Velli

With half an hour more research, Jeremy informs me that the Old Soul will be arriving at a tanning salon. An odd choice for her. Perhaps she’s a narcissist and is demanding her body be perfected further. Perhaps she hates herself, and changing her appearance gives her pleasure. It doesn’t matter. An Internet forum has been dedicated to keeping eyes on her. Some are her victims. Others are descendants of victims. Others have heard her legend and never want to be her victim.

Since it’s a tanning salon, and I’ve seen that scene in that one horror movie, I know how I should catch her. I’ll trap her inside a tanning booth, and as her skin burns and she begs for mercy, I’ll make her swear her allegiance to me in a Cognomen Oath. It’s that simple. Well, simple is a stretch because my plan involves a host of people in the salon.

Following someone in Division’s Hand is a difficult task because of teleporters. So it’s best to arrive ahead of time to find whoever I’m tracking. I offer an extra tip for an emergency, and my transporter is quick to come by, drop me off, and let me go with no questions. Logical. In most emergencies, it’s best not to know the details.

He drops me off right in front of the tanning salon, and I arrive before she does.

I step inside. It’s bright blue everywhere except for the orange front desk. A room to the left of the desk I assume holds the tanning bed, but right now, I’m in a small, gray-carpeted waiting room. Cheap padded chairs lean against the wall to the left of the door. The lone guy working here—or here at all—wears a blue tank top, showing off his slim and toned figure.

I head to the tanning salon guy at the intensely orange counter. I don’t care much about tanning—I’m Black, duh—but I think he has a good one. He’s a bronze so natural I would assume it was real if he weren’t working at a tanning salon. Maybe it is real, and that’s how he got the job.

He greets me, flashing porcelain white teeth. “Hey, can I offer you—” Then he stops.

Tanning salon guy wants to offer me a special on some sort of tanning, I’m sure, but right now, he’s thinking, Do Black guys go to tanning salons? That thought stresses him out. He combs his fingers through his pristine low-top fade cut.

I fake a laugh and greet him as he struggles for words. Momentarily, he looks around for advice, but his only companion is a cardboard cutout of a woman in a bikini and the salon’s name, Fresh Sun Tanning.

“Aye, bro, it’s good. I’m just meeting my girl here. She said she’s going to get a tan, then we’ll head out and grab a port home.”

“For sure,” he says, breathing easy. “Please, take a seat, man. I’m Kennedy. Let me know if you need anything.” He points me to the few chairs in the lobby. I nod and walk back toward the seats.

“Thanks, Kennedy. My name’s Velli. I appreciate it.”

He gives me a genuine smile, and I give him one back. Good vibes all around. He takes a seat on the stool behind him and types on the computer to his left.

The door opens with a chime.

In walks the world’s worst grandmother. Her sweater is baggy and appears to weigh her down. It’s an ugly red-and-black thing that looks hand knit. However, her legend says otherwise. Children adorn her sweater with slim sticklike bodies, large pumpkin-like heads, and eyes that open and shut on their own. Some say each child was a body she stole, and the blinking eyes and mute but moving mouths make me think that they weren’t knitted there but were something else entirely. Perhaps they represented the potential she steals. Perhaps they’re taunts. Some legends say that’s where her victims’ souls go once they die. A Hell Sweater.

More than a sweater, the weird designs continue down to her ugly lime-green pants. A child on the sweater—that looks oddly similar to Jeremy when he was young—blinks twice at me, and his mouth gapes. Her thick slippers shuffle across the floor. An arrogance accompanies every half step, as if she’s too good to raise her feet.

I’m careful to glance at her. Quick as a gunshot, less than a second. No need to arouse suspicion yet. My plan calls for the element of surprise. One notable detail for my attack—the curved brown cane she carries does not hit the ground. She keeps it above the floor. Is it a weapon?

“Why don’t you want me to know you looked at me?” the Old Soul asks, her voice identical to a male child’s, high and cracking.

“Huh?” I play dumb to make her think she’s being paranoid. “Oh, the door just opened, and I glanced over. I’m waiting for my girl. Sorry, I was expecting her.”

“Don’t lie to me. You looked at me too quickly. Glances have a rhythm of about a second and a half. You looked at me for less than that.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“And why would you not look at me longer than a second and a half? I am dressed rather bizarrely. Am I not?”

I’m Velli. My talent is that I’m really clever.

“Yeah, well—”

“Do I know you?” she asks, not like Weaver asked outside the hospital. This is a genuine question.

“No.”

“Keep it that way, young man.” She winks unpleasantly, squints at me, and her eyes bulge. “Your posture is all wrong… shoulders slouched but toes slightly raised, arms crossed but fingers tapping. You’re trying to display calm, but both hands are on… what’s in your pocket? A gun? Oh, no, nothing’s that big in there. Oh, a knife. Probably, no powers. You don’t have powers, and you feel very scared because of it. When did you stop wetting the bed as a child? Definitely late. Look at you. You let me talk this way without interruption. No threats? You’re soft. Mother’s favorite son? Only son? I wonder how she’s doing. Oh, there’s a look in your eye at the mention of her. I won’t go there. Yes, yes, be sure to not let me know you. I would do wicked surgery on your soul.” She sniffs the air twice. “Oh, and you’re nervous now. I can smell the sweat forming under your armpits.”

I don’t move an inch. I’m afraid to follow her with my eyes, so I stare at the space across the hall. Slowly, I turn my head, and it’s like reclaiming my body after she dug her hand inside of it and had a peek and a lick of everything that makes me me. I face forward and keep my head down.

“Hello, young man,” she says to the dumbfounded guy behind the counter. She’s short, about five foot one. Her head almost doesn’t reach above the counter.

“Hey, that wasn’t cool. Please respect, um, other customers,” Kennedy says, and my head perks up.

Her head tilts. We’re both in shock at his bold display.

“You’re lucky I’m in a hurry,” she says.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“You need to apologize,” Kennedy demands.

The Old Soul waves back to me without looking and says, “Sorry, kid.”

I’m shocked. Good vibes win the day.

She speaks to Kennedy. “You’re lucky you’re gorgeous.”

“Nice,” Kennedy says, as oblivious as a baby in piranha-infested waters. “How can I help you today?”

“My skin,” the Old Soul says with a loveless smile that’s missing baby teeth and a friendly twang that does not fit her. She pinches her arm. “Is a bit unfit. I need a tan, to be burned for a bit.”

“Uhhh.” His jaw drops and hangs. “Sorry, little man. Can’t do that. Your daddy or mommy might get upset and come by and take out their anger on us.”

It’s the voice. She doesn’t look too much like a child, but the voice… and her face doesn’t have a single wrinkle.

“Boy,” she says with heart-stopping sternness. “I may be the oldest person living. Certainly, the oldest person you’ve met, and I am losing patience.”

“Oh, you’ve got one of those powers that make you look super-young. Sorry, that’s pretty sweet. But yeah, if you can come back with any sort of proof of it or if you have anything close to proof on your phone. As long as it doesn’t look edited, you’ll be good to go.”

The Old Soul’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“Boy, you have no idea how valuable time is to me. What I have done for more time. Who has died to give me more time.” Her voice rises in pitch and cracks like fireworks.

Kennedy thinks it’s hilarious, or maybe he feels the tension in the atmosphere, and that makes him laugh. “Heh heh, well, that’s company policy. Um, maybe we can reimburse you with a store credit for the teleporter charge… It’s unlikely. Most likely we—”

“I do not want to ride in another godforsaken helicopter, teleporter, or whatever. I want to take fifteen minutes to change my skin and leave.”

“Uh, Mr. Dice…? Mrs. Grim, can you come out, please?” Kennedy calls to a door in a hallway to his left that’s parallel to the tanning salon. Shuffling and footsteps follow. Kennedy, a little slow—You’re one to talk—finally sees the gravity of the situation. He wiggles his jaw and shrugs his shoulders at the Old Soul.

The Old Soul gulps a big breath then raises her cane.

“Mr. Dice! Mrs. Grim!” he yells.

Mr. Dice comes out of the office, and he’s not happy. He wiggles to make room for himself in the doorway. Once through, each step is a modelesque strut. His pecs bounce in his tight blue shirt. Green letters say, “Fresh Sun Tanning.” His equally tight shorts flex, his veiny thighs saying “Fresh Sun” around the front and probably “Tanning” on his glutes. His perfect olive tan matches Kennedy’s. They aren’t related, though. This guy is Asian and has a mass of muscle up top with two horse legs under his torso like a faun.

He trots over to the front desk. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Mr. Dice poses with his hands on his hips. “What’s the problem here?”

“I need a tan,” the Old Soul says.

Kennedy throws his shoulders back and adds some bass back to his voice with the presence of Mr. Dice around. “Yeah, and he’s being a bit rude about it, honestly, and he’s insulting customers.” He gestures to me.

I shake my head, wave my hands, and mouth “No.” Kennedy might be oblivious, but I’m not. I might be in over my head.

“We apologize for that, sir. It’s not appropriate at all.” Mr. Dice smiles wide at me, looking past the Old Soul. Mr. Dice has had his teeth done. They have black dots that remind me of a Dalmatian. “How about a free tan?”

The Old Soul groans like a veteran soldier before a war.

“Dude,” Kennedy interjects and slaps Mr. Dice’s arm. “He doesn’t need a tan. He’s obviously here for his girlfriend.”

Mr. Dice speaks through his tatted teeth. “Do not hit me. I’m your boss.” He turns back to me. “How about a free tan for your lady friend, then? Is she on our guest list already? Kennedy, pull up our guest list. What’s your lady friend’s name?”

“Uhhhh,” I stammer. Shape up, Velli. C’mon, you have a fake girl name you always use. “Her name is Drew.” Easy to remember when I’m drawing a blank on names.

“May. I. Have. A. Tan?” The Old Soul puts every ounce of aggravated authority into her voice.

“Absolutely, of course.” Mr. Dice turns his head in her direction. “Oh, actually, no.”

The Old Soul closes her eyes and takes in another big breath.

Mr. Dice drones on about company policy, “…under the age of thirteen. It can cause lasting damage that we could be legally responsible for or physically responsible for depending on your parentage.”

Mentally, the Old Soul looks gone, her body tranquil, nearly every muscle relaxing. Nearly.

“Obviously, there are those whose powers give them eternal youth…”

Not every muscle is tranquil. The one in her right hand is not. She holds her cane steady, right above the floor. Its tiny, circular shadow sways. It’s like a bug beneath the cane waiting to be squished.

“…the owner. Let me call the owner. Mrs. Grimm!” he yells to the back of the store.

The analog clock ticks loudly above my head, and I think I can hear the drip, drip, drip, of a bathroom faucet as we wait for Mrs. Grimm to arrive.

Kennedy mouths to me, “Sorry, Dude.”

I mouth back, “Let it go.”

He waves me off with a smile. I should leave. This won’t end well.

“She’ll be just a second,” Mr. Dice says. “I understand the frustration. I’m sorry, what was your name?”

The Old Soul doesn’t flinch, doesn’t speak.

Floating through walls and Mr. Dice’s body, transparent as a ghost, comes Mrs. Grimm, a tall woman, maybe six foot seven. She’s wearing heels, a tight black dress, and her deathly pale skin could use these tans she’s selling. She lands with her hands on her wide hips between Mr. Dice and the Old Soul.

“Mark, what’s the problem here?” she asks Mr. Dice. “You asked for more responsibility, so I gave it to you. I mean, I’m not even supposed to be in a customer-facing role. Look at my skin.” She waves her hand over her pale flesh. “Bad for business.”

“Looking great to me, Mrs. G,” Kennedy says.

Mrs. G puts her hand on Kennedy’s. It floats through. “That’s very sweet, Kennedy. Thank you.” She turns back to Mr. Dice with a ghostly whoosh and makes a face not angry but concerned for him. “Everything, all right, Mark?”

Mark—Mr. Dice—trying not to let what might be one of the nicest bosses in all of Division’s Hand down, says, “This kid would like a tan, but he appears to be underage.”

Mrs. Grimm motions to smack her face in a way that says, “Oh, I’m such an idiot,” but her hand goes through her head. “Oh, everyone, this is my fault. I am so sorry. You’d be surprised how often this happens, so I updated the policy and didn’t inform anyone. My sincerest apologies in the name of Division.”

“No worries, Mrs. G,” Kennedy says.

And Mark gives a big belly laugh. “Oh, well, that’s a relief.”

Then they all are doing big belly laughs like one happy work family.

Mrs. Grimm turns to the Old Soul. “Of course, you can tan h—”

The Old Soul’s eyes widen and bounce—evil, empty, gray shells. She taps her cane on the floor. Her body vanishes. Hearts stop. Hanging in the air like a rabid tiger midpounce, she reappears behind Mrs. Grimm. That cane—that Drowned Cane. She swings it in a wide arc, aiming for Mrs. Grimm’s transparent ribs.

She’s still transparent, but somehow, the cane makes contact. Against the laws of reality, the Old Soul makes contact. Bones crack. Mrs. Grimm’s scream is wet. Her ribs cave inward, contorting her body into a gut-wrenching, abominable V. Mrs. Grimm lives, and I don’t think she wants to. Her chest bounces. She shakes, sweats, and swears.

The Old Soul lands on the ground, and her cane flicks against the floor. Gone again. Mr. Dice’s face says he’s in the middle of processing.

Why can’t he figure it out faster? Why doesn’t he know he needs to run?

His lips curl up, down, up, down. Smile, frown. Smile, frown. He should be sad. Someone is broken in front of him. Should he laugh because this isn’t possible? And the irony of it? The Old Soul got what she wanted. Mrs. Grimm was offering her a tan before she did this. Smile, frown. Smile, frown.

The Old Soul is behind him. She brings her cane back in a wide arc, again lined up for the ribs. Contact. He yelps—stepped-on-puppy-like—his arms swing—like the inflatables outside car lots—and his ribs cave inward, making that same gross, ungodly V.

She lands on the ground and taps her cane again then disappears.

Kennedy screams, “Yo, yo, yo, yo!” behind the desk. I imagine some instinct deep within him won’t let him leave, like some customer might come in and need attending to.

They sweat. They shake. Mrs. Grimm and Mark—Mr. Dice—grope for each other’s hands. The act is futile. Mr. Dice’s hand goes through Mrs. Grimm’s.

The Old Soul is in the air behind Kennedy. She raises her cane in that wide arc, this time aiming for the head. Why the head instead of the ribs? My guess—pure frustration.

His face flattens, his right cheek resting on his left cheek like a pancake. His body flops over without fanfare.

She lands behind the desk. She looks me over for a whole second then assesses her handiwork. Both Mrs. Grimm and Mr. Dice are close to dying now. She nods.

Then she points her cane at me. “You’ll be operating the tanning booth for me. Yes, you’re smart enough. I assume you’re smart because of your issues. You would work hard at athletics or intelligence, and well, you’ve got a decent frame, but you’re not him.” She points to a now-dead Mr. Dice. “Not yet, anyway. No, I imagine you took school seriously. What was your concentration?”

“Psychology.”

“Ah, the useful, everyday science.” She gives me a predatory grin. “I am a fan. Yes, yes, operating a machine is much easier than trying to understand what’s in everyone’s head.”