Her aura glows brighter in the darkness of the lonely cottage. “I created Absinthe so he would know that he can’t control everything. He will not take my memories. I will always remember. The Dreamers will always remember.”
The Last War, the Planner, the Crone, Tabula Rasa, love, pain. Each had pushed the world forward. An ideology born from the beauty of a song and launched by the ugliness of deception is the last sacrifice of a heartbroken man. His gift to humanity. Tabula Rasa. And they all pay the price for it.
“Can it be stopped?” Aris asks.
A light smile dots the corner of the Crone’s mouth.
“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked this exact question.”
The Crone looks out the window. The sky is becoming lighter.
“I will answer it the same way I’ve answered countless times before,” she says and disappears.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It is that lonely time folklore calls the witching hour. There are few souls wandering the streets of Callisto. This late they are either drunk or tired, or both. No one is paying much attention to the two figures who keep to the shadows.
Aris whispers, “How far?”
They are heading to Carnegie Hall. He told her there is a station below with express trains to and from various cities. It’s only busy when there is a concert. They will take a train from there to Elara.
“Not far,” he says.
She’s glad. It is becoming more difficult with the heavy loads on their backs. She has the pack with the helmet and computer. Metis is carrying the provisions they took from the cottage.
“What do you have in there?” Aris asks.
“Flour, rice, salt, hard cheeses, water, a first aid kit, a flashlight, a water purifier, a knife, and a tool that has multiple tools embedded inside—I can’t remember what it’s called.”
“I’m impressed.”
“The Crone told me to put it all together for this possibility. I just never thought it’d happen to me.”
“I wonder how many Sandmen she’s had to send away.”
Metis shakes his head. Aris doubts he even knows how many came before him. He must have a lot of faith in the Crone to do her bidding without question. Or maybe he had asked, but his questions went unanswered.
“How long do you think what we brought will last?” she asks.
“I’m hoping a week. Then we’ll have to figure the rest out. Maybe there’ll be some things at the cave, but I don’t know.”
They settle into their own thoughts. The grayness of the streets and buildings deepens in the night. The steady rhythm of their feet against concrete is the only sound Aris hears. She looks at Metis’s somber face and wonders what is on his mind. Even though he is next to her, she feels as if he is hundreds of miles away.
“Are you okay?” She asks after she can no longer stand the silence.
He stops and turns to her. His eyes are pools of sadness. “Aris, I’m sorry. You’re in this situation because of me. I don’t know how, but somehow the Interpreter Center or someone knows I’m associated with Absinthe. I’d understand if you want to leave.”
He looks guilt-ridden.
“I don’t want to leave. I choose to be here with you,” Aris says.
Metis leans down and kisses her. His fingers wind through her hair and trace the length of her neck. Aris wraps her arms around his waist and presses herself closer. He pulls back and clears his throat.
“Usually there are drones at this hour,” he says, “Just try to—”
Before he can finish, Aris hears buzzing in the air. She looks up in the direction of the noise. Something dark is moving against the night sky. City lights reflect off clouds, revealing their location. There is a flock of them. They are flying low between the gaps of the buildings.
“Drones!” she whispers and flattens herself against a wall.
As soon as they pass, Metis grabs her hand and they run. They zigzag through the city, turning left and right and right and left block after block, trying to put distance between them and the drones.
Aris feels wind whipping against her face and hair. The names of the streets blur by and she cannot tell where she is. They continue until she can no longer catch her breath.
“Wait,” she forces out the word as she clutches her side.
“Just a bit more,” Metis says, “We’re almost there.”
Ahead she sees the familiar brick building. They make their way to the back. Metis opens a door, and they run down the dark corridor toward the stairs.
Out of nowhere, someone appears in front of them. Aris screams. It is a familiar face.
“Thane!”
“Aris! What are you doing here?”
Her heart drops to the ground. Thane sees Metis, and the expression on his face changes from surprise to fury.
“Aris, come with me,” Thane says. “He’s dangerous.”
“No! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
“You can’t be with him. He’s wanted by the Interpreter Center. Come with me now, or I won’t be able to save you.”
Thane stretches a hand to her.
“No, Thane, you have it wrong. It’s the Interpreter Center that’s dangerous. Dreams are memories. They take away memories and destroy hope. Everyone whose dreams they erased killed themselves. You’re on the wrong side.”
Disappointment shows on Thane’s face. Then resoluteness. He lifts his wrist to speak into his watch. Aris does the only thing that comes to mind. She swings her fisted hand against Thane’s face with all her strength. A sharp pain travels through her fingers. Thane falls backward onto the floor.
She turns to Metis. “Run!”
They sprint past Thane and down the stairs. They turn so many corners Aris loses count. They go past storage rooms and metal pipes, following the path of silver ducts and electrical wires. She is glad Metis knows this place like the back of his hand. She would not be able to navigate it on her own.
Footsteps echo from somewhere behind them.
“Thane’s coming!” Aris whispers.
Metis
