Velli

Dream’s quick to recover from the near-death experience because she’s used to it, and I’m able to squeeze the majority of the blood from her hair. Quick to recover is not the right word. Quick to bury her feelings. She takes a few big breaths and, somehow, pushes down her fear and shame.

Healthy.

Yeah, I should talk to her about that.

Yeah, you’re giving mental health advice. The brain-dead leading the blind.

Dream glares at me as she wraps herself tighter in my jacket. Then the glare turns to a smile. Sometimes, even between us, she won’t let her hurt show. It’s a pretty smile, but I pity her.

With patient and invisible trepidation, she says, “Why’d you make us come through here? They could have made Mogvaz come out and meet us.”

“Sorry, I need to see someone.” I wish I could reward her patience with trust, but that’s not how things work. Before we can rescue the baby, I need to run into someone who can help us.

I have an ever-present paranoia that we’re a second away from being attacked. I question every step that comes too close. I peek over my shoulder constantly. Dream flinches at her own shadow, and the sound of our footsteps makes our skin crawl. The deeper we go, the more tempting each item in the Conference of Desires becomes. They offer absolutes. Safety comes in absolutes.

For comfort or out of primal fear, our bodies move closer to one another. Dream and I find ourselves shoulder to shoulder. Our hands tap one another in gentle contact, another factor that makes my heart race.

In neat black lettering, a sign above the ballroom door on Dream’s left states, “Drag, pull, or stuff in a bag whoever you want to be your lover. For every song I play, he or she will think she loves you for an entire year. Only twenty thousand drops per song.”

Twenty thousand drops. That’s half of what insurance gave us for my dad’s worth.

Thick and foggy soundproof glass covers the room. Soft light shines in the corner from a single cheap-looking lamp. Behind the glass, one man in a tight, dark suit plays the violin. The wall to his left is a mirror, and in its reflection, couples in the ballroom dance.

The violin player catches me staring. He points to me then Dream, and his neck urges me toward him. I push Dream to my other side, away from the ballroom. The violinist laughs. It’s impossible to hear, but his pink lips bounce in a smile, his head thrown back, and his tongue laps out of his mouth like an alien from a distant planet. It’s not much better on the other side, away from the creep.

Music blasts from the ballroom on the opposite side of the violinist. Vibrant trumpets and other fast-paced orchestra instruments play. The smell of artificial fog comes from the room flashing red and blue floodlights.

My frustration and fear grow when I realize just how similar in age and stature I look to a row of teenagers inside the room. My hand does a slow and self-conscious dance around Dream’s, wanting to grab but not wanting to cross that boundary.

Their conference room sign reads, “Living weapons for eighty thousand drops. All weapons are orphaned, unloved, and forgotten in the real world. Give them purpose.” The weapons they have are the skinny teens, frozen like mannequins.

Everything for sale here is depraved. No art. Barely any art matters in Division’s Hand. All that matters is money, power, and sex. The money to get the power, the power to get the sex, and the sex because no art matters.

Dream grabs my hand, and everything feels better, but I have to let it go and speed walk to my target—Carreon Bane.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Carreon Bane’s literal beetle eyes peep from side to side as he steps out of a room. His long beige trench coat drags across the floor. His eyes plop up, around, and down in his face, looking everywhere. Unnatural things, they’re too fast and too large for his head. If they pop out of his head and bounce on the floor, I won’t be surprised.

The sign in neat black lettering to the left of the door says, “Professional body trading for fifty thousand drops!”

That’s more than you and your dead daddy are worth.

In smaller letters beneath it, “Don’t ask, don’t tell policy. All parties involved do not have to be awake or have knowledge of the process.”

Carreon Bane’s powers are in question. Something to do with shape-shifting, but it’s unclear. I theorize he can change into anything that crawls on its stomach, which is why he has the beetle eyes. So he can see better, be aware of any danger, or spot any potential victim.

I’m careful not to show I’m in a rush as I go ahead of Dream and beeline toward him. I slide behind a man made of stone when Carreon looks toward me. I pop out as soon as he turns his head.

Carreon walks deeper into the conference at an angle toward a room marked “Information Brokerage! Verified facts about the thoughts, dreams, and goals of your loved ones or worst enemies.” In smaller letters, “Note: No information involving the Heirs, their associates, or any of the World-Conquering Cliques is known or will be traded, and if you offer it, you will be disposed of immediately!”

I move quicker and hide better, using every inch of agility I have to maintain sight of him. Dream calls my name in the background, and I must ignore her. This is the only place I could catch Carreon. One of his many jobs, if you could call them jobs, is selling private information—dreams, passwords, and all forms of secrets. We’re so close. I hurry now, no more hiding. This plan only works while we’re between hallways. I don’t have time to wait for him to come out.

With three steps before I reach Carreon, I break into a jog. At the same time, I turn my head toward Dream behind me. I yell to her with my most obnoxious, anxious, and joyful voice. “C’mon, hurry. We’re going to miss it!” I screech.

Dream frowns in confusion and mouths, “What?”

Before I have to give her an answer, I crash into Carreon as planned. I’m the smaller guy, so I place my right foot behind his back foot, ensuring we’ll fall.

We hit the floor, and my left hand slaps his left thigh. A quick scan tells me he keeps his wallet in his left pocket. He yelps, confused about why he’s on the floor, then grabs my left wrist, aware that I’m too close to his wallet. I wiggle my hand in a wild attempt to escape him. Carreon locks his beetle eyes onto it. He should be worried about my other hand, though. My right hand rests on his breast pocket, holding the real jewel—his cell phone. I let my hand rest there, as gentle as a feather.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” My enunciation is slow, innocent, and clear, almost spell-like.

“Hey, whatcha doing, man? Watch where you’re going! What’s da matter with you?”

I break from his grip and slap my left hand on the floor beside us. Pretending to steady myself and get up, I fall back down and place my left hand back on his thigh in the same spot for balance. I give it a squeeze as I try to get up.

“Hey, yo, where are you touching!” he says, his big eyes bulging toward my left hand.

My right hand has now entered his breast pocket unnoticed. Before I pull it out, I’ll need my biggest distraction to arrive. Despite not knowing the plan, Dream comes to provide it.

“What happened?” she asks, and Carreon’s big eyes roll away from my left hand and somehow get bigger when they see Dream, sister to an Heir.

I pull out his phone and slide off him and onto my side.

He doesn’t bother looking at me. “Ah, jeez, ah, nothing.” Carreon gets up and out of our way.

Dream helps me up, and I peek to make sure Carreon scurries off. Perfect, nowhere to be seen.

“What was that about?” she asks.

“Nothing.” I pull out a fake print of Carreon’s thumb that only cost me a couple thousand. It works like a charm, and I’m into his phone, entering settings to find his number and sending him a certain picture of mine. Then, in Carreon’s phone, I search for Isaz’s number, a man I would do everything I could to avoid most days. He is a clique leader, a killer, and has a literal heart of ice.

“Is that his phone?” Dream asks.

“Yes.”

Dream’s jaw drops. “You can’t take someone’s phone.”

I shrug. “I’ll return it to him, but I need to make sure we can save the kid.”

Dream is the most patient person I know. I also know I’m pushing her patience to the edge of a bridge, and I hope I don’t send it splattering by the time the day is over. Her face reddens, and she takes a deep breath, burying another emotion. In Dream’s faith, powers will come to her as long as she’s a good person. My mom has a similar belief. I, on the other hand, refuse to wait that long, so I’m not afraid to sin here or there to meet my goal.

I am what I am. It is what it is. I live how I live. So I just need to cheat a little bit.

I’ll never show it because it’s not a good look and I want this girl to marry me one day, but the disappointment in her hazel eyes eats at me.