Santiago shot me one last scathing look before dismissing me. I stopped by your apartment complex to discover the Malakhim was telling the truth—you and your mother were gone. My young friend in whose fate I’d invested against my better judgment, lost to me already.
Even though my heart was heavy, I said a prayer for your safety and resolved to take a dip in the ocean before returning this body to its rightful owner.
Perhaps it was for the best.
3
Henri
To a human, time is fleeting. Like daylight in the winter months. Or a powdery dusting of snow on the ground, only existing until the morning sun burns it away.
But to an immortal, time is an endless spring of rushing water that replenishes itself daily. Or it’s a long, arduous slog through an ashen wasteland. That is to say, we gods have a different interpretation of time and its elasticity.
I didn’t forget you—I looked for you in every bright-eyed, fox-faced boy I encountered. But my memory of you was somewhat fixed, so I’d be gazing into the eyes of a six-year-old child before realizing you had already long surpassed that age.
I didn’t expect to see you again. And then one day, you called for me. Imagine my surprise when I was summoned to your bedroom and found not a boy, but a sixteen-year-old adolescent.
You were kneeling in the middle of your room, the warm tones of your skin lit by a trio of candles. Three is a sacred number and a symbol of divinity. Life, death, and rebirth. Past, present, future. Three phases to the moon and three points to make a plane. Humans do things in threes, so they will manifest in their physical realm, and gods do so as well, which made me think this wasn’t the first time you called me.
The shades were drawn, and it was nighttime. Past your bedtime was my guess. You were mumbling some incantation with your eyes closed and your hands clasped deferentially in your lap. A hand mirror lay in front of you, and next to it, an empty tin can with a half-spent joint of marijuana, still burning. There was also a tall stack of books, which I suspected amounted to your local library’s entire occultism section. It seemed you had used every device at your disposal to invoke me.
“Orlando?” I asked.
Your eyes snapped open and you glanced around the room—a slow, cautious sweep, searching the darkened corners to find my specter. From the way your gaze remained unfocused, I concluded your gift of sight had faded. Selfishly, I hoped you could still hear me.
“Henri?” you asked with perfect pronunciation. Your voice was low and tentative; the first syllable was deep, a man’s voice, while the second lifted like that of a child. Your body, too, seemed suspended between boy and manhood with long gangly legs and knobby knees. Your face was sharp and pointed, eyes still stunningly beautiful, and your curls were looser but no less alluring. You were the picture of Ephebian beauty, and it stirred something inside me I thought I’d extinguished long ago.
“You called me?” I asked.
You smiled shyly and sat back on your heels while pushing the sweat-dampened curls off your forehead. It seemed you’d been scrying for quite some time. Your eyes were a bit glassy, presumably from the cannabis you’d used to reach a trance-like state.
“I did.” You licked your full lips and dipped your head so that your face fell into shadow.
“Lift your chin so I can see you.” Even though it mattered little for my perception, I wanted the light on your face. A small indulgence.
You did as commanded, raising your head and steeling your gaze like a young soldier staring down his first battlefield. You reminded me so much of…
I shouldn’t make those comparisons. Too painful. Too dangerous.
“Tell me your full name,” I said.
“Orlando Bell.”
“Orlando Bell,” I repeated as my spirit stretched to dial in on our location. I was dismayed to find you still within my territory. Had Santiago been lying? Had you been under my nose this whole time?
“How have you been?” I asked.
“I’ve been… good.” A flicker of unease crossed your expression. It reminded me of when I’d asked you about Roger, and you didn’t want to tell me. A mixture of sorrow and shame.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” I said with as much empathy as the cold tone of my spirit being could muster. If only we could share this encounter as two bodies.
You dropped your head again and changed positions so that your legs were crossed in front of you while staring at the mirror on the ground. The candlelight flickered in your amber eyes, and I memorized the shape of your face, sharp shoulders, slender limbs, your silent way of contemplation. Even in your youth, you possessed a quiet elegance that would inspire painters of old to beg for your pose.
“I’ve been calling you,” you said.
“I’m here now,” I reassured you, “and I’m listening.”
You pinched your lower lip with two fingers so that it resembled a ripened, split peach.
