Page 9 of Love, Nemesis (Ocean to Ashes #2)

Lethe measured his steps over the boards; they creaked and gave beneath him. He sat at the edge, allowing his feet to dangle into the dark.

“Follow carefully,” Lethe said, jumping down into a hidden room, dimly lit by the hole in the ceiling. He scanned the cabinets and bookcases, spotting a series of broken skeletons lying around a large pot and table. The black breed’s footprints muddled the dust on the floor.

“What is this place?” Perry said as he hopped down behind him.

“A place The Great Light didn’t reach. It was buried. Don’t touch anything,” Lethe said, reaching for the books. He surveyed them for a while, examining the titles, noting the cryptic writing on each one.

“Hey, there are healing tonics here,” Perry remarked.

“I said”—Lethe looked back at him to find him with his arm extended—“ don’t touch anything.”

Perry pursed his lips and nodded, folding his arms over his chest as he continued looking around. “What is all this stuff?”

“Leftovers from the reign of the Strike,” Lethe replied, examining a picture carved on the wall of an arrow split down the middle. He heard commotion above. He whistled again loudly, drawing Dawson and Manaj toward the hideout.

“Manaj! Get in here!” Lethe said. “Perry, go get the torches from Dawson.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, hopping up and grabbing the edge of the boards before climbing out. They threw a rope ladder down, which Manaj promptly used.

Lethe continued to scan the area as he heard a slipping sound. The third time he heard it, it finally pulled his focus from the room. He glanced back to see Manaj’s small foot slipping against the next rung of the ladder.

Lethe watched him impatiently for a moment. It felt like it had been five minutes and he’d cleared one rung.

He rolled his eyes, stomping down on the end of the rope ladder and tightening it.

Manaj stepped down on the rung with a solid foot and lowered his other foot down, slipping on the next rung.

After a few more attempts, Lethe looked to the ceiling impatiently and gave the ladder a single sharp shake as he pulled back on Manaj’s robe.

The little man fell into his arms and Lethe flipped him upright so he landed on his feet.

Manaj stood there for a moment with his hands out. He looked up at Lethe and uttered one of his characteristic hissing laughs before tottering deeper into the room.

“How are you getting me back up?” Manaj asked.

“I’m leaving you,” Lethe replied.

Manaj squinted into the darkness, removing a cloth from within his robe. “Dear, dear,” he said as he saw the symbol of the broken arrow on the wall.

It was the insignia of the Strike’s regime. It had been a long time since Lethe had seen it, or really any likeness to it. Since the war, people had even started drawing arrows with circles or lines at the end at the risk of replicating it.

Lethe didn’t blame them. There was a cryptic language tied to the development of mutations, or their more intentional form—curses. No one knew for sure that the broken arrow wasn’t a letter or symbol in The Eating Ocean’s language that held its own power.

“So close to us too. We never would have known,” Lethe said.

Manaj shuffled over to the cabinet near the table and, using the cloth, pulled on the knobs. He stepped back as they both observed the large array of bottles lined neatly on the shelves.

“What a serious offense to us all,” Manaj whispered in prayer.

“Manaj, you can pray later. What should we do with these?”

Manaj hit Lethe’s shoulder. “You should pray!” he scolded and then clasped his hands together, tears forming in his eyes.

Lethe leaned away slightly as Manaj continued, glad that he at least didn’t have a ladle today.

“The Strike’s horrible experiments…defying what should and shouldn’t be done. How many are there?” Manaj asked.

Lethe leaned in toward the cabinet. “I’d say there are about thirty hearts and about seventeen minds. One—” He paused, removing a piece of cloth from his pocket and picking up one vile to inspect it. “This is a surprise.”

“What?”

“A soul. I’m surprised there are any left.” He set it back into the cabinet, leaving the cloth with it. Inside, the translucent gray substance fought against the glass. Fresh souls writhed vibrantly, emitting flashes of light. This one, murky and grayed, barely rubbed the glass.

In a world where The Eating Ocean’s powers had distorted natural law, the things most valuable to people had become accessible in ways they had never been before.

It was the Strike who had first leveraged such severe potentials for personal gain.

They’d eaten feelings, thoughts, and memories—dined on souls until the human beings they kept as pets were nothing more than glassy-eyed dolls.

Strike hadn’t needed sustenance. They’d consumed these things to satisfy bottomless cravings, and although they were now gone, the Strike had taught humanity that it could open a door of infinite possibility in this world.

Things could be done with and to nature that shouldn’t be possible.

Without being a Strike, much of it still wasn’t possible, but that hadn’t stopped people from trying.

The Mystics sourced mutated items from En Sanctus to try and replicate the jagged language inscribed on them, hoping to also replicate the effects.

In the State, the same process was controversial and therefore underfunded. They hadn’t mastered it successfully, but they had discovered something else.

The State could use the element of time to exorcize Madness, but every now and again they’d extract it instead, inject it into something else. In their darkest days, they’d done this to embryos. Black breeding, they’d dubbed it.

The State had recovered from that transgression and claimed the practices were over, but it was very fresh in the mind of the En Sanctans, still reeling from The Ocean’s War and the costly defeat of the Strike.

“What is the state of the soul?” Manaj asked, eyeing the soul in the bottle.

“It’s tired.” Lethe lowered his voice as he looked closely into the vial. “But no mutation or infection. With all it’s been through, at least a Strike didn’t eat it.”

“And the bottles on the bottom?”

“Emotions. Judging from the consistency and hue, I’d say they trapped a lot of fear, a lot of rage, some pride here and there, and they mixed some of their own to make unknown emotions, but it looks like they failed. The mixtures just collapsed. Looks like there are a few memories too.”

Manaj didn’t reply. He rubbed his small, dark hands together for a moment and then prayed.

“All right,” Lethe said to Manaj and then crawled up the ladder to see Perry and Dawson waiting with the torches.

He took the torches. “Head back to the fort, and Perry, take off your boots. Don’t touch the bottoms. Don’t come back here, you understand?

We can’t guarantee every little thing will burn. ”

“All right,” Perry said, twisting his mouth. “Even the tonics?”

“It’s better your sister’s leg heal naturally than to step anywhere near here.”

Perry nodded, removing his shoes before both boys started off back toward the Fort.

Lethe waited for Manaj to return from the hideout, fishing him out as he clung to the ladder. Lethe stood in silence at the edge as they poured oil into the hideout and around it, throwing in the dog’s leg before setting it aflame.

Lethe sat back on a series of stones, Manaj with him as they watched the hideout burn. Several minutes passed.

Lethe felt himself drifting off into another world as he watched faces form in the fire.

“Where are you?”

He jolted, drawn back to reality. He glanced over at Manaj. “What?”

“How are you?” Manaj asked.

Lethe held the man’s eyes, swearing he’d asked a different question.

“How are you?” Manaj repeated the question.

“I’m fine,” Lethe said, noting the darkening sky. “Time to go.”

* * *

Hazing the Statesman teased his senses in the subtlest way, the thought lighting up in his mind like Fort Row as it peeked over the horizon.

When they arrived in town, a fire had been started in a circular area they casually referred to as the town center.

Their visitor had been tied up to a post used most often to hold horses.

Some people sat around the fire on barrels or benches.

Some sang and danced. The rest were huddled around Cal, heckling him with the lie that they somehow didn’t believe he was with the State.

Cal was arguing vehemently with them when Lethe rode in.

The crowd parted for him.

“Welcome back, Lethe,” someone said, drawing their captive’s attention as Lethe hopped off his horse. Dawson tossed the boy’s Atlas to him.

Lethe turned the glass orb in his hand as he circled the post where Cal had been tied.

“I promise, I’m not here to hurt anyone,” Cal said. He strained to follow Lethe as he paced around the post. Lethe stopped over him, surveying the crowd that had gathered on the porches along the street, drinks in hand.

“Then why don’t you tell us why you’re here?” He knelt on one knee, resting an elbow over his leg as he turned the glass object in his hand, inspecting it. “You call this an Atlas? And it uses your time? I’ve heard of these. It’s my first time holding one.”

“That’s right. I’m a soldier. I fight mutations, like you, like all of you!”

“We fight black breeds more than mutations. You put us in danger today, you know that? What if some other villagers had gone to inspect that flare? Kids?” Lethe inspected the Atlas, reading the clock. “You have about sixty years left, is that right?”

“Yes,” Cal replied.

Lethe placed a finger on one lever, nudging it back against hard springs.

“Wait, wait, don’t!” Cal said, straining forward.

“Why are you here?” Lethe asked again, finding the boy’s eyes as he continued to push the lever.

“Wait! I’ll tell you—just stop!”

Lethe returned the lever to its former location, waiting as Cal recovered himself.