Ari
It is a warm, pleasant evening, the kind of night where the bright young things of Gotham head to the rooftops, where they indulge in Manhattans and martinis under the illumination of fairy lights and marvel at the expanse of skyscrapers that stretch to the horizon in every direction.
Tonight, at one such bar, a pair of ladies are whispering to each other about the young man standing alone by the ledge, dressed to perfection in a sapphire suit and sleek oxfords, his back turned to the crowds and his attention fixed instead on the glittering façade of the Empire State Building. One of the women dares the other to go talk to him. Her eyes linger on the young man’s lush dark locks, the chiseled profile of his face. He has a bandaged hand. How had he injured it? Had he gotten into a fight? She wants to know more. The other woman refuses, giggling, too shy to do it.
Ari ignores their attention as he sips his drink. The air here is unlike Angel City’s. He can feel the difference in its salt particles and ocean vapor, the subtle brine of it mixed with smoke and perfume molecules, the pollen of cedars and pines instead of willows and eucalyptus. Here, it is more difficult for him to sense the call of a world on the other side of the Pacific, somewhere he had once belonged.
“Sorry I’m late. Alchemy can’t fix the traffic.”
Ari turns to see Isla standing beside him, one hand holding a martini and the other tucked in the pocket of her green minidress. She doesn’t look at him, so he returns to admiring the view.
“Where’s Prometheus tonight?” Ari asks.
“Still in talks with Neuewelt. They’re playing hardball, but they know it’s a fair deal.”
“Where does he think you are right now?”
Isla shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter, as long as he doesn’t think I’m here with you.”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “And yet, here you are.”
Ari smiles a little, even though he still doesn’t look her way. “I missed you.”
“Getting sentimental on me now? You must’ve had a rough few weeks.” But he can hear the affection in her voice. “I found out what you asked for. Reed’s guy in Gujarat is no longer keeping tabs on your family. Rudra would still prefer you dead, but he thinks you’ve left the country, and he has little interest in wasting manpower on threatening your family.”
Ari’s chest feels like it might collapse in relief. His family is finally free of Lumines. From the depths of his memories comes the image of the first time he ever met Rudra, sitting under the fans of that open-air café in Surat, his laugh loud and clear. Then he thinks of the night when the man attacked him, eyes bloodshot and lips curled into a snarl.
We should trust each other,he had said.You and I.
And somehow, Ari has to wonder if Rudra spared his family because, in spite of everything, they still share some common ground, understand each other in a way the others don’t.
“Thank you,” Ari tells Isla. “For telling me.”
She smiles into her drink, and for a while, they say nothing.
“So,” she ventures at last.
“So?”
“Are you going back to Surat?”
She’s looking at him now, and when he turns to her, he notices that there is a slight cloudiness to her once-clear blue irises, that even with her glasses on, she has some trouble focusing on him. His heart twists for her. Every year, the side effects of her heavy sand use grow stronger. So it will go with all alchemists.
With him too.
He takes a sip of his drink. “No,” he replies.
She lifts an eyebrow at him. “Ari. Look at your suit. No fox pin now. No pin of any kind. You’re free, Ari, you could take a flight out of here tonight and head back overseas to find your family. Haven’t you been talking about this since you were a kid?”
He’s too ashamed for a moment to answer. She’s right, of course. And hehad, once. Everything he’d done since he was a child was in deference to that world and the people there that he loved. He had performed his duty; his family was well.
But now, after all these long years, the people in Surat that he loved have become strangers in photographs. He imagines himself walking up to a hazy memory of his mother and father, his sister and brother, and feeling nothing but a polite shyness, a dread at the awkwardness that is sure to follow. Of them stiffly greeting an unfamiliar young man, of having nothing to say. He would be trying to fit in where he no longer belongs.
He gives her a soft, sad smile. “I can’t even speak Gujarati anymore.”
Isla respects the loss in his words, lets them linger on the air for a moment. Then she says, “What about Sam?”
