Authors: Emmie Mears
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Dark Fantasy, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban, #Lgbt
Eye of the Storm
EYE OF THE STORM
EMMIE MEARS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Emmie Mears
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]
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Published in the United States by Emmie Mears
www.EmmieMears.com
Cover Design by Jessica Negrón
EYE OF THE STORM
EMMIE MEARS
For all of you who have helped me get here.
As far as my memory of history goes, it's taken approximately ten to twenty thousand years for the societies of humanity to build the civilized lands we so know and love. We've done it with hell poking holes in our reality and trying to bleed in. We've done it even though sometimes we'd rather kill each other than protect this place. We've done it poking holes in our own ozone and polluting our air. But perhaps against all odds, the four — now five — species of humanity made something work. We found a common ground enough to hold off the hordes of all six hells. We created monuments, space travel, wifi. All the moving parts of economies, cultures, races, religions. All those grinding gears that sometimes rub too close and spark or flake off bits of rusting metal and other times turn so smoothly you can almost hear it all purr. All the people who built something here. A life. A job. A stack of bricks called a house. Tiny squawking baby people. Globs of mixed color on canvas that somehow tug feeling from your chest. People who sit and think about thinking. A way to get from Nashville to Mumbai in a day.
Thousands of years of trial and error.
What amazes me is how, in a handful of days, it can all fall apart.
We've made our home upon this earth.
I can't help but wonder — will she notice when we're all dead?
Will she mourn our passing?
Will she even feel us go?
CHAPTER ONE
Gregor Gaskin's head falls with a wet thunk onto the floor of the Summit amphitheater.
Well, what's left of his head.
It's mostly chin and lower jaw.
Let it never be said that Alamea Virgili lacks a flair for the dramatic.
It's so quiet in the room that even if Gregor's head had been the size of a grain of rice instead of the size of a basketball — okay, maybe it was never
that
big — even the Mediators and psychics hovering at the farthest reaches of the terraced rows of seats would have heard the
plip
of it hitting the floor.
Instead, the first few rows give a twitch, pairs of bright violet irises trained directly on that head on the floor. After a moment, the rest of Gregor Gaskin follows.
Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
Alamea is over six feet tall flat footed, but it's neither her natural height nor her heels that make her look like a giant right now. Her dark brown skin is smooth and clean. Her linen wrap shirt is immaculate ivory. Her toenails are pedicured, and her waist-length thin locs are arranged in a crest that spills down her back and over one shoulder where here and there silver clasps glint in the glaring fluorescent lights.
She managed somehow to drop all of Gregor's post-rigor bits on the Summit floor without splashing any fluids on her outfit.
For months, the Summit has been fractious and volatile. I've never seen this room as full as it is right now. I'm in a seat on the dais, just to the left of the podium with all-too-clear a view of the pile of Gregor on the floor. My nose has an all-too-clear a path to the smell of him as well. At my side are three Mediators: Mira, Devon, and Ripper. Behind us — a tactical move, considering most of the other Mediators in this room want them dead — are a line of all the shades who remain alive. There are only twelve of them. There used to be scores. On the other side of the podium is Gryfflet Asberry, the witch who is pretty much the reason we're all sitting here.
The air in the amphitheater is cold, the HVAC silent. If I had to guess, I'd say that is tactical as well.
Alamea wants everybody in this room to be uncomfortable. I don't think she really had to worry about that at all — from the moment the group of us set foot in the Summit lobby, I could almost feel the collective blood pressure of every Mediator and Mitten present raise into the red zone.
She steps over Gregor's bloated hand and looks out at the Mediators and witches and psychics who make up the Summit, the former by birth and the latter by choice.
"Too long, this Summit's members have behaved like a herd of bickering toddlers squabbling over who gets the bigger piece of sandwich. From this moment forward, if you have issues with my leadership you will leave them until after the world ends. I will not brook in-fighting in this Summit when hell is camped out on our doorstep. You will treat the shades sitting behind Mediator Storme as allies, or you can feel free to leave Nashville and try your luck in the countryside in the coming weeks. If you remain in this room when I finish counting to one hundred, you hereby acknowledge my leadership, Mediator Storme's full reinstatement, the shades here as allies, and Gregor Gaskin as a known traitor to this planet and the Summit. One." Alamea begins counting, her enunciation so crisp that I think if anyone were to budge from their seats, it would slice them to ribbons.
Not a single soul moves.
I know as well as Alamea does that their silence and stillness doesn't mean the breaks in the Summit have healed — hoo, doggies, is that not possible — but I hope, perhaps foolishly, that it means they've at least managed to yank their heads far enough out of their asses to be able to see that we have more important demons to kill than whatever plagues their throbbing fee-fees. I hope.
When Alamea reaches one hundred, no one seems to know what to do.
Evis, my brother the shade, pokes me in the shoulder and whispers quietly enough that no one beyond ten feet from us could understand. "I'm bored. Was that all?"
"I think so," I whisper back.
I see the first two rows of Mediators staring at me, and I can only imagine what they think my brother is whispering in my ear. Time was I'd pretend not to care, but right now I can't afford their suspicions to raise any higher than they already have.
"My brother is as bored with the Summit's childishness as Alamea is," I say loudly, and my voice cuts through the growing hum of murmuring Mediators. Now more than the first two rows of people are looking at me. Good plan, Storme. I give the original staring folks a bland smile. "And so am I."
Alamea looks between me and the audience, her expression calculating. "If any of you feel the need to question Mediator Storme's experience in the current situation in which we all find ourselves, I'm sure she'd be happy to share. If you can't be bothered to ask her yourselves, keep your speculation buttoned down. Gossip is lazy, and the Stormes have a point."
I watch the ripple of shock go through the audience at the way she addresses Evis and me as the Stormes.
Turns out I was wrong telling Evis that was all, because once the murmur of talking dies down again, Alamea addresses the crowd again.
"It's now confirmed that there have been hellkin sighted in cities across the country between sunrise and sunset. The Stormes here took out a pack of slummoths on Demonbreun last week themselves. I don't care who it comes from, but I want a city-wide evacuation plan on my desk by the end of the day. If you're not working on that, you're training Mittens, working on inventory in the arsenal, or on patrol. All hands on deck," she says. Now no one looks like they want to be snotty. Looking around, a few of the younger Mediators and Mittens swallow. "Hardy and Sal will be in charge of setting up the groups and rotations for patrol. If you want to work on the evac plan, see Billy Bob. I don't want fourteen different plans. Work together. Don't leave this room until you have your assignments for the day."
With that, Alamea barks at a pair of Mittens to clean up the Gregor mess. If I expected them to be skittish about it, I'm immediately proved wrong when both of them, two girls probably around fifteen, spit on Gregor's severed head before hurrying away to get gloves and splat-duty smocks.
Alamea comes over to us, and a large number of eyes track her, not even trying to pretend they're not paying attention.
"What should we do?" I ask. Beside me, Mira's quiet. Behind me, I can hear one of the shades' bellies rumbling.
"I think you're best doing as you've been doing. You and your brother ought to return to the cabin. Miles and Saturn can stay here in the city with the other shades who have been in Nashville. Who's still here?"
"Harkan and Holden," I say. They've been scarce since we found out Gregor betrayed us all. I can't say I blame them. "But Alamea, I'm a little tough to summon in a pinch from there." My objection is pitched to be quiet, my tone carefully modulated so as not to seem argumentative. For the sake of the Mediators eavesdropping, not for Alamea.
"It's not ideal," she agrees, but she doesn't offer an alternative, so I know I've been given my orders.
Not ideal.
That's one way of putting it.
