Page 68 of Odder Still
My fingers ache to be used, and I run them absentmindedly up and down Tavish’s thigh.
He pauses from chewing on his tongue to curse. “By the Trench!”
“What is it?”
“My hormones. I didn’t think to pack them when we left for the lower yesterday.”
“Can we find you more?”
He shakes his head, his brow tight. “Druiminn Health is the only place I know that produces them.”
I don’t understand all that this means to him, but I see the pain it pinches across his features.
“There are a few organizations producing them in Alkelu,” Elspeth says. “I know that’s not helpful, you being here and not there.” They roll their fingers along the wheel, their gaze straight ahead. Their fins flutter, dislodging a few shimmers of silver caught in their hair rays. “I’ve thought about taking them myself, but I don’t know if I’m ready yet, or if I actually want them. This is—it’s new. Well, four years new. But that feels like no time at all when you have to rediscover yourself.”
Tavish moves to pick at the edges of his fingers, but I catch his hand, squeezing it. He breathes out and leans into my side. “I ken that.”
Elspeth nods. They finally glance at Tavish, a soft gleam in their eyes. “When did you know?”
A flush spreads up Tavish’s neck, saturating into his cheeks. “I was six. My mother ordered us all suits for the yearly family portrait, and my tie matched hers and Ailsa’s. I told her I wanted Alasdair’s tie, because I was going to be a boy when I grew up. I couldn’t even see the patterns; I just heard the men’s were different, and I knew I was meant to have one of those instead.”
“Ailsa and Alasdair?” Elspeth slams on the breaks.
The truck screeches and slides. My stomach flies into my throat as I brace against the console, holding tightly to a shrieking Tavish. My heart still thumps out of control by the time we finally slide to a stop, dust and steam stirring around us.
“You’re the third Findlay child.” Elspeth slaps the wheel, cackling. “I’ll be fucked sidewaysandbackward. Tavish Findlay!”
“You couldn’t tell from the mixture of blind and devilishly handsome?” I try to make my voice light, to stop the worry from creeping into it. What if Elspeth won’t help me now? What if—
“The statistical probability of blindness in selkies isn’t documented among any credible resources outside of Maraheem, handsomeness as an aesthetic quality is highly culturally based, and the existence of devils has never been scientifically proven. So, no.” Elspeth stares at Tavish, the quirk in their lips an unnerving contrast to their narrowed eyes. “They’re saying you killed your siblings.”
Tavish scowls. Slowly, precisely, he straightens himself out of my grip, adjusting his outfit and running a hand through his hair. “I have not killed anyone, least of all them.” His voice turns to ice. “But if I knew a knife was flying toward my mother, I would not stray its course.”
As though that’s all they needed to hear, Elspeth lurches the truck forward again. “You, Rubem was it?”
“Yes, that’s me.” More than ever, it feels nice to be asked for my name, one of the few pieces of me left that’s truly mine.
“You came to me because of my paper on how the energy of the ignits isn’t created, but taken from some other place?” They shake their head. “Long distance, or perhaps cross-dimensional transportation, that’s the key. I’ve been monitoring the energy differentials caused by ignit explosions for years, but no proof yet.”
It sounds a bit like nonsense to me, but so does the thing taking over my body. “Beileag called you an ignit cycle physicist? That does include auroras, right?”
“Auroras, ignits, the stones ignits react with. I also built Glenrigg’s hypo-wave transmission system. Had to gather a nonsensical amount of data first. I even went to the siren seas for a few weeks, almost got eaten twice before I stumbled into one of the cohabitation groups. Turns out sirens are excessively decent when you both have a common language! Or a translator, at least. But that’s not related to your problem, I don’t think.” Their eyes narrow. “Or mayhaps it is.”
My brow hurts from trying to piece through their story. “Maybe my problem is sirens?”
“Communication.” They smack the steering wheel. “See, I figure the auroras are sentient in some capacity. Now, I know what you’re thinking: they appear to be parasitic entities of a single-cell type. How can something be smart if it doesn’t have a brain? Doyoueven have a brain, Elspeth? But the really peculiar thing is the way the auroras release specific rhythms of electromagnetic waves, not just in response to environmental factors or in a repeatable array of songs, but in true code-like fashion.Theyspeak.” Elspeth draws their hands in an arc, wiggling their fingers like a street magician. At the same moment, the truck hits a pothole, and the wheel twists left. They yank it back. “And if something speaks, it must be sentient!” As though in direct protest, the engine grumbles.
Tavish gives a little snort.
My parasite’s laughter fills the dark corners of my mind, sounding as blundering and honeyed as my own drunken guffaws. The humor it seeps through me feels genuine, though, tinged in affection. It presses against me, echoing physical memories of the warmth I feel toward my pets.
I rub my face. “You’re more or less right. It thinks you’re adorable, by the way. Like a kitten.”
Elspeth screeches the truck to another chaotic stop, but this time I’m prepared for it, latched in place like a leech. Tavish still yelps, and he continues to hold me even after the vehicle settles, his expression such sheer shock that it seems he thinks I’ve grown a second head instead of a second consciousness.
Elspeth twists in their seat. Their glittering gaze fastens on mine. “You can hear it?” They don’t wait for a response, or maybe my fatigue is answer enough. “Then my subsequent hypothesis must be correct, too. Since an aurora binds itself to its host’s organ systems, in the case of a human that must include the brain, the endocrine system, and the neurons. It would therefore be able to manipulate those systems, mayhaps not fully, but at least to a degree.” They tug a little notepad out of the truck’s dashboard, and a stubby pen seems to materialize from behind one of their pointed ears. “What’s it saying to you? Besides my physical relatability to small, furry creatures, of course.”
“It can’t speak directly, so it replays pieces of things I’ve already heard. Mostly it’s a silt-breathing pain in the ass who doesn’t always make sense.” I drag my fingers over its initial latching place on my neck, even though I can’t quite feel the difference between it and me anymore.
