Alexis

On a rainy afternoon in late August, before he became the monster I knew him as, my father took Vincent and I to Providence Lake. It was the closest swimmable body of water. Besides the occasional fresh water rivulet and mud pond, Elis was all dry land.

We had to sneak out past the barbed gates hugging unclaimed territory near the juniper trees at the edge of the forest. We hiked for close to an hour up the hillside through the holt.

I was no older than five, but I remember clearly how bright the lake looked through the glade, canopied in red alders stretching tall and far, combing across the overcast skies. I remember stripping off my muddied clothes along the shoreline and racing Vincent, the sigh in my chest like it was my first time ever experiencing relief as I plunged through the glassy surface into cold, wind-whipped waters.

And my father smiled, watching us as he gathered wildflowers in his arms for my mother, who was back at home making a stew for supper with leftover rations from last-week’s haul.

My brother and I soaked in the lake for hours, until the sun fell beneath its shade of overcast, to wash us all in darkness, save for the languid glow of fireflies on the shoreline. And the only thing on my mind was how beautiful it was, this little sliver of wealth.

I think that was the last time I felt at peace.

I wake slowly from a dream where I am back there, in that lake. How I got there, I can’t remember. I only remember darkness, how it was timeless, breathless, ineffable.

There was a voice in that dream, a gentle one, a soft hum. I still feel the drizzle of rain on my skin when I open my eyes.

It feels like my body is trapped in a cast, like a film is blanketed over my skin, a film between the conscious and I. When I blink myself back into the world, I find myself in a white room, under white lights. I slowly move my fingers, cracking through the cast, breaking through dried blood and invisible strings, to wipe away moisture from my eyes.

There’s a putrid smell wafting from my chest, my arms, and my thigh, the potency of a healing salve–the same one we used back in the Alloy. I run my fingers over the fresh scars. Someone has been caring for me.

It takes me a few minutes to put together why I’m even here. I remember the church, Ishna, the troops, and then a strange dream-one that’s getting foggier with each passing second, and then waking up here. I must have passed out. But who found me? How am I even still alive?

Right now I just have to figure out where I am, and where the showers are.

I’m unable to find any other clothes besides the blood-soiled hospital gown that I struggle to peel from my aching body, not even my old ones. But there’s a drawer of bath towels so I wrap one around my waist, taking a moment to run my fingers over the soft fibers, and slip out into the hall, barefoot save for the medical socks.

I feel more naked without my gun than I do without clothes, that must be why I’m especially on edge. It’s improbable and perhaps illogical that I would be cared for so efficiently only to be jumped or killed at a later time, but not impossible. So I tread carefully, carried silently like wind down the empty hallway in search of a bathroom.

I'm being watched. I know before I can spot the culprit. I pause, peering around the corner to meet the wide amber eyes of a handmaiden, a nymph, and she is staring with an intensity, clutching bedsheets in her arms. She is so quiet, so light on her feet that I am almost startled.

“Excuse me,” I say cautiously. “Where am I?”

She tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear and looks nervously around us. Unlike most of the nymphae I’ve met, with an air of timelessness about them, her impression is youthful. Perhaps it is because most are not timid, nor are they nervous about much of anything. They are a cocky species, a solely self-satisfying type - or so the stereotype claims. But many nymphs were and are still enslaved; many were born and raised in captivity. It would make sense why she seems so young.

“No understand,” she says softly in broken English. This confirms my suspicions of age, most fully grown nymphae know most if not all mortal languages. This girl has to be less than a century old. For all I know, she’s my age. 

But that accent stirs an uncomfortable feeling in my chest. Guilt, or shame, among other emotions. I could just be imagining things, drawing obscene conclusions, but I make the wild assumption anyway.

“Could you tell me where I am?” I ask. My Aril is a bit dusty. I haven’t had to rely on my native Atlan tongue in a very long time, minus bits and pieces here and there. But it’s a bit like riding a bike, it comes back to me as I go.

The nymph maiden’s eyes go wider and her lips fall open.

“Calypso,” she says in crisp Aril. “We are in Calypso.” Her inflection mimicks that of a noble, of someone born inside the walls.

I am floored for a second. An Atlan Nymph. I didn’t know they existed. Of course it makes sense, considering the dictator’s treatment of “lesser creatures”; she’s a freed slave no doubt. I am struck with the odd urge to console her, to remind her that not all Atlans–nor all mortals–are evil. Or even to tell her that I, too, was scraped from the bottom of the Atlan barrel. But that’s a silly thing to do, and there’s no good that could come of it. She should be wary of mankind. I won’t lie to her about that.

“Manon’s Calypso?”

“Yes.”

The others must be here. Ezra and Aiden and everyone. I am filled with so much relief I can hardly stand.

“Do you mind pointing out the showers for me?”

As though just realizing my exposure, the nymph’s eyes fall to my chest, her ebony cheeks flushed a violent dark pink. She hugs the sheets closer to her face to cover herself which also confuses me. Nymphs are not usually so demure and innocuous, not like us humans.

“Down that hall to the left.” She lowers the sheets just a bit, enough to peer over.

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your time.”

The young woman's arms give out as a look of shock fans across her face, and the sheets spill out onto the floor around her, an unfurling ball of yarn. She bends down to retrieve the fabric, but I’m already crouching, collecting the bedsheets in my arms.

“Thank you,” she says when I pass her the balled-up blankets. “-Mr. Espinoza.” She hurries away with the end of the sheets dragging behind her like a duck tail on water.

All the way to the single shower, my head is spinning. How does she know that name? And why? First names, sure. But last names have a level of importance. The only people who know my last name, either of them, are people I’ve told or people who have overheard in conversation. And I don’t expect Aiden or Ezra to ever tell anyone that sort of thing, not even to Manon. And that name, Espinoza – I don’t use it anymore. I haven’t in nearly ten years.

There’s no lock on the door so I lean against it while I gather my thoughts. I am not the type to be ashamed of my nakedness, but the last thing I want right now is someone walking in on me in my stunned state.

I peel back the shower curtain and hang the towel over the doorknob. The simple pleasure of running hot water is enough to take me out of my head. I run it much longer than I typically would, soaking in steam, scrubbing at my skin until the blood comes off in flakes and clumps. My hair, previously matted to my scalp with blood and dirt, feels much lighter, and much longer, than I remember.

When I emerge, clean and weightless, I pause with my hand still clutched around the curtain. On the porcelain basin of the sink sits my towel, now folded, and a fresh set of clothes on top of it. Beside the towel is a razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a small repository of medical salve for my wounds. She really is light-footed. I’m both troubled, grateful, and impressed.

I slowly dry myself off. The mirror has fogged over with steam. I cannot take my eyes away from it, from those small pearls of water that drop down the flat of it, leaving behind clear streaks of beaded moisture where they fall. I am entranced by the absence of vision, by the faceless figure in place of me that I am unrequired to recognize.

I am overcome with an unusual feeling. I don’t know what it is, some kind of heat. It's in the base of my sternum, the pit of my stomach, radiating to my fingertips, tracing the typical ebb and flow of my gift.

Aiden is on my mind, the heat of his skin, of his touch and his own gift. I remember what feels like ages ago scrubbing his dormitory floor to ceiling of ancient runes, many of which I had never even seen before, not even in the restricted wing, the forbidden books of the library.

I use my towel to wipe away the mark and the steam. It’s jarring seeing my reflection like this, all rugged and sloppy. But, more jarring still, is the teardrop-cut jewel hanging around my neck, a soft red glow in this light. Why am I wearing this? My fingers pinch the jewel between them, and I swear it feels hot against my skin.

I feel much more like myself after a shave; the ghost of routine is comforting to me. That slight comfort carries me back out into the maze of corridors, a steadiness in my shoulders and breaths. But it flees at the sound of urgent hushed whispers behind the door of a semi-shut room.

“-do you mean ‘he’s gone’?”

“I mean he’s gone, Evie!”

“Gone gone?” she gasps.

“No, like… like he’s not in the fucking room. He’s missing.”

“Did you tell Ezra?”

“Of course I did, they told me to keep quiet until we find him.”

“Do you think – did someone move him?”

“You think someone fucking stole his body? Why the hell would they do that?”

“I can think of a number of reasons: kidnapping, bribery, making sure he’s dealt with for good.”

"Manon has this whole place warded up to high heavens, there’s no way anyone could break in unnoticed.”

“Unless it was Manon himself.”

“What the hell would that nymph need a corpse?”

“I don’t know, ok? And don’t say that, he’s not dead yet.”

“Who isn’t dead?” I ask, having stepped through the cracked door behind Eve, locking eyes with Rhys. Rhys’s mouth drops open, his face hanging in stupor. Eve lets out a bloodcurdling scream and I blink, raising my empty palms to the air. They don't typically scare easily, especially not Rhys.

“Alex?” he asks, blinking fast and hard like I was just a speck in his vision. He moves to poke me but thinks better of it, index finger hanging in the air like stone. Eve still has her hands clasped over her mouth, eyes wide and watering.

“What’s going on?” I ask, looking down like there’s something wrong with me. I'm beat up, sure. But is that so unusual?

“You - you’re alive?”

“Is that a trick question?” I ask, with a quirk in my brow. I expect Rhys to flash his joking grin, breaking into laughter. But he remains serious, way too serious for him.

“I heard screaming!” Someone says down the hall, but they too stop in their tracks at the sight. “A- Alex?”

Amy is also half-outstretched toward me like a portrait, or a sculpture, shock on her rounded lips. Except her hand actually falls on my shoulder, and I'm quick swat her away.

“You’re up,” she whispers. She starts to laugh, her horror transforming to joy. “You’re awake! Oh my god. Oh my god! Ezra! Ezra, come here!”

It isn’t long until I’ve formed a crowd around me, Hamid, Ezra, Manon and some nymphs. I’m scanning the faces in the room for one in particular. I don’t find it.

“He did it,” Ezra remarks with a strange tone. They lean forward, eyes traveling over every inch of me. I hate the attention. I am not a spectacle. Nor will I be made as one.

“Stop it!” I hear a voice yell a few doors down, a faint noise past the buzzing crowd. I push my way through, almost sprinting. Partly to assist, but mostly I just need to get away.

There’s a small lunchroom down the next hall, modest in size and mostly windows. I stand in its doorway, hand in my pocket searching for my gun–which isn’t there, but I wouldn’t need it anyway. Harris is on the floor, arms braced above his head. Emi is looming over him, fist crashing down to deliver blow after blow. Nick is shouting, trying to pry his sister away while Joan is on her other side, trying to talk sense back into her. Lucy is staring vacantly out the wall of windows. She looks disconnected, unaware of the chaos unfolding before her.

Lucy is the first one who sees me. I watch as her face unfurls from its dissociative melancholy into shock, horror, and finally and more terribly, pain.

She looks from me to somewhere over my shoulder, searching for something. But she finds nothing and her eyes fall back on me. That’s when she falls from her chair, collapses in a heap on the floor, and begins to wail.