Fortunately for Ceres, Udit’s house sat conveniently close to the river. He ferried the deceased one by one, down to the edge of the slow-moving sludge, ignoring the neighbors and their stares. Udit’s family eyed him with wordless suspicion, each time he returned to the house, only to bombard her with questions the moment he turned his back. They’d forgotten, evidently, that he could hear through tar paper—or at all. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, even so, as she struggled to give a…sanitized version of their association.
Under the cloak of night, with the moon casting an eerie glow, he was also removing evidence. Unseen eyes tracked his every move; amidst this bustling metropolis of millions, solitude was as illusory as safety. He hoisted the first of the men into the swirling current, the soft plop oddly muffled. There was more reason to dump the bodies here, however, than the faint hope of their floating elsewhere; the Kaveri River looked normal enough, at least in the dark, but lurking within its depths was a corrosive concoction of pollutants and worse. As the hours passed and the night deepened, flesh and even bone would begin to dissolve. Animals would do their work, too, until dawn broke and memories passed into rumor.
He looked up to see Udit, watching.
She’d called him a friend, to her mother, although her expression now was impossible to interpret.
His gaze followed her descent, tracing the curve of her silhouette against the backdrop of the city’s skyline. She was almost ghostlike, gliding gracefully through the refuse that seemed ubiquitous. With each step she took, a magnetic pull seemed to draw her closer, her presence casting a spell on the stillness of their silent world—and on him. An electric surge pulsed between them, in that moment, igniting a spark that flickered to life in the depths of his soul. Yearning warred with desire, threatening to consume him whole.
She reached him, and stopped. The gulf between them seemed insurmountable, a vast expanse of uncertainty and unspoken truths stretching out before him. He longed to bridge the divide, to erase the distance with a single gesture, but knew that such a move would only deepen the chasm separating them. The weight of their shared hesitation hung heavy in the air, a tangible reminder of how different he was from everything she valued most. And as he stood there, waiting for her to break the silence, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was different to her than the men he’d killed.
Flashing him a small, uncertain smile, she turned toward the river. “Is proper disposal also something you learn, in assassin school?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
Her laughter sounded hollow, a feeble attempt to mask the lingering shock of their ordeal. Such was life in Dharavi—endure and persevere. He understood, better than she realized; it mirrored his own existence. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, her tone as hard to read as her expression.
“No,” he murmured softly.
She scrutinized him, for what seemed like an eternity. “Thank you.”
His features softened. “It’s embarrassing,” he confessed. “But you’re welcome.”
Perplexed, she furrowed her brow. “Embarrassing?”
He shrugged, a shadow crossing his face. “Now you know I’m stalking you.”
Gently, she placed a hand on his arm. “I knew that, regardless.”
He should’ve felt irritated but, instead, amusement danced in his eyes. “I’m slipping.”
This time, her laugh was genuine. “I’m just not an idiot.”
“Everyone who isn’t me, is an idiot.” His tone was serious.
“And on that note,” she replied, “my parents would like you to stay for dinner.”
As he walked alongside her, back to her home, a wave of unexpected emotions washed over him. The notion that anyone’s parents would willingly invite him anywhere was the absolute last thing he’d expected to hear. Yet, here he was, being ushered inside like some stray cat reluctantly adopted by a kindly couple. Despite his bewilderment, though, he could hardly refuse the invitation—and didn’t want to. The more time he spent with Udit, the more he found himself drawn to her. That she might feel even the smallest fraction of what he felt seemed too good to be true, but he was willing to seize whatever opportunity presented itself. In a world gone mad, she was a glimmer of light—a beacon of hope, in an otherwise bleak existence.
He arrived, to discover that the mood in the hut hadn’t changed.
The twins regarded him with a single solemn visage, while her parents engaged in a game of nervous glances. Udit’s mother, gripping her spatula, looked as though she were awaiting the plague rather than a dinner guest. Udit, in turn, appeared to be bracing for impact. “Mami, Baba,” she announced with forced cheer, “meet Ceres.” Her gesture toward him resembled a magician’s, unveiling a particularly unimpressive trick.
Ceres, in turn, tried to look nonthreatening.
Udit’s mother cleared her throat with exaggerated formality, her expression betraying her unease. “It seems we haven’t properly exchanged pleasantries,” she declared. “I am Pooja. And this gentleman,” she added, with a nod at her husband, “is Mohan. The twins are Uma and Gauri.” She waited for her husband to chime in and, when he didn’t, she pressed on. “Together, we are the Mishras.”
As Pooja directed him to the wobbly table, Ceres braced himself for a long night.
He felt like a lone iceberg, adrift in this sea of familial affection, his edges sharp and out of place amidst the gentle currents of love and togetherness. Uma and Gauri continued to stare at him like he was a museum exhibit, their unabashed curiosity a stark contrast to their father’s suspicion.
Pooja returned to her cooking area, Udit in tow, as he wondered what to talk about. The clatter of pots and pans seemed to mock his discomfort, serving as a fitting soundtrack to the absurdity of the moment. His earlier bow had likely fueled Mohan’s disdain; he’d outed himself as an aristocrat, with that little maneuver, or at least someone who wanted to act like one. Mohan seemed like an anti-monarchist and, given his surroundings, how could he not be?
With a determined air of nonchalance, Pooja began to serve the meal.
By some unspoken agreement, everyone had collectively decided to treat the past hour like a bad dream. The aroma of chicken filled the cramped space, and everyone praised Pooja’s cooking. But, as she sat, the tension settled over them like a suffocating blanket. She and Mohan exchanged glances again, as Ceres wondered how to break the awkward silence. Eventually, though, Mohan did it for him. “So, Ceres, what is it that you do for a living?”
Suppressing the urge to snap that he was a prince and didn’t do anything, he settled for stabbing at a forlorn turnip. He hadn’t joined the Brotherhood to earn a living, although some men did; Galen might’ve stolen his birthright, but he was still rich. “I’m just finishing a job,” he said, hoping that that statement wasn’t a complete fabrication. “I’m not sure what’s next.”
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One of the twins—Uma, he thought—piped up. “Are you a soldier?”
Ceres regarded her with a calculating gaze. “In a manner of speaking.”
Gauri tapped her spoon against her lips. “I didn’t think tribunes wore so much leather.”
“He’s not a soldier.” Mohan fixed him with a withering gaze. “He’s one of the Empire’s hired thugs.”
“Hired thugs?” Ceres echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re not part of the empire,” Uma informed him.
Mohan meant charming, or fascinating, and this old coot was neither. His apparent lack of gratitude was also rather disconcerting, considering Ceres had just pulled his backside out of the fire. He masked his irritation behind a polite smile, wondering if his host was always so gracious. Mohan’s disapproval, meanwhile, cast a pall over the table. Whether it was aimed at the Empire’s attempts to subjugate Mahima IV or at mercenaries as a breed, he didn’t feel the need to share.
Ceres couldn’t help but breathe a silent sigh of relief, even so, at the cleric’s misconception. Being mistaken for mere muscle-for-hire spared them all the potential shock of revealing his true calling. Udit’s uncharacteristic silence was, he had to admit, also welcome; at least she hadn’t told on him, although he’d like it if she helped him out instead of sitting there and watching him sweat.
Mohan dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “No university, then?”
Ceres drew a long, steadying breath. “No.”
Pooja shot her husband a warning glance.
“So you’re a self-taught man,” Mohan remarked, peering at Ceres over his spectacles.
“Mohan!” Pooja chided, her voice a mix of reproach and exasperation. “Enough!”
“What?” Mohan’s expression turned defensive. “I’m just making conversation.”
In the depths of nowhere, Ceres was under a more intense spotlight than if he’d been some peon pressing his suit to a senator’s daughter. He’d just rescued the man from a certain demise but no, what mattered was his lack of formal education. Yet, amidst this absurdity, there was one glimmer of solace: Udit’s stifled amusement hinted that someone found his predicament entertaining.
“Our daughter has brought a strange man home,” Mohan began, his tone laden with mistrust.
“And we’re all grateful,” Pooja interjected, offering Ceres a reassuring smile.
“I’d like to know more about him,” Mohan finished, grumbling. “That’s all.”
“I’m sure he has other skills and talents.” Pooja’s tone was soothing.
Mohan’s eyes bored into his, demanding an answer.
Ceres had a range of hobbies to keep himself occupied, when he wasn’t killing people; chess offered rare moments of mental peace, while rock climbing and horse racing satisfied his thirst for adrenaline. He liked horses, having grown up around them, but the thrill of competition was what he found most exhilarating. Right now, instead of divulging his pastimes, he met the cleric’s glare with one of his own. “No,” he said curtly, leaving the conversation at that.
Gauri found her voice again. “Where do you come from?”
“Brontes,” Ceres answered, relieved at this chance to steer the conversation elsewhere. “But I grew up in Chau Cera, the capital.”
The girl’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re an alien!”
Uma whispered into her sister’s ear. “Look at his eyes, they’re a strange color.”
“Blue eyes are quite common in the north,” Ceres explained. “Especially among mountain people.”
Pooja leaned forward, intrigued. “Is that where you’re from?”
Uma, unable to contain her curiosity, tugged at Ceres’s sleeve. “Is snow real?”
Explaining snow was like trying to capture a fleeting dream in words. “Snow blankets the mountains like a soft, white quilt, transforming their jagged peaks into a wonderland.” He stared into space, struggling for words that would do the vision in his mind’s eye justice. “Then, when the sunlight hits, it’s as if that quilt comes alive. Sparkles shimmer everywhere, in all the colors of the rainbow, and even the air smells different.” His eyes met Udit’s. “Crisp and clean, like a fresh start.”
Uma’s breath caught in awe at his description. “That sounds incredible.”
Ceres nodded, surprised that he’d revealed so much. But snow wasn’t just frozen water, it was a piece of his soul. Uma’s interest had drawn something out of him, something he’d long kept hidden. Udit, meanwhile, was staring at him like she’d never seen him before. He thought about how he’d feel, sharing this magic with her; she might understand him, then. She might want to.
Gauri bit her lip in consternation. “But can you read minds?”
“Aliens can all read minds,” Uma assured her.
He shook his head. “This one can’t.”
Uma’s eyes sparkled with imagination. “What about laser beams? I heard that—
“What’s the most dangerous situation you’ve been in?” Gauri asked, interrupting her. “Have you killed a lot of people? And what’s it like, killing people? Is it gross? I feel like it’d be gross.”
Ceres, who harbored no fondness for children, blinked.
Mohan’s gaze bore into him, probing for something deeper. “Do you believe in justice, and in standing up for what’s right?”
“It does seem like he does,” Pooja offered, her tone implying a plea for peace.
The cleric’s retort was sharp. “What it seems like is that he thinks violence is justified.”
Ceres refused to be shamed. “With all due respect, otherwise you’d be dead.”
Pooja changed the subject. “Tell us about your family, Ceres. Are they all as…adventurous as you?”
He paused, grappling with memories he’d rather leave buried. “My father served in the legions,” he said slowly. “Before he got married. My mother was a…homemaker.” His parents had also been brother and sister, one of the scandals his uncle had crowed over at their sham of a trial.
In the Empire’s ancient past, where the divine and mortal realms intertwined, intermarriage between siblings had been common. Amidst the grandeur of the emperor’s rule, in particular, the union of brother and sister wasn’t merely a matter of convenience but a sacred tradition steeped in religious reverence. Descended from gods and believed to be divine themselves, the emperors of old sought to emulate the divine unions of their original pantheon. Idris, the ancient god of the afterlife, had been married to his sister. With a new religion came new customs, of course, and Caracalla’s choice of wife had been controversial, but he’d assumed that the senate would accept Julia in time. Most of the senatorial class, after all, was descended from similar unions.
“Men are a full-time job,” Pooja quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
“Have you considered settling down?” Mohan probed.
Ceres considered how to respond. Saying no would imply that he was toying with Udit’s affections, while saying yes might make Mohan stab him with a fork. It seemed that the cleric, like most fathers, had failed to consider his daughter’s perspective—and the fact that Ceres had about as much chance with her, if he was being realistic, as a fish had of climbing a tree.
“I have…complex obligations,” he said eventually.
Mohan shifted in his seat. “What I mean is, how much longer are you planning on being on this planet? You must be going home at some point, and—
“Baba, enough!” Slamming her hands down on the table, Udit got up and stormed out.