“Elysia Fields,” a voice says. I squint into the light but see no one.
“My friends call me Elle. You can call me—”
“Elysia Fields,” the voice repeats.
“Sure, that works.”
“Daughter of Melinda Fields and Cory Korzeniowski,” the voice continues. “Both missing. Half sister to Dante Korzeniowski, deceased.” There’s a pause. “Now deceased yourself. Tell me, how did that happen?”
“You see, when a soul and a body decide to unconsciously uncouple—”
“You were brought in by one of your old associates, were you not?”
I groan. “Yeah. You think you know a person.”
“Tell me about your magic.”
I blink into the light, surprised. I open my mouth, but I don’t have an answer for this. At least, not a good one.
“I…don’t have magic. Not really.”
“You’ve been to the Afterlife, have you not?”
“A few times, yeah.”
“Has magic been siphoned from you or otherwise neutralized upon your return?”
I grit my teeth. “Not that I know of.”
“So why can’t you perform magic?”
I swear there’s a smile in the interrogator’s voice. I know this trick. Negging your mark to undermine their confidence so they’ll try to seek your approval. It’s a pretty effective tactic, because it’s one of those tricks that doesn’t lose its efficacy once noticed. I know the game, I know I’ll lose, but I still want to play, to prove myself.
“If I don’t have an answer you like, are you going to turn me into one of those souls I saw on the way in? Or maybe like those little glowing orbs?”
“It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t tell us. You’ll end up ethereal anyway.”
“Ethereal, huh? So what’s supposed to motivate me to tell youwhat you want to know?” I ask, but I don’t really care about the answer. They’ve already given away more than they realize. Amateurs.
“Torture,” the voice answers.
I let out a derisive laugh. “Pain is completely ineffective. Torture consistently leads to inaccurate and incomplete information.”
This is what the syndicates have never understood. Truth cannot be forced, it can only be given. They’d get more out of me by taking me out to a fancy restaurant.
“Who says we want information?” the voice asks.
I snort. “You were the one asking questions. Why go through all this trouble if you’re just going to turn me into one of your—what was it?—etherealsouls and store me in the basement of that big old tower in the lake of fire.”
“In the basement? No, you’ll be on display at the very top. The Titans like to be reminded of their triumphs.”
People love to correct you when you’re wrong.
“I think we’re done here,” I say. “If you’re not going to ask me questions I can answer, either torture me into giving false information or put me back where I came from.”
The voice doesn’t answer. And then the torture begins.
Painis probably the wrong word for it. It was more like a lessening. Like they’re taking something from me. After, I feel not all there. Not like when I’m in the Afterlife on Miracle Max. More like my soul is buffering.
