The Triad of Finity (9 page)

The demon placed Oliver and Dean, standing, onto one of the walkways. With a screech, it soared away.

The walkway creaked beneath their feet.

“Whoa,” breathed Dean, peering through the gaps in the damp boards.

“
Mr. Nocturne, Mr. Aunders, welcome.”

Standing in front of them was a short creature, just over half their height, with four arms and four legs, more arachnid than humanoid, its body coated in black fur that glistened with droplets from the falls. It had clusters of eyes, pink in color, eight pupils on each side, grouped together and yet seeming to rotate independently, taking in all directions at once. It stepped closer, its claws clacking on the walkway, looking potentially sinister in the dim orange light. Oliver heard a similar sound, and with a quick glance around saw that more of these creatures were patrolling the walkways above and below, and scaling the walls in between.

The creature hissed thinly at Oliver and Dean, and then spoke in that same voice, from an identical copper transmitter box implanted just below its neck. “
We were instructed by our client to bring you here on this exact evening.
”

“Who’s your client?” Oliver asked anxiously.

“
The lock has been designed to open with your countersign
,” the voice continued, one of the arachnid creature’s hands sweeping toward the stone door beside them. “
Just press it to the handle to enter. When you are finished, please place all contents into the central flame. Any questions?
”

“Um, yeah,” said Oliver, looking around. “Where are we, exactly?”

“
Generally speaking, you are at MW83705 Exit Cataract 3. Specifically, you are at Box 6022 of your nearest Aeonian Parcel Services Retail Location. Now, if you’ll excuse me …
” The creature turned and scaled the wall, heading diagonally away to where a Hermesian demon was delivering another customer to a walkway above.

Dean’s neck was craning up and down. “Was that supposed to make sense?”

“Yeah,” said Oliver. He knew the references from school. “MW means ‘middle world.’ I think, on a multi-world map, Earth is called Middle World 83705.”

“One world of eighty-three thousand,” Dean mused.

“Those are only the middle worlds,” said Oliver. “There are upper and lower, too, but it’s hard to keep count of those because they’re not made of matter, just energy, so they’re always bleeding together and splitting off and stuff.”

Dean shook his head. “Basically what you’re saying is the universe is really big.”

“Yeah.” Oliver turned to the wall. “And here on the edge of the borderland would be a good place for getting your mail if you were, like, some kind of multi-world demon.”

“Demons get snail mail?” asked Dean.

“Well, but it’s not like real mail, I mean, like we think of it. It’s not like, paper and envelopes and stuff.”

“Okay,” said Dean. He looked over Oliver’s shoulder. “Wow.”

Oliver turned to look back at the enormous waterfall. It was the width of a skyscraper at least, a mix of shimmering energy and foam, falling from mists of distance above down into starry darkness. But along the way, now and then, feathers of pale, luminous, greenish-tinted light peeled off, drifting into space and dissipating.

“Souls,” said Oliver, watching them go. “Energy into the universe.”

“They made it through the delta,” said Dean, “and now they’re home free.”

One of the Hermesians swooped by and snatched a soul from the air, sucking it down.

“Or not,” Dean added.

Oliver looked down at the tattoo. His feeling of anticipation grew. … He turned back to the door. “Let’s go in.” He pressed his wrist to the cool gold door handle. There was a loud grinding, like of stone bolts sliding. The door swung inward.

Oliver and Dean stepped from the damp, dark cliff face into a warm, fire-lit room. It was small, the walls made of rock, the ceiling barely above their heads. The flame burned in a metal bowl suspended by chains in the center of the room. The door shut behind them, cutting off the roar of the falls. All that remained was the crackle of the fire and the scuffing of their feet on the stone floor.

“Feels like a tomb,” said Oliver.

At the back wall was a small cylindrical pedestal holding up a long, thick stone table that looked more like a box. Actually, it resembled a coffin, except that it seemed to be solid stone. It did have a big brass padlock on it, but there was something lying atop it that was much more important. Oliver’s steps quickened. He reached out and grabbed the object.

“I thought you said it wasn’t, like, snail mail,” said Dean, arriving beside him.

Oliver looked at the paper object in his hand.

An envelope. Rectangular and white, but discolored by smudges of grime. The surface was crinkled, the edges browned and torn. In the top right was a faded stamp of blue ink, the print barely legible. Oliver could just make some of it out:
Ma—1868
. Probably March. …

“Is it—” Dean began.

“Yeah,” said Oliver, because the handwriting in the center was unmistakable:

For Oliver and Dean

—E

The seam was sealed with a blot of red wax, marked with the impression of a scarab beetle. Oliver slipped his finger beneath the corner and tore open the letter. He pulled out a folded sheet of cream-colored paper, and as he did so, his sensitive vampire nose detected the faintest scent, one he hadn’t known for two years, and it made him tremble.

He unfolded the paper, trying to be careful but trying to go fast, fingers shaking, and saw that it was full from edge to edge with handwriting. In the top corner:

Dear Oliver and Dean,

It was really her! Emalie …

“Something’s happening,” reported Dean.

Before Oliver could even begin to read further, light grew and gathered around them. He looked up to see the world swimming out of focus. Light overwhelmed everything, and then dissolved into shimmering white.

Oliver felt a moment of pure weightlessness, and then his feet touched solid, uneven ground. He blinked hard. The light faded; the wind died down. Oliver began to make out a form, a figure, standing before them. And he heard a voice he’d waited forever to hear:

“Hey guys.”

Chapter 8

The Letter

She stood there before them and Oliver thought that she looked like she always had, like she always did in his mind, with her wide, dark eyes, her brown hair in two braids, her cute, curvy nose, high cheeks, a camera slung around her neck … except she was wearing a hand-sewn white shirt with a high collar, a dark gray ruffled skirt and scuffed tan cowboy boots. And instead of her usual camera, she was lugging a bulky black box model on a leather strap over her shoulder. Its wooden tripod was slung across her back, almost like a weapon.

Oliver looked around and saw that they were standing in the middle of a dirt street, rickety board buildings on either side, along a warped walkway. There were horses tied to hitches. A stagecoach parked in the distance. The sun was high and bright in a clear blue sky. The air smelled like sweet sweat and sour manure, felt light and dry, chalky with dust and desert.

A loud whistle sounded from behind them. Oliver turned to see that the road ended at the steps to a long wooden train platform with a small brick station house. A black steam engine pulled in, belching big clouds of smoke. The name Central Pacific Railroad was on the engine’s side.

Arcana! They were here.

He turned back to Emalie. She was standing there, smiling. “Hi,” said Oliver, but the word came out hoarse, weak, and he wanted to say it again but then didn’t want to sound like a moron and she probably hadn’t heard him but still he felt like an idiot.

“Hey, cuz,” said Dean.

Looking at her, Oliver wondered: Did she look different? Taller? Older? It had been two years … yet he thought she maybe looked the same. It was hard to tell.

But never mind that. Oliver felt his feet and fingers tingling.
Do it!
He shouted at himself.
Do what you’ve been wishing you did for two years!
And yet he kept standing there like his feet were impaled in the ground with railroad spikes.
Come on, you idiot!

Because, honestly, how many times had he relived that last night in his mind? Relived Emalie saying goodbye and rushing up and kissing him as he just stood there and then she was gone and why hadn’t he thrown his arms around her and kissed her back or anything and now, NOW was his chance and he was just standing there and so NO, he was not just going to let this moment pass by.

He stepped to Emalie. “I missed you,” he said aloud, thinking,
yes!,
that was what he wanted her to know! And he threw his arms around her, to hug her first, and then—

But his arms went right through her.

“What—” Oliver began.

“Welcome to Arcana,” Emalie said, talking right over him.

Oliver stepped back. He waved a hand through Emalie again.

Of course.

For as real as Emalie had seemed on first glance, this wasn’t actually her. She was part of the letter, and the letter was an enchantment, like a program. Oliver looked around at Arcana again. The effect was impressive. Everything seemed almost real, but maybe not quite, like things were flickering at their edges.

Despite that, Emalie held up her hands almost like she was doing her old trick of reading Oliver’s thoughts. “I know, right?” she said. “Not bad, Emalie, not bad. I practiced this enchantment for months before I wrote this letter. Can you smell the manure? Gross, right? I never thought I’d get used to it, but—well, come on, we don’t have much time. The enchantment can only hold so much information.” Emalie turned and started walking, putting out her arms like she was going to throw one around each of them, but they just passed right through Oliver and Dean as she walked up the street like a tour guide.

Oliver fell into step behind her, but inside he felt himself deflating. This was good, he guessed, better than nothing. To finally hear from her, to see her sort of, but, still …

“It’s pretty fun living here,” Emalie went on as they walked. She held up the giant, clunky black camera. “I’ve been interning with the town photographer, Archie. These cameras are so old school, and the darkroom, super primitive, but that kinda makes the results pretty great. The negatives that we make are on these big plates of glass, coated in silver dust. Seriously, old photography is as amazing as any enchantment. And, it’s a nice break from my studies. Get to be on my own a bit, though I know the Orani Circle is monitoring me whenever I’m out of their sight.”

“I know that feeling,” said Oliver.

Emalie spoke right over him. “Ooh, and check that out.”

She pointed across the street, to the charred lumber and piles of brick. Oliver recognized it from the photo he’d seen of the burned Arcana Hotel. “That place totally burned to the ground, and Archie let me go and get the shots. It was so cool.”

“That’s so her,” Dean commented.

“I bet you’re saying that’s so
me
, right?” said the Emalie guide.

“Ha,” said Dean.

Oliver didn’t say anything. He couldn’t stop staring at this image of Emalie and feeling frustrated, almost … angry. Sure, this was something, and he was glad to see her, but it wasn’t the real her. He wondered if, in a way, this maybe felt worse than not seeing her at all.

A horse-drawn cart rumbled down the rutted street, spraying dust. Oliver and Dean instinctively jumped out of the way, but then Dean reached out and stuck a hand through the cart’s side as it passed. “No worries,” he said.

“Over there is the apothecary that my mom and Aunt Kathleen have been running,” said Emalie. “You know, to earn our keep in town. We sell herbal remedies and advice and stuff.”

“Sounds like Désirée,” Oliver muttered, knowing Emalie couldn’t hear him.

“I work a couple shifts there during the week,” tour guide Emalie continued. “It’s cool ’cause I don’t have to go to school. There’s a schoolhouse, but it’s only for kids through age ten. After that, you’re expected to work with your family. Or go get a job at the gold mine. So I get to do my thing.”

The town buildings ended abruptly and the road forked in three directions. Emalie turned and followed the one that curved up a hill into tall pine trees, their trunks covered in thick, crusty orange bark. The shade was cool, sweet smelling. The deep ruts in the dirt road were filled with soft yellow pine needles, making their footfalls quiet. The space in between the trees was carpeted in tall, pale-blonde grass.

“Really, it’s been kinda like being at summer camp,” said the Emalie guide. “It’s amazing what you take for granted until it’s gone. I mean, no electricity; we live by lantern, but it’s cool how dark it is when it gets dark. Like, outer-space dark. And gardening is this whole big thing that takes hours, not to mention milking the cows and goats, and you know, chickens don’t kill and clean themselves. … I’m actually pretty good at that part. We have an enchantment to kind of calm them, so it’s easier.”

Oliver thought of the stilling gaze he performed, of Emalie calming chickens before killing, and felt another yearning connection to her that soured to frustration.

“And here we are.” Emalie crested a rise and paused. Ahead was a wide, gently sloping clearing, crisscrossed by split-rail fences that separated pastures and gardens. The road ended at a large white farmhouse. Beyond that was a big barn made of gray, unpainted boards, a few horses tied outside, and past that was a circular wooden building, or more accurately it had about twenty sides, making it nearly circular, and a conical roof with an opening at the top. Smoke drifted from it.

Beneath the grunts and bleats of livestock, Oliver could hear the babbling of a stream from the far end of the stead. In the distance, a trio of tall mountains loomed, their tops holding a few last drifts of snow.

Oliver recognized the farmhouse, or at least its front steps, from the photo they’d seen in Selene’s bedroom back in the Asylum Colony. Things were beginning to come together. And yet this reminded Oliver of what else he’d learned about Arcana.