Page 19 of Odder Still
“That’d be a breach of protocol. The civilian came through our gate. It would be irresponsible to leave them until we know they’re in the Findlays’ care.”
Malloch’s jawline pulses. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse. Their gaze flickers across the chamber, past the submersible vehicle platforms, and through the archways to the lower city. A slow breath leaves them. They nod curtly and march out of the gate with such controlled fire that I’m almost glad for the BA presence.
I have to jog to catch up. “Do you know if—”
“No,” Malloch cuts me off, the sort of rebuff that’s not aimed at a question, but at a person.
I shut up, half because of the edge in their voice and half because as we enter the upper districts’ version of the main gate square, my concept of speech deteriorates.
The extensive wealth hits me in the chest with beauty so striking it becomes a kind of violence, each polished marble floor tile shining against my grimy leather boots. I’m too small to stand within it, to look up at the high, arched ceiling and pretend I came from anywhere but the dirt.
Here, the lights gleam with electricity. Ignation courses through the walls. The air smells of aristocracy, of elaborate spices and the fullest bloom in an endless rose garden. Gilding creeps like vines up the sides of their seal-tailed fountain, the statue’s majestic face tipped skyward as it launches a rush of crystal clear water into a ring of hanging oyster shells that sprinkle it back down into the miniature lake below. A massive pane of glass makes up the wall to our right, granting a majestic view of an ocean courtyard, a pair of dolphins spinning above the colorful coral.
That’s when I realize the biggest difference between this and lower—beside the hoarded wealth and the crisp, temperate air and the subtle, rainbow-infused shine of the ever-present ignation—is the lack of people. A few lower-district workers move swiftly around the edges of the wide pathways, their grey uniforms made for the shadows, while pairs or trios of the upper dwellers take their time, their elegant suits and cloaks and trailing dresses so silken and shining that one minute in the lower city would sully them. I count a dozen in all. A dozen people in the same amount of space that a thousand could have crowded.
I’m still watching the extravagance as though it might pounce, when Malloch leads us into an upper-city trolley car made of sleek lines and cushioned seats, ignation flowing through its center. They scowl at the BA guards and cast heavy glances at the back door while the carriage whips us higher into the city with none of the rickety chugging or steam spouting of the lower transportation. When we finally disembark, I’m brushing at my filthy outfit instinctively, as though I can wipe the stain of who I am clean if I just presented myself better. The impulse makes me flinch because I know it’s not mine. It’s not the parasite’s either. It’s this damn place scowling down at me, telling me to get out, like the rivers and the Murk both did all my life.
I keep my hands firmly at my sides, twisting my fingers in and out as Malloch marches me up a wide set of iridescent stairs and beneath a gleaming sign for Findlay Incorporated, moving at such speed they seem determined to leave the BA guards behind. Inside, tall glass walls reveal the endless ocean, water gently streaming down the ignation-laced pillars that support them. A message must have been sent ahead, because the door guard—still BA, even here—waves us along without comment, through pearl-studded gates, up an elevator of glass, and down a final, gleaming hallway.
I glimpse only a few people: a woman in a suit carrying binders across a courtyard, a man and his androgynous colleague talking in hushed tones beside a waterfall, and an open office with a chair so high backed only a gloved arm is visible around its side. A pair of black-clad individuals with pistols in their belts nod to Malloch as we move down a hallway to a set of double doors.
Inside, six wealthy selkies stand around a half-circle table with the chairs still tucked in, conducting what sounds like a shouting match after all the quiet. I spot the Findlay in the room immediately.
She takes the center space, bearing Tavish’s stout build and his magnificent jawline and identical shark-fin eyebrows. Her silver hair wraps around her head, and her freckles are muted, her pale skin made pinker by the gleam of her silver dress. Ten lines of pearls work their way up her chest and neck. When her eyes meet mine, I see the abyss in them. The room goes silent.
“Leave us.” She flicks her fingers at Gillies and the other BA guard, her sets of silver rings flashing.
They obey in an instant. Malloch closes the doors behind them, claiming a place silently off to one side.
“Raghnaid—” one of the onlookers starts, but another wrist twist from her quiets them.
Raghnaid Findlay strolls toward me, each click of her high heels resounding in the spacious room. “Well, now.”
Her eyes sweep me in a way that makes my soul want to crawl out of my body to prove that I’m still a person even under her gaze, or to conform to the lens through which she sees me. I scramble for something, anything to say to her: An explanation. An apology. I made the wrong choice. I should never have left the lower city. I don’t belong here in this exquisite, terrible place without mist or silt or soul. Its perfection devours me and spits me back out with every silted breath.
I search for the parasite’s presence, but all I find is the cold and the fatigue, larger and more consuming than ever. The memory the creature fed me so often over the last day arises like heartburn: ‘I get odder the more you know of me.’
It’s comforting this time. I truly don’t belong here, but when did I belong anywhere? I will exist just as I always have, even if the lifeless floor strains against me and these grand statues of prosperity can’t hear me from behind their pearl-studded earrings.
“Raghnaid Findlay.” My smile slips up too far on one side, turning it to a smirk. “I was told that you might have a solution to my problem.”
Raghnaid’s expression doesn’t change. “Perhaps.” She loops her pinkies together and sets her hands on the back of the chair at her side. “How did you come into possession of this creature?”
She doesn’t ask for my name, and my introduction turns to a lump in my throat. My willpower slips just an inch. I force my grin not to falter. “I made the mistake of picking it up while it was free moving, and it refused to let me go.”
The selkies behind Raghnaid exchange glances, shock and curiosity dominating.
Raghnaid’s thin lips twist down. “Where is it from?” This time the question sounds more like a demand.
I can’t lead her back to the Murk, no matter how thoroughly the place has denied me. “Not from your stock. I’m sure you would know if that were the case.” It borders on a taunt, and I hope it has just enough pleasant wrappings to shut down that line of questioning without shutting me down with it. “I want it gone.”
Four of the onlookers erupt at that.
“Do we have the means to force a release?”
“The lab would surely—”
“What would that do to a human mind?”
