Page 50 of Immortal Longings
There is only King Kasa’s dignity at risk.
Mao Mao butts her hand.
“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Calla asks.
Mao Mao makes a noise of agreement. August said the dead bodies were being placed with the Sican salute. There is no reason for rural troublemakers to do that.
Unless the rural rebels are somehow linked to Sica. Could Sica be recruiting out of rural Talin?
Mao Mao’s head suddenly lifts. His feline gaze has turned sharply to the bathroom, and Calla reaches for the remote, putting her television on mute. The apartment falls quiet, leaving only faint conversation in the hallways and music from the apartment upstairs. Then: a rustle from the laundry room.
Calla bolts to her feet, scooping up her plate. It’s the nearest thing that will serve as a weapon, and she doesn’t hesitate to throw when the stranger steps out from her bathroom, putting as much gusto into her arm as she can manage.
“Fine daylight!” the stranger shouts in a rush, swerving away. The plate smacks the doorframe, shattering into a hundred pieces on the bathroom tiles. “What fine daylight we have today!”
Anton.Calla exhales in a huff. Her heart is still clamoring against her ribs when she flops back onto the couch, putting a hand to her chest.
“The whole point of a code phrase is that you say itfirst.”
Anton runs a hand through his short hair, a collection of rings glimmering on his fingers. Red light illuminates him from behind, making him look like the type to be working at a brothel rather than just living above one.
“How did you find me?” Calla demands when Anton remains silent. “Did you climb through the window?”
Anton shows her something in his hands. The tracker that August gave her, linked to Anton’s wristband.
“You left this at my apartment,” Anton replies. “I took it to a shop and reversed it. Tracked your wristband here. And yes, you have a pipe directly outside your window that gave me a boost up. Your place isn’t very secure.”
Clearly.“I suppose we’re even now.”
Anton strides closer, tossing the tracker up and down. “We’re not even until I get to keep this—whatis that?”
Calla starts. It takes a prolonged second, searching the living room while it’s lit up with silent ads running on the television, before she realizes that he’s talking about her cat.
“This is Mao Mao.” She scoops up the bundle of fur and holds him out. Anton flinches back. Mao Mao goes limp like a child’s rag doll. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of cats.”
“I’m not afraid,” he insists, and Calla leaps to her feet. She adds blatant dishonesty to the list of expressions she has collected from him.
“He won’t bite,” she says. Anton takes a step away. He collides with the wall, trying to put distance between himself and the cat, but Calla follows him anyway. “Here, hold him.”
Calla plops Mao Mao into his arms. She walks off before he can toss the cat back, heading toward the light switch on the other wall.
“They finally admitted to it.”
The room flares white-blue, no longer bathed in darkness. When Calla returns to the couch, Anton is still standing where he was before, Mao Mao resting comfortably in his stiff arms. He looks too nervous to move.
“Foreign invaders?” he guesses, eyes swiveling to the muted television.
“Almost. Rural invaders. Still Talinese.”
A whine echoes from upstairs, drawing a thump against Calla’s ceiling. Mao Mao leaps out of Anton’s arms to follow the sound, and Anton sighs in relief,putting his hands in his jacket pockets. The apartment falls into an eerie hush again. Though there is no true silence in San-Er, one learns how to tune out the sounds beyond their four walls, to keep the machines and voices pushed to the back of their mind until it almost,almostfades out. This is as close to noiselessness as San-Er will ever reach. And without anything to fill it, Calla feels the hairs at the back of her neck prickle, watching Anton regard her from the other side of the living room. This is different from their silences on the streets, from when they prowl the alleys for a sign of the games’ scuffles. This is silence without a purpose. Something that might settle between a soft shoulder brush, a meeting of hands.
It has no place here.
“I came to check on your safety, like a good ally,” Anton says after the long moment. He has provided an explanation without Calla asking, clearly sensing the oddness just as she does. “You ran off in a frenzy.”
“San-Erwas in a frenzy.” Calla puts her finger to her mouth and bites on a nail. It’s an old habit that she’s long kicked, so the moment her teeth make contact, the move feels foreign and she removes her hand, grimacing at herself. She reaches for the plant by her couch instead, pulling off a strip of the flax lily. “Someone came after me again. Same as last time. Lightless jumping. Empty body.”
Anton frowns. He walks over. Takes a seat right atop the coffee table, although the couch is directly beside it. “You sure you haven’t pissed anyone off recently, Fifty-Seven? This is starting to sound personal.”
