Six E-Book

T.H. Morris

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

On more than one occasion, Jonah thought he had things well in hand, only for things to change. Now, things have changed yet again.

For almost nine months, everything in the ethereal world has been quiet. Fires are put out daily. Murders are covered up. The Curaie are stretched thin, keeping the people safe from evils they don’t even know exist.

Soon, the cleanup will come to an end and old foes return with a vengeance. Desperate times call for desperate measures, but are times desperate enough to risk betrayal - to seek out and make allies of enemies when the pain of the past is still raw?

The end is near, and this may very well be the chapter that changes everything.

Leseprobe

Six

The 11th Percent Book 6

T.H. Morris

Copyright (C) 2019 T.H. Morris

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This book is dedicated to Louis Morris, my “Uncle Blue,” for always illustrating that the focus should never be on the numbers, but just living life one day at a time. Miss you, sir.

1 Creatures of the Night

The woman lit a cigarette and stood with her weight slightly against a brick wall, calmly watching the individuals walking this way and that. A couple shuffled past her, giggly and jovial as though they were children, with the woman's hair slightly disheveled. The observing woman shook her head in disgust as she brought the recently lit Marlboro to her lips, pulled heavily, and let the smoke escape her mouth and nostrils.

These night lifers had no class. No sense of self at all. She had been waiting here no less than forty-five minutes, and she'd seen a great many people during that time, dressed like the characters they would play that night. There was a man with a silk shirt and leather pants, who clearly aimed to make himself out to be more man than he truly was. There was another man who she had seen take a receipt from a nearby A.T.M., and then “accidentally” drop it when he neared a group of women in line at the club. Predictably, one of them snatched it, read the bank balance on it, and then approached the man with a sly smile that matched his own when he saw her. The smoking lady took another draw from the Marlboro and shook her head. She wondered when the lady would be more disappointed; later tonight, or early tomorrow morning.

Clearing her nostrils of the cigarette smoke, she wondered if the person she'd been ordered to find would even show up tonight. She focused her intent and took a rather meditative sniff of the air. If some bystander happened across her at that moment, they'd likely be puzzled, wondering if she could decipher one scent from another. But such concerns were challenges for Ungifted trash, and she certainly wasn't one of them.

She was Charlotte Daynard. She was a Deadfallen disciple. She was as superior to these meat-hunters as a spider was to a housefly.

She also had the gift of not only deciphering odors through her olfactory senses, but also people's essences. Once she caught that “scent,” she'd fixate on the one she waited for.

And there it was.

She opened her eyes, and her ethereality sense hadn't betrayed her. There was the woman she'd hoped to find.

She looked right at home as the centerpiece of some gaggle of female flesh-flaunters. She was perhaps the most convincing character of them all; her costume consisted of a red halter top, a black and extremely short miniskirt, and French-tipped nails. Charlotte watched her as she laughingly conversed with her counterparts. She played her part well; there was no point in disputing that. But if her little buddies knew of her true allegiance and capabilities, maybe they wouldn't be so keen to be around her.

Charlotte's eyes narrowed. There was an addition to her quarry's evening costume. It was a strategically placed choker at her throat. Hmm…

“Well, hello there,” said a falsely low voice.

With a frown, Charlotte turned. Mere feet away from her stood a member of this crackpot nightlife. He was a bane to her eyes and nose. He wore an ill-fitting muscle shirt, which was oxymoronic, and, judging by his smell, seemed to have baptized himself in cheap cologne and aftershave.

“What's a fine—well, you don't look all that young, but nobody's perfect…why are you out here and not in there?”

He nodded in the direction of the club.

“Since I am on official business, you get one chance,” murmured Claudette. “Go on in there, find some way to boost your clearly low self-esteem, and leave me be.”

The idiot man tilted his head with a smirk. “Spunky,” he commented. “Maybe what you lack in youth, you make up for in personality.”

Charlotte glanced at the club entrance. The woman and her clique were about to be let in…

She took a step forward, but the wannabe Casanova grabbed her arm.

“Now, don't be that way—”

Charlotte whipped around and clamped his chest with her other hand. He gasped in shock, and then immediately cried out. Charlotte focused her ethereality into her fingers and watched as her fingertips turned black. When that occurred, the bones in the man's chest where she touched him cracked, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he collapsed on the ground.

“I did warn you,” Charlotte muttered as the man's body fell.

When she looked at the door once more, she saw the lady had gone into the club.

Charlotte swore in frustration, kicked the corpse across the face for delaying her, and hurried across the street to the back of the club. When she was assured of her privacy, she stuck out the index and middle fingers of her right hand, tapped her throat, uttered, “Per Mortem, Vitam,” and then lit another cigarette while she waited.

Exactly eight minutes later, a click of heels told her that her quarry hurried her way. The woman rounded the corner, wide-eyed and furious.

“What the hell are you doing here, Charlotte?” the other woman demanded.

Charlotte grinned. “And a mighty fine evening to you, too, Jessica,” she said in a sweet voice.

Jessica Hale had little patience with the pleasantries. “I asked you a question,” she snapped.

Charlotte took a pull off her new cigarette, then extended it to Jessica. “You're too aggravated,” she observed. “Here. It'll calm you down.”

Jessica's gaze remained wintry, but she took the cigarette, puffed it twice, and handed it back. Charlotte smiled.

“Isn't that better?” she asked. “Hopefully, you didn't get ashes on that outfit of yours. I've always wondered how you seamlessly bounced between wearing this mask and your true self. It's commendable. The outfit alone is most—”

“Why are you here, Charlotte?” asked Jessica once more. “I won't ask again.”

“It's been ten months, Jess,” said Charlotte, who filled her voice with false hurt. “Almost a year. You don't call, you don't write—how am I supposed to feel?”

“The Transcendent mandated I detach myself,” snarled Jessica. “You heard what he said, because you were standing there when he said it. He desired that I reintegrate—”

“Because he didn't want to look at you,” drawled Charlotte. “You failed him, Sweetpea.”

“I followed the Transcendent's instructions to the letter,” said Jessica angrily.

“And yet, Jonah Rowe didn't abandon his conscience and turn to the dark side,” said Charlotte.

“I was not in control of how he succumbed to his impulses!”

“Controlling men is something you brag about, Jessica,” said Charlotte. “Or, at least, it was ten months ago.”

“At least I didn't flee the scene,” spat Jessica.

“You hitched a ride with the Transcendent only because he showed you mercy,” dismissed Charlotte.

“What's the deal, Charlotte?” Suddenly, Jessica's lips curled into a cold smile. “The Transcendent didn't make you his right hand in my absence? It's not my fault your abilities are pennies to my own—”

Charlotte invaded Jessica's personal space, so their faces were only inches apart. “Now you look here, missy,” she growled. “You may think you're the most wonderful thing since pecan pie, but I recall a time when you were a broken, confused girl the Transcendent pulled from the gutter. And, just so we're clear, were it not for your little pretty-talking ability, you'd still be in said gutter.”

Jessica hadn't flinched. Charlotte's eyes lowered to the choker. Without an invitation, she hooked it with one of her fingers and lifted it which revealed an asymmetrical, two-inch scar at the base of her neck. A smile lit her own face.

“He didn't heal it,” she breathed. “Rowe marred your perfect image, and the Transcendent didn't heal it. He left you with your very own mark of Cain.”

Jessica had remained stationary through all of this. When she finally spoke, it was soft and deliberate. “Charlotte, if you don't take your hands off me and back off, I will drop you where you stand.”

Charlotte looked at Jessica for a few moments, then released Jessica and distanced herself from her.

“I am willing to play ball because the Transcendent has commanded it, and thus, it is law,” she said. “He told me to find you and tell you you're wanted back into the fold.”

Jessica's hard look morphed to curiosity. “What is going on?”

“The Curaie and all the nonbelievers have been led to believe the ten months which have passed means they have braved the worst,” said Charlotte. “They are in a false sense of security. That fool Jonathan has been desperately trying to convince them otherwise, but they still don't want to take him seriously, even with their decision to respect him and those idiots at the estate. And all the while, the Transcendent has been making moves in the background that no one can see.”

“False sense of security?” said Jessica. “The Curaie is buying that? Since Jonathan has gotten off the Curaie's shit list, there has been a laundry list of deaths, so-called 'accidents', and disappearances.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “You've been out of the loop,” she said. “You've spent almost a year keeping up with the Ungifteds. Case in point—” she pointed at the nightclub.

Jessica leered at her. “You continue to sell me short, Charlotte. Dace Cross' car going into the ravine back in back in July? The bitch wasn't fond of Tenth Percenters and hated their traveling even more. She didn't even own a car. I'm guessing Kendrick rendered her heart useless then put her in the driver's seat. And the multi-car pile-up on Highway 220? It had Kevin Tooles written all over it. And, oh yeah—the girl who took over the Curaie's Gate Linkage after the Ocean waif resigned? Phoebe Linkletter, or whatever? That was you, wasn't it?”

Charlotte shrugged. “If she had linked up a Gate to the weapons Spectral Law confiscated from our brothers and sisters they arrested, I would have let her live, at the very least.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” said Jessica.

Charlotte grinned. “Okay, fine. No, I wouldn't have.”

Jessica made a face. “I know the work of our brothers and sisters when I see it,” she said. “And…I miss it. I miss the killing, the torture. I suppose some gratitude is in order because you told me I'm back in.”

“Don't thank me.” Charlotte shrugged again. “It was the Transcendent's call.”

“When am I to be summoned?” asked Jessica.

“Not so fast,” said Charlotte. “I want to know two things. First, how did Rowe break your C.P.V.?”

Jessica blinked, and then her expression hardened. “Apparently, the rage he felt over losing his boss brought about an eventuality I hadn't foreseen,” she muttered. “It was a one-time thing, and it will never happen again.”

“Good to know,” said Charlotte, who sounded matter-of-fact. “Because if you can't do your little fancy-schmancy power-talking, you're not much good to the cause, you know.”

Jessica tightened her knuckles until they cracked. “Any other stupid questions?”

“You were supposed to be out of the loop,” Charlotte's voice was slow, “but you've obviously been paying attention. That said, how much do you already know about the Transcendent's plan?”

Jessica's eyes narrowed. “Where are you going with this, Charlotte?” she demanded. “We answer only to the Transcendent. He wants me back in, and his word is law. Why, then, do I have to bother with your third degree?”

Charlotte took a calm draw from her cigarette. “Too timid to share? Just say so!”

Jessica cast a murderous glare on her. “I know enough to know when the Cut comes, it will be what signals Omega, and it will be a glorious time for us all.”

Charlotte nodded. “Damn right, it will.”

“Is the Transcendent getting one created right now?” questioned Jessica. “In prep for when it happens?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Just one, though. Too many would raise red flags.”

Jessica nodded. Charlotte regarded her with a neutral expression.

“We don't have to be friends,” she said, “but we will always be Deadfallen. Always among the Transcendent's chosen. Per Mortem, Vitam.”

She extended her hand. Jessica shook her hand once and withdrew.

“Per Mortem, Vitam,” she said.

If Charlotte was offended by the terseness of Jessica's handshake, she didn't show it. “You'll have to give your little girlfriends the slip,” she told her. “Now that you have been informed, the Transcendent is expecting your presence.”

She tossed Jessica a twig to use for a portal, which Jessica caught reflexively.

“I'll see you there,” said Charlotte as she began to back away.

“What will you be doing?” asked Jessica.

“I've got to clean up a mess,” Charlotte replied.

“Mess?”

“An Ungifted playboy was interested in more than conversation,” Charlotte explained. “We had a disagreement. I lived. Now, go. You know the Transcendent doesn't like to wait.”

2 The Crowded Stage

Jonah was antsy.

He stood a few feet away from the theatre, which was located in the center of an ostentatiously artsy district in Seattle. A light rainstorm had ended just a few minutes prior, and on this mid-November evening, it made the air clean, fresh, and gave the night an overall pleasant feel.

As he surveyed his surroundings, he took the time to adhere to all of the precautions given to him and his friends by Jonathan. He had seen the list so many times, he could recreate it, practically verbatim. His other friends had been mandated to do these things as well, but he himself had to be doubly vigilant, being as he was the Blue Aura and all.

No. He was the other Blue Aura. The Light Blue Aura. As such, he had to watch his back more than anyone else.

First, he had to make sure he hadn't been followed. He hadn't.

Second, he had to make sure there were no portals near him, and if there were any twigs within walking distance, then he had to break them. Twigs functioned as portals, used specifically by Creyton and his Deadfallen disciples. It was their transportation of choice because twigs couldn't be regulated or supervised. That was one of the reasons why the Curaie had forbidden usage of them. They were powerful tools when stealthy travel was needed. But they were utterly useless after they'd been broken.

Jonah looked around and spotted three twigs near him. They were innocent enough at the moment, but he knew what could happen if they were left unchecked. A forceful stomp cracked two of them, but the last of them, which was slightly thicker, required Jonah to pin it down with one foot, while breaking it with the other. There. Now they were gone.

The third and final task was his own, personal thing. He focused on the area around the theatre, inhaled deeply, and activated Spectral Sight. When he opened his eyes, he found himself deeply relieved.

The spirit count around this place was pretty high. Spirits and spiritesses of all ages were around the physically alive beings. Some looked focused and determined; they were probably the ones who guided children. The rest looked happy, serene, and content. All good things.

All of the tasks Jonah had just performed were simple, but they did very little to assuage his nerves.

But Jonah wasn't nervous or tense because of threats concerning Creyton and the Deadfallen disciples. It was because he was going to see Vera. He hadn't seen her since late February, the night they'd had sex, and she'd left him in the middle of the night. That had been over nine months ago if anyone was counting.

And unfortunately, Jonah had been counting.

A great deal had changed since then. For Jonah and Vera both.

Vera had experienced a true blessing. It turned out that her theatre friends had been dead-on with their hypothesis. The minute Vera re-established ties with them, and Snow and Fire got rolling, things took off. Jonah began his own research, because getting second-hand information from Liz got old very quickly. Jonah hadn't ever seen Vera act, but, by all accounts and reviews he'd read online, she was a natural. He'd seen rave reviews about Snow and Fire, and he was on the website regularly for a while, but he had since stopped.

Because it had stopped being enough.

They toured all over, but finding tickets was a nightmare, because they were almost always sold out in every city. Then Spader came out of nowhere, having scored a ticket—coincidentally—to a showing in Seattle. After having toured all across the United States, they were doing a two week-long production in Seattle, where they'd gotten their start. As usual, Jonah didn't know how Spader did it, but he'd learned a while back simply to not ask behind Spader's practices. Then it was a simple matter of using the Astralimes under Jonathan's supervision. Because of the ethereal travel, a trip from Rome, N.C. to Seattle barely took thirty seconds.

It was times like these when Jonah loved being an Eleventh Percenter. But with the perks and bonuses that came with ethereality, there was also a flip side.

While Vera had been flying high all this time, Jonah had spent the past months helping to keep fires at bay. He and his friends had been at work helping Jonathan with improving defensive measures for the ethereal and non-ethereal humans around Rome and the surrounding areas. Jonathan and the Phasmastis Curaie had come to an understanding in the early spring of that year, but beyond that, not much had happened. The Curaie had ceased in clamping down on Jonathan and the estate residents, but, in many ways, they still didn't take Jonathan seriously. In the time that had passed, things had been, to the untrained eye, relatively quiet. The Curaie knew better, but denial and fear colored most of their actions. Jonathan, however, had no such inhibitions.

The Protector Guide had informed them all that after failing to manipulate Jonah into succumbing to the darker aspects of his nature, Creyton was going to make absolutely certain Omega would happen without a hitch. While the Curaie handled matters in their own way, Jonathan was proactive in many other ways. He had every resident of the estate invite their families there to be briefed. He made sure people were on their Ps and Qs, with regular destruction of twigs, understanding Eighth Chapter crimes, and knowing what they could do to keep their families safe. He spent time Off-plane, but never for long stretches. Jonah understood—now—that there was a point to all of Jonathan's absences the previous year. There had been good reasons for it. Great reasons, even. But even the Protector Guide himself had been the first to admit he wasn't perfect. And now, he probably wanted to make it up to them.

All of it was all great, but it did come with one snag. As the Light Blue Aura, Jonah's well-being was given more attention than ever before. Even Terrence and Reena were involved in it.

Terrence was never bold enough to invite himself to functions Jonah attended, but he didn't hesitate to invite Jonah to all of his. Family dinners. Fishing. Football games. Reena did her damnedest to make sure Jonah stayed in shape and vigilant, ethereal and otherwise. The private training he did with his informal brother and sister had increased tenfold. Reena was even watching Jonah's food intake again. That had a silver lining: Jonah was practically being forced to eat right during the day, but it motivated him to go to every Decessio family dinner he was invited to. So, a day of garden burgers on gluten and wheat-free bread would end in meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and French bread. Everyone was happy, Jonah included. Especially after Terrence and Mrs. Decessio's savory meals.

The crazy things going on in the ethereal world were compounded by the fact Jonah, Terrence, and Reena had gotten themselves in trouble out west several times in the past nine months, too. Eva McRayne, their dear friend (and another person they referred to as family), was a celebrity with an open secret. The secret got her into one Hell after another, and sometimes Jonah, Terrence, and Reena assisted in putting those fires out. Those encounters were stories all by themselves.

Suffice it to say, there were some truly wild things happening across the board.

But tonight wasn't about any of those things.

Tonight was about Jonah finally having the chance to see what he had been reading about for all of these months.

* * *

The ticket Spader got for Jonah was third row, center. Jonah had a perfect vantage point of the entire stage. There wasn't an empty place he could see, and there was such a buzz of excitement from everyone in the audience. Plays weren't really Jonah's thing, but in this particular situation, it was next to impossible to be in this environment and not have the excitement rub off on him.

But there was one bit of anticipation he didn't share with the rest of these people.

The play began.

And there she was.

Jonah blinked. Vera wasn't even dressed to impress. It was a scene where her character had just assassinated someone, and she stood over her target, with equal amounts of satisfaction and doubt. Jonah took in the lines and curves the confusion made on her face. The slight pout at her lips when she had to struggle with her thoughts. She had a facial profile which said I am in complete control of this situation, while, at the same time, said What the hell am I doing here?

Even dressed in black and wielding garroting wire, she was unequivocally the most beautiful woman Jonah had ever seen.

There was one difference. Well, two.

The first was they had covered up Vera's facial scar with make-up. To Jonah, this seemed to do her a disservice. Vera was a beautiful woman, inside and out. Her scar was insignificant. It's like how a tire mark on a driveway didn't take away from the beauty of the whole house, or how an apple pie didn't suddenly stop tasting delicious because part of the crust cracked and fell away when you pulled it out of the oven. Some things simply didn't need glossing over.

The second thing was, with a face absent of the scar, Jonah could definitely see the family resemblance between Vera and her older sister, Jessica Hale.

Who happened to be Jonah's mortal enemy.

Jonah had known Jessica from his first job out of graduate school. They'd run afoul of each other the first day they met and had hated each other from that day on. A couple of years later, though, that hatred had taken on a new dimension: After a protracted ruse, Jessica revealed herself to be one of Creyton's Deadfallen disciples. One of his most loyal—Inimicus. She'd aided Creyton in achieving Praeterletum. And then later on, she murdered Bernard Steverson, Jonah's boss and one of his mentors. The action nearly sent Jonah over the edge, and Jessica had attempted to save her physical life by revealing she and Vera were sisters. Vera had attempted to detach herself from her family ties, but Jessica undid that with her revelation. It made Jonah and Vera's relationship, which wasn't the clearest to start with, more complicated than ever. It also played a part in Vera's leaving the estate.

Jonah had no trouble seeing the resemblance. They had the same fire in their eyes when they were focused. They had the same side profile. The same hardening of features when they were pissed off.

But Jonah could see a difference between them, too, apart from the obvious, of course. Having not known the two women were family had allowed him to see Vera as her own woman. She was intelligent, funny, brave, and had a sassy, sarcastic streak. And she had come a long, long way from the woman she was when Creyton was hunting her for being the Time Item. Jonah was sure of it. And she had definitely come a long, long way since the fight with Jessica which scarred her face. Vera was naturally everything her older sister could only be through evil, deception, and manipulation.

It was evident on the stage. Jonah couldn't tell where Juliette Nightingale, her character, ended and where Vera began. She looked to be in complete control of the entire stage, and her counterparts fed off of that. As he watched, he saw, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was where Vera needed to be. She was completely in her element: comfort, conviction, and poise radiated from her.

It was a bittersweet realization.

If life were fair, there would have been no complications. No Creyton. No blood ties to a crazy bitch whose head Jonah very nearly sawed off. And Vera wouldn't have left him in bed while he was asleep, with a note in her place that declared the two of them had gotten what they felt for each other out of their systems with a very intense, passionate night of sex. He wouldn't have had to struggle with himself to find some place of understanding concerning Vera's actions…find some way to file away the hurt, confusion, and stress she'd caused him by leaving Rome. But life wasn't fair. It had to always have its strings, complexities, and—in a word—shit. It seemed to be so for Jonah, anyway. If his life was a stage, it'd be crowded from wall to wall.

He gave his head two harmless raps. “Task at hand,” he murmured. “Enjoy the show.”

He didn't even have to work hard to do so. The play was outstanding, and at the end of it, there was a standing ovation. Vera had been pushed to the forefront, and Jonah could tell she was reluctant, but her smile was sincere and radiant. He'd hoped she noticed him, but she didn't. He saw her look up higher, and her smile widened somewhat when she did. He felt a smile on his own face as he applauded. She must have been looking skyward, thinking of her mother.

Jonah had no doubts that Mrs. Haliday would be proud of her youngest daughter.

No. Mrs. Hale.

After the raucous applause, people began the slow, arduous dispersal. Jonah had no plans to go with them.

He was going backstage to speak to Vera.

Unfortunately, that required getting past a rather large guy, who regarded him suspiciously. Jonah wasn't bothered, though. With the things he'd seen, a burly Tenth Percenter wasn't likely to intimidate him.

“And where do you think you're going?” the guy mumbled.

“I would like to speak to the star of the show for a bit,” replied Jonah.

The guy's expression didn't change. “Fanboy, huh?”

“I am a fan, but I haven't been a boy since I became a man,” said Jonah calmly.

The guy's eyes, already low, narrowed further. “Alright, smartass,” he grumbled, “are you trying to say you're a close, personal friend?”

“Yes.”

“Then you would know her given name, then.”

Jonah frowned. Surely, Rent-a-Guard wasn't privy to such information? “Her given name is Altivera Irene—” he paused for just a second, “Hale.”

The man looked stunned, then sheepish. He stood aside.

“Sorry, man,” he mumbled. “Fans can be crazy sometimes.”

The hold-up was annoying, but Jonah got it. The man was doing his job.

But now, his only job was to move.

Jonah walked past him, his mind already on what he could say to Vera. He'd already made up his mind to not mention their last night together. Thinking about that would make him stammer like an idiot. He'd just improvise. According to all of his friends, he had a way with words, after all.

He wondered which dressing room was hers, but he didn't have to go far. Hearing bits of a conversation led him straight to it.

“—they love you, V!” gushed an ecstatic voice Jonah remembered. Eden Bristow.

“They love all of us, Eden,” corrected Vera.

“Stop being modest,” Eden chided. “You were the missing link, V. You truly have a knack for this. Everyone says—”

“That's because they see the end product, Eden,” said Vera. “They didn't see how much time it took to get this right. They didn't see all those plays where you and I got paid in roses. They didn't see all the effort you put in to bring me back here with you all—back where I belonged.”

Jonah closed his eyes for several moments. Yeah, he knew Vera belonged here. He understood; he had even admitted it to himself. But to hear her co-sign it was a different matter.

He decided the head games were unnecessary. So, standing tall, he walked in the door.

Eden was working a shirt over the one she was already wearing. Vera was seated in front of a mirror, with her fingers over her eyes. She was slowly massaging them in a clockwise manner. This just might be fun for Jonah.

“Hey, Vera.”

Her fingers froze. Eden forced her head through the top of the shirt and stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Is this…are you—?”

“Yeah, I'm Jonah,” said Jonah, whose eyes narrowed slightly. “It's nice to meet you, Eden.”

Jonah wasn't high on this woman. He'd overheard her telling Vera she ought to leave him and the estate behind because he was a distraction. She didn't know he knew that. Or perhaps Vera had told her. There had to be some reason why she looked so terrified as she made eye contact with Vera, who looked beyond surprised herself.

“Vera—” Eden began, but Vera shook her head.

“It's cool, Eden,” she said hastily. “Give us some privacy.”

Eden didn't move. “But Vera—”

“It's fine, Eden—”

“But you know—”

“Did you hear Vera, Eden?” asked Jonah, who wasn't too interested in kindness. Which one of them was a distraction now? “She can talk to me.”

Eden's eyes narrowed, but only slightly. She must not be used to being owned. But, thankfully, she walked out of the dressing room and closed the door.

Finally, Jonah and Vera were alone.

“It's good to see you, Jonah!” Vera rose and gave Jonah a hug but backed away before he could really hug her back. Odd. Then again, given how they'd parted, he couldn't be surprised this was a bit awkward. All things considered, maybe it wasn't odd after all.

“It's great to see you, too, Vera,” he said. “Or should I call you V?”

Vera waved that aside. “You shaved off your beard! When did that happen?”

“For a red-carpet event,” murmured Jonah, “but never mind—”

“Oh, right.” Some of the nerves left Vera's face. “You have been rubbing elbows with the world-famous Sybil! What's she like?”

“Eva is something else,” was all Jonah could say. “But you were incredible in the play!”

At Jonah's praise, Vera blushed slightly. “Jonah, we're all good. When the unit is on all cylinders, the projects are stellar—”

“Bullshit.” Jonah's response was instant. “You are the chain on this whole bike, Vera. You keep things in motion. You are an amazing actress.”

Vera still looked slightly uneasy but pleased at the same time. Maybe she was pleased because Jonah's opinion of her mattered. That had always been the case for him.

“I did tell you that when I am on the stage, I lose myself, Jonah,” she said.

“That you did,” said Jonah, determined to not let this conversation travel into tricky waters. “I've kept up with things on the website, and everyone raves about you. I know you've been touring all over the U.S., and you're only gonna be here for two weeks. Any idea if the play might make its way to N.C.? Charlotte or Raleigh, maybe? Everybody else needs to see this play!”

“I couldn't tell you, Jonah,” said Vera, “but from what Liz has been telling me, you guys already have full plates. Did Jonathan really invite the families of every resident to the estate five months ago?”

“He did and more,” said Jonah, “but trust me, I'd be doing you no favors talking about that stuff. On my way here, I saw a nice little Chinese restaurant, only a few minutes walking distance. Want to catch up over chow mein?”

“Uh—,” Vera began indecisively, but then there was a knock at the dressing room door, slightly less than casual. Jonah turned, assuming Eden had returned.

She hadn't. It was some guy. He was taller than Jonah, bearded, with every hair in place. Truth be told, he looked like a critic.

“You take your job seriously, don't you?” Jonah asked with a frown. “Don't you people usually put reviews online, or something?”

“I beg your pardon?” said the man, who frowned himself.

“Jonah,” said Vera, who shook her head, “this isn't a critic. It's East.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “East?”

The man named East looked Jonah over, looking much more intrigued when he heard Jonah's name. With a sly smile, he walked past him to Vera and kissed her.

Jonah felt his entire face sag. He wondered if he'd ever be able to make another facial expression again. Now he understood why Eden had looked so worried. It wasn't because she was leery of Jonah's opinion of her, it was because she knew East was on his way to the dressing room.

Vera's boyfriend.

In that moment, Jonah realized Vera hadn't been looking upward, smiling at thoughts of her mother at the end of the play. This guy East had been who she'd turned her eyes up to, grinning so hugely.

Well, that was just swell.

East backed away from Vera, who looked discomfited, caught off guard, and a little aggravated by what he'd just done. To Jonah, it hadn't looked like a sincere kiss so much as a dog on two hind legs, marking territory.

“You were wonderful tonight, baby,” he said to her.

“Thanks, East,” murmured Vera.

East turned his attention to Jonah, trying not to look triumphant as he extended his hand. With reluctance, Jonah took it.

“East isn't actually my name.” East continued his Alpha Male shtick by clamping Jonah's hand more tightly than necessary. “Full name is Marlon Eastmoreland, Jr., son of Marlon Eastmoreland, Sr.”

“Obviously,” mumbled Jonah under his breath.

“Sorry?” asked East.

“Nothing,” said Jonah.

Jonah was trying to keep his temper under control, but this punk guy was purposely crushing his hand. It would be only too easy to conjure ethereal strength and snap this man's bones like a pencil.

Vera grabbed East by the arm and pulled him away from Jonah. She'd likely figured out the thing Jonah was contemplating in his mind. She wasn't stupid. “I think that's enough handshaking,” she said, sternness in her voice. “Wouldn't you two agree?”

East shrugged. Jonah was mildly annoyed, regretful he missed his chance to hurt the bastard.

“It's nice to meet you, East,” he managed. The name was imbecilic, no matter how many times he turned it over in his mind. He turned to Vera. “So, um, how long have you guys been together?”

Some of the annoyance left Vera's face, and she licked her lips. “Six months,” she answered.

“Six months tonight, actually,” added East. “This is our anniversary.”

“Really, now?” asked Jonah, trying to hide his surprise. Or maybe surprise wasn't the word.

The word was shock.

Six months? That meant they started dating three months or so after Vera left the estate. It also meant they'd obviously met before that time, because reaching the dating stage took time to reach.

Or maybe that was only true for some people.

It didn't seem to have taken Vera long to figure things out for herself and move on. She was the Time Item, after all; perhaps she didn't have to do things as long as lesser mortals.

Suddenly, this dressing room was as crowded as the stage Jonah had conjured in his mind during the play.

East turned to Vera and took both of her hands. “Darling, since Chinese food is your absolute favorite, I got reservations at P.F. Chang's China Bistro for tonight.”

All the tension left Vera's face, and she looked at him. “The one in the Westlake Center?” she breathed.

East nodded eagerly. “The very same.”

Jonah looked on, feeling more and more like excess baggage with each passing second. He swallowed. “Congrats on you guys' anniversary,” he murmured, “and I wish you a safe and great night.” It actually sounded sincere when he said it. Nice. “And Vera, once again, you were great tonight. Kudos.”

“Thank you, Jonah.” Vera sounded apologetic about the awkwardness of the situation, but it was a hard thing to file away when Jonah saw her hands in East's. “I'm so honored you came to see my play. And it was great seeing you again.”

“Likewise,” said Jonah quietly, and he left the dressing room.

Before he left the door, he glimpsed East's face. When Vera looked away, he had the audacity to wink at Jonah, with a smug smirk.

Jonah barely acknowledged it. He had plans as well.

The fact they were the next morning and didn't involve a date was immaterial.

3 The Traveler

Jonah used the Astralimes to step directly into his room. He wasn't interested in talking about the night.

Had the play been good? No, it was great.

But Jonah hadn't expected Vera to be in a relationship. He hadn't expected the new guy. Then again, after six months, East wasn't exactly new, was he?

And once again; what the hell kind of name was East?

He stared at the ceiling, his mind full of just about everything under the roof before he realized sleep wasn't going to come naturally. Whatever.

He braved downstairs and went to the kitchen. Reena wouldn't mind if Jonah took one of her melatonin. It did the trick. After maybe six hours of sleep, which included a weird dream where Vera, in character as Juliet Nightingale, sat him down on some stage and explained to him in detail why East was better for her than he was, his alarm woke him up at 7 AM. He'd slept with all of his clothes on, but, given where he was going, that probably wasn't the biggest deal.

Next to his phone was a note which certainly hadn't been there when he'd gone to sleep the night before. Grabbing his reading glasses, he opened it, and read the golden, cursive letters:

Use the Astralimes to Candler. Focus on the truck stop at Exit 37, right off I-40 West.

Puzzled, Jonah did as the note instructed. Two steps later, he stood in front of the truck stop off of Exit 37 in Candler. It was at that moment he'd realized he'd forgotten his coat. Candler was in the mountains, right outside Asheville. This was November, so to call this Candler morning brisk was an understatement. Before he ran into the truck stop to get some breakfast, he noticed a neatly folded note underneath his shoe. Picking it up, he read:

Use the Astralimes to Edenton. Focus on the waterfront that overlooks the Chowan River.

Jonah frowned. Edenton? That was clear on the other side of North Carolina! Why did he have to come to Candler, when he was going to be whipped off to Edenton?

With a sigh, he focused, stepped onto the Astral Plane, then stepped onto the waterfront in Edenton. There were only a few folks there this early in the morning, but all looked out to the Chowan River. It was shaping up to be a nice morning here, provided those grayish clouds on the horizon stayed tucked in their little corner.

Jonah didn't bother taking in many sights, because he spotted another note nailed to a bulletin board near the waterfront. He snatched it down, tore it open, and impatiently read:

Wilmington. The Battleship North Carolina.

The destination triggered a memory, and Jonah laughed, despite his impatience. When he was in the eighth grade, his class had taken a trip to that very spot. But Jonah had to miss the trip—plus an entire week of school—due to conjunctivitis. And now, nearly fifteen years later, he was finally going to go there…as part of Jonathan's ethereal wild goose chase. He couldn't call it a treasure hunt, seeing as how there was no treasure.

He crammed the note into his pocket. There had better be a good reason why he had just had to jump between three different corners of the state. Jonathan seemed to be taking the whole “From Manteo to Murphy” thing a little too seriously.

He took the two ethereal steps and now stood on the battleship. It was long before touring hours, so he wasn't expecting to see anyone.

But he did.

A fully dressed naval officer walked right past him and gave him a smile and a half-nod as he did so. The gesture was kind, but the guy was neither shocked nor alarmed when Jonah stepped out of thin air. Why would that be—?

Oh.

It was a spirit. Duh.

“Brilliant, Jonah,” he murmured to himself. “You didn't think about the spirits at one of the most haunted areas in the whole state.”

“Now, you know better than that, Jonah,” said a familiar voice.

He turned. Jonathan strolled towards him, his hands in the pockets of his duster. He greeted the naval officer as well then turned to Jonah.

“Spirits and spiritesses don't haunt anything,” he said. “The spirit count is high here because many of the officers find it familiar and, therefore, comfortable. Haunting is an entirely different matter.”

Jonah sniffed. “Right, sir,” he said. “Now, what was the deal with the spot-hopping across the state?”

“First things first, Jonah,” said Jonathan. “How was last night? How was visiting Vera, and seeing her at her creative best?”

Jonah looked away from Jonathan, out to the ocean. “It was what it was,” he mumbled. “Now, why did I have to go from Candler to Edenton, and then Edenton to Wilmington? It only took a couple minutes, sure, but it was still quite a trek.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, no doubt curious about how quickly Jonah had changed the subject from Vera. That made Jonah curious; it wasn't like Jonathan had ever known how Jonah had felt about Vera. Or had he?

Not that it mattered now.

Thankfully, Jonathan didn't pry. Though he did flash a quick, knowing grin.

“The strategic bouncing around was a necessary measure, Jonah,” he said. “A little disorientation couldn't be avoided, and one must perform a bit of misdirection before going to The Plane with No Name.”

Jonah took a deep breath. Jonathan had approached him with this task about three weeks ago. Many Eleventh Percenters in the ethereal world had taken the past few months as a good sign and figured Creyton had decided going up against Jonathan was too much. No one involved with the Grannison-Morris estate was that naïve, however. Jonathan had seen to that.

He had informed them the quiet they'd experienced was merely the calm before the storm. Eighth Chapter crimes had popped up here and there, expertly spaced out, so they appeared to be random. But Jonathan had taught them all to see the signs.

There had been a multi-car pile-up on Highway 220, which had ended the physical lives of fifteen Tenths and three Elevenths. Survivors swore there had not been a crash to trigger the pile-up; but a car, in front of everyone, simply stopped. The driver, they recounted, stepped out of the car, holding a twig in their hand for some reason, and vanished right before the vehicular carnage. Tenth authorities had written these claims off as hysterics. Eleventh authorities knew better.

In the middle of July, Dace Cross, a Spectral Law practitioner, and world-class bitch, had been found at the bottom of a ravine, in a car that had been registered to no one. Tenth authorities hypothesized she'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Spectral Law, posing as the FBI, took over the case and determined in no less than three minutes that not only had Cross been physically lifeless before the crash, but there hadn't even been any evidence she'd driven the car at all. Jonathan told them Dace Cross hated Tenth means of travel, and, as such, hadn't even bothered learning how to drive. Jonah hadn't liked the woman, but to be killed in such a way was nightmarish.

But last month, about a week before Jonathan approached Jonah with this task, something rattled people even more than what had occurred with Dace Cross.

The girl that had taken over the Gate linkages when Katarina Ocean had resigned from the Curaie had headed home after work one day. She didn't go to work the next day, which was immediately taken as a bad sign, because such behaviors were not suffered lightly by those employed by the Phasmastis Curaie. Spectral Law was sent to her home and had made a most grisly discovery. She had been bound by ethereal fetters, tortured, and then murdered. Jonathan told the estate residents a source of his revealed the girl had been ordered by her killer to link up an unauthorized Gate to the weapons the Networkers had confiscated from the tattoo parlor earlier in the year. Jonah found out her name had been Phoebe Linkletter. Katarina had said she was growing more and more into her role every day. It wasn't fair or right that had happened to her. Jonathan put a marker in the cemetery near the Glade in her honor.

But there was one Jonathan had learned about that even the Curaie didn't yet know. After what happened at Blood Oath's tattoos, Jessica had been ordered to re-integrate back into Tenth Society completely, for an indefinite amount of time (Terrence had jokingly likened it to leave without pay). Three nights after Phoebe Linkletter's murder, Jessica got reactivated. Her reactivation also coincided with the disappearance of some slovenly Tenth who was a regular at a club she frequented on the weekends. Jonah took this to mean the calm was nearing its end and had become more proactive than ever.

Jonathan hadn't even looked impatient as Jonah stood there, going over events in his mind. He simply looked out over the ocean, so reverently, so majestically, he almost seemed one with it. Jonah was grateful for the task, but he had requested it happen after he had gone to watch Vera's play. He'd figure it'd be a nice balm, seeing her beforehand.

Well, it hadn't quite worked out like that.

And that was the thought which pulled him out of his own mind.

“I'm here, Jonathan,” he said, so as to acknowledge his internal thoughts had quieted.

Jonathan seemed to come out of his own trance and nodded. “Now, Jonah, the random locations I had you use were done for two reasons,” he said. “The first, as I said, was misdirection. The second one was necessary to build up your ethereality…power you up, if you will. The greater the distances, the better. I figured going from the mountains to the Tidewater to the ocean would more than suffice.”

Jonah didn't really know how to respond to that, so he nodded.

“I want you to understand The Plane with No Name is not for the faint-hearted Elevenths,” Jonathan went on. “I know you are not that at all, but it's necessary to let you know the place is uncivilized, sadistic, and, in a word, dangerous.”

Jonah couldn't remember the last time he scared easily. One couldn't be a Blue Aura and be timid. But Jonathan's words did cause anxiety.

“The focus is a little different,” said Jonathan. “Since this is The Plane with No Name, you can't really focus on a location. Therefore, you need this.”

He gave Jonah what looked like a pager. Jonah's eyes narrowed; he'd seen this before.

“This is a Tally,” he said. “Why do I need this thing?”

“Tallies keep your ethereality on file,” Jonathan explained. “They also work well with locations where you first put them, meaning they can function as a homing beacon.”

Jonah's brow furrowed. “So…once I'm on the Plane, the Tally will assist in getting me back?”

“And actually help to get you there in the first place,” nodded Jonathan. “They are quite useful items, when they're not being used for bullying.”

“I imagine so,” said Jonah. “What else do I need to know?”

“Walk proudly,” said Jonathan at once. “Be confident in who you are, and what you're capable of doing. Appearances are a mask, but true strength is a state of mind. The Plane with No Name is a place of base-level emotions: anger, despair, hopelessness. You have done no wrong, and you get to leave when you have completed your task. Therefore, there is no need to succumb to such damaging emotions.”

Jonah was of two minds on that. Despair and hopelessness? He got the pointlessness of those. But anger? That had saved his life a few times. But it had also caused him to be quite an asshole to some of his loved ones. Double-edged sword, much? “Anything else?”

“When you reach the Gatekeeper, tell him you are there on official business from Jonathan,” said the Protector Guide. “He'll have something for you.”

Jonah nodded, ready to get started. Jonathan stepped aside.

“Peace and blessings, son,” he said.

Jonah saw Jonathan's Infinity medallion on his neck. It was a good thing to focus on…something infinite. What was more positive than that?

He clamped his finger on the Tally, and saw the blue sheen flash up and down the thing. Taking a deep breath, he placed his attention on The Plane with No Name.

Wherever the hell it was.

In two steps, Jonathan, the Battleship North Carolina, and the ocean were gone.

4 Changeable

Jonah had to squint. Not because of sunlight, because there wasn't any. The sky was a defiant, rainy gray. It was because the place seemed to be permanently shrouded in fog. He could barely see in front of his own face.

Wait.

Why the hell was he putting himself through this? He was spiritually endowed. He had control over fog!

He placed his hands in front of himself, and concentrated. Almost instantly, the air began to clear. But right after that happened, a voice shouted from another clouded place.

“Hey! Stop! Are you not playing with a full deck?!”

A hand gripped Jonah from the shadows and pulled him into the mist. Jonah had no idea where he was being taken, as he could barely make anything out, but then, his captor pushed open a door, and pulled him inside.

The place resembled a hermit's hut, or the like. There was obviously very little need for material possessions; the place had some broken furniture that appeared to have been rigged to hold weight, a wood heater, and books that looked older than the earth on which they lay.

The person who had brought him inside looked to be in his forties, and with his hardened eyes and stance, it was clear he did not suffer fools lightly.

“Why the hell were you practicing ethereality?” he demanded, throwing off his coat and glaring at Jonah in disbelief. “Do you realize you could have gotten an arrow or a javelin through your face?”

Jonah stared at the guy, not knowing how to proceed. “I—I couldn't see through the fog,” he said jerkily. “I couldn't see the entrance—”

“This Plane is entirely shrouded by fog and mist, boy!” snapped the man. “What were you expecting? A gilded palace? An oasis? That was irresponsible, boy. Rank amateur—”

“Look here, old man,” said Jonah, who'd tired of the heckling, “I am here on business from Jonathan, and I really don't have time to sit here and have you breaking my balls—”

The man's entire demeanor changed when he heard Jonathan's name. He didn't smile—his face didn't seem wired to do such an action—but his scowling features relaxed. “Jonathan sent you?” Even his voice was friendlier. “You're Jonah, then. My name is Elijah Norris, Gatekeeper of the East of the Plane.”

Jonah scowled himself. Had to be the East, didn't it? “Yes, sir. I'm Jonah.”

“Then your mistake is forgiven,” said Elijah. “You can never be too careful 'round here. I thought you were trouble. Or one of them Spectral Law fools trying to come here and prove their mettle by doing something rash and stupid.”

“You don't like practitioners of Spectral Law?” asked Jonah.

“The Networkers are superb,” said Elijah, deference in his voice. “It's them dummies ranked below them who chap my ass. The Curaie always keep the Networkers polished and sharp, but it seems like with the other units…anybody with a trace of Eleventh blood in their veins can carry one of them ethereal steel badges.”

Jonah found himself agreeable to his assessment. He had had some less than wonderful experiences with practitioners of Spectral Law himself. The common ground he'd found with Elijah over this subject allowed him to overlook their initial misunderstanding. “Amen to that one,” he said. “So, what's wrong with trying to look through the fog?”

Elijah carefully lowered himself into one of his jerry-rigged chairs and sighed. “No one but Gatekeepers and guards can be spiritually endowed, strictly speaking,” he explained. “If I had allowed you in, and you'd unknowingly practiced ethereality in front of inmates, they wouldn't hesitate to use you to try to get them out. Any attempts like that are futile, and never end well for the hostage. There was also the possibility you could have been a threat. So, your manipulating the fog like that could have been interpreted as a decoy tactic. One of the archers could have gravely injured you, or worse.”

Jonah nodded. “I won't be brazen like that anymore,” he promised. “Now, Jonathan said you had something for me?”

“I do.” Elijah rose from his chair and went to a closet that was about waist-high then pulled out a poorly patched and darned shirt along with a drab, gray hooded coat.

Jonah stared at them dubiously. “I'm cool with my current clothing,” he murmured.

“Unacceptable, son.” Elijah shook his head. “This is standard wear for prisoners. The pants are fine, but the waist up needs changing. If you go in there looking the way you do, you will be apprehended, and quite possibly killed. Besides all that, Jonathan has placed some type of ethereality in the fabric which will blunt the fact you're spiritually endowed.”

Jonah grimaced. Yeah, he understood, but he still didn't like it. He removed his shirt and put on the patched one. Surprisingly, it was a bit too large. Then, he put on the hooded coat. He walked up to a piece of broken mirror in the corner and inspected himself. The clothes vastly altered his appearance. The hood didn't blind him, but it obscured his face. At the very least, he didn't look like he was playing a character.

“That'll work fine,” said Elijah after his own brief inspection of Jonah. “I wish you'd have had a beard or some stubble, but ah, well.”

Jonah snorted. He'd just had a beard recently but shaved it off for a friend. That was another matter.

“The batons stay as well,” said Elijah, who reached out for them.

Somehow, Jonah had expected that, and dropped them into the Gatekeeper's hands without protest.

“Finally,” said Elijah, “the prisoner you're looking for is EC #—”

“EC?”

“Ethereal Convict,” clarified Elijah, “EC#571976. You will find him in dwelling 3034.”

“Wow,” Jonah commented, “that's a lot of numbers.”

“You're the Blue Aura, son,” countered Elijah. “You can retain information, even if you don't recall it at all times.”

“How do you know that?” asked Jonah. He had always known that about himself, but he didn't know it was common knowledge.

“I just do,” said Elijah. He looked neither discomposed nor awkward when he said it. For that reason, Jonah wasn't suspicious. Everyone possessed knowledge of some sort, after all. “Now, Jonah Rowe, it is my great pleasure to, at least for the next couple of hours, welcome you to The Plane with No Name.”

* * *