Snow fell slowly, dusting the road and his white cloak—too gentle and serene a scene for the sudden, sharp tension cutting through the air.
He cocked his head, studying the lonely highway on the outskirts of Solar City.
Though he had reaped Souls all over Earth, most calls drew him to Solar City, as if some part of his Soul had known his other piece had been here all along.
He had felt the prick of a single death to the unrest of mass casualties, like a low whistling tea kettle. He knew the draw of impending tragedy, the way his muscles would lock up in anticipation of the call of a Soul, like a hound scenting fresh meat.
Auren knew all of those feelings intimately, as a Soul Searcher forcenturies.
What he did not know was the strange buzz in his ears, like a thousand bees were swarming him. Dead, barren tree limbs stretched across the cracked road. The overturned bicycle lay at the treeline. The body was still there, but no Soul was left within. Blood streaked the corpse’s neck, sluggishly oozing from the deep wound.
Seconds ticked by as frigid air gusted, cutting through his cloak. He did not shiver.
The unrest coiled inside him, tightening until he could hardly breathe.
The forest pulsed with shadows, stretching like hands toward him.
Auren ripped out of his trance as the buzzing faded. He slashed his scythe through the air, thinking of Vesperin, and the portal shimmered before him. Auren let his eyes linger on the trees and shadows before stepping through the portal.
Atlas watchedthe Soul Searcher from the shadows and smiled, knowing Auren Neris felt the call of what was to come.
It thrummed through the corporeal, perceived only by those with atavistic senses:
Utter wrongness.
Though it was winter, the birds had long since gone silent.
Snow crunched beneath the Soul Searcher’s white boots, melting on the blade of his scythe as he stared into the treeline—straight at Atlas.
Auren vanished into a portal cut through the air, and Atlas followed, letting his shadows carry him into the heart of the place where his love lay.
The scenery changed to that with which he was intimately familiar—cold concrete walls, exposed pipes and beams lining the ceilings, a Christmas tree still lit even though it was New Year’s Eve, and a singular bed pushed against a wall.
From the shadows, everything appeared faintly distorted, as though viewed through a veiled curtain.
The bed was empty.
Atlas stilled.
He reached inward for the Nova and found the missing piece. He followed that sense of acute absence until it led him to the one who held the other piece. She was close. Too close to be anywhere but here, yet he saw her nowhere.
Just as Atlas started to let himself be pulled away, the bathroom door opened, revealing clouds of steam and pale flesh wrapped in a fluffy white towel. The lights in the base were low, and Vesperin stared at the ground, ensuring she didn’t trip over anything. Always so careful and gentle, his love.
At the sight of her, Atlas’s urgency dissolved. She was safe.
Atlas settled in for a long evening of watching, ignoring the tug of other tasks, but she compelled him like no other. She drowned out every whisper of fate.
She smelled of soap and toothpaste and something intrinsically Vesperin, like cherries and fresh blossoms.
Atlas watched as she gathered clothes, glancing toward the couch where the doctor had fallen asleep when he was meant to be keeping watch—she had not been left alone since her escape. Atlas nearly smiled, if it were not so important for Lucien to sleep. Sleep was where Atlas’s gift found him: prophetic dreams.
The doctor’s glasses were askew, head at an odd angle on the couch. His breathing pattern was even. Vesperin seemed to recognize the deep sleep Lucien was in, for she let the towel fall.
Atlas stared.
Her nude body was as pale as moonlight. The lines of her ribs showed as she bent to pull up an innocently plain pair of underwear with a small bow in the center, covering her from his gaze. She turned, and he saw the outline of her small breasts, her pink nipples pebbled with the chill that blanketed the room.
Atlas knew what happened next, had seen it in the threads of fate that morning.
