest; medieval poetry required much less venturing outside.
The previously smooth road was now littered with plant matter, rocks, and other rocks. He had better pay attention. Yasha caught himself a moment before stumbling on a tree root of exceptional rudeness.
Ilse, thankfully, said nothing.
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It’s not as though Alex was particularly fond of athleticism, either. He was a weedy beanpole of a man, fit to be bowled over by a stiff breeze. Ilse literally could and had carried him in her gigantic backpack on occasion; he’d climbed in and folded like a stick insect.
He had gone walking with Ilse even so. “It’s like, her love language or something,” he’d said once with an awkward shrug.
Yasha had merely hummed agreement. He’d been, at the time, more preoccupied by the way the collar of Alex’s too-big t-shirt slipped sideways to expose a lovely clavicle.
There was no such pleasant distraction at the moment. Instead, the sky darkened with gathering clouds, the wind growling a prelude to thunder.
Yasha looked at Ilse’s back and contemplated suggesting they cut the trip short. He couldn’t even imagine her response. He debated turning back by his lonesome.
But Ilse kept on walking, and so did Yasha.
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As they went, Yasha limited himself to simpler thoughts. The next hundred meters, then the next fifty, then the next step. The ground was muddy; Yasha’s coat was wool, warm even wet, but the sodden material was getting heavy.
Ilse kept going the exact same pace as before. Yasha’s attention narrowed down to the heels of her hiking boots, watching them go up and down, up and down.
Finally, they stopped.
Yasha took another step forward, blinked, and stopped as well.
They were standing on a rocky ridge, partway up a hill. There was a bench, and a little low stone wall one could lean against to take in the scenery. Yasha, resigning himself to wet trousers as well, took the bench.
Ilse remained standing, back turned to him. “I used to take Alex here,” she said.
Yasha’s heart, still hammering from the effort of the walk, picked up its pace even more. “Used to?”
“He wouldn’t come with me the last two times I offered.”
The words had Yasha’s insides roiling. Alex had used to be the one to initiate these walks. Ilse wasn’t exactly the most forthcoming or demonstrative person; for her to ask even once was a very major concession.
Knowing how Ilse appreciated jumping straight to the heart of matters, Yasha asked, “Could it be possession?”
To Yasha’s lack of surprise, Ilse shook her head even before the sentence was fully out of his mouth. “There are wards around the club tuned to the specific aetheric signatures of the members. A spiritual intruder wouldn’t have been able to enter the premises.”
The figurative clockwork in Yasha’s mind ticked furiously. “Could anyone have altered the wards?”
“Only Alex and I had access.” Ilse leaned forward, bracing her forearms against the top of the wall. “They hadn’t been altered by anyone but Alex since the club was founded.”
No two spirits had the same aetheric signature; Yasha remembered that much. “Could Alex have been tricked into adding someone malicious?”
Ilse shrugged. “Possible, I suppose. Some of the signatures don’t belong to people I know, but that means nothing. New members are not my field.” Of course not. Alex had handled that. “Alex isn’t a fool, and loose spirits are not known for long-term strategic planning. The likelihood is vanishingly small.”
To his reluctance, Yasha found he agreed. Nobody could have accused Alex of being naive, too trusting or careless. Alex had dealt in the matters of spirit for over a decade, and he’d never once failed before.
But what else could it be?
When he voiced the sentiment, Ilse shook her head once more. “Sometimes people change.”
Yasha’s No was trapped in his suddenly-tight throat. Not Alex, not like this.
Ilse turned. The clouds were parting, the sun shining through her short, fair hair. Abruptly, she said, “Show me your leg.”
Yasha blinked at her. “Pardon?”
“You’re injured,” she said, as though that was obvious to anyone in possession of eyes. “Let me clean and bandage it before it gets infected.”
Ilse brooked no disobedience in matters of safety. Soon Yasha had his boots and socks off, exposing red, raw skin. Ilse took a first-aid kit fit for a complete field hospital out of her bag and swiped disinfectant over Yasha’s ankle with ruthless efficiency.
(Alex had always come back with his injuries bandaged, neat and meticulous as Alex had never bothered to be with himself.)
Finally, she was done.
“What now?” Yasha asked.
Ilse shrugged. “We head back before it starts raining again.” She took one look at Yasha and snorted. “Westpark North station is just down that way.”
Yasha followed her down meekly, mind churning.
It was possession. He would prove it.