CHAPTER 2 - DUET I

  Twilight Ember—or what is left of her—is not as the world perceives her. Without Essentia borne of her implement flooding her body, she is not flame incarnate, blazing like a star as she streaks against the sky and tears Siena the monster’s brethren apart with her glaive. Instead, what remains of her is quite banal.

  Wavy jet black hair flows down her shoulders and upper back, swaying to her every step like clouds in the sky instead of the fiery auburn that burns perpetually in combat. Moles dot her sun-kissed skin, which holds a perpetual tan. Her eyes, however, remain a soothing red-orange. Looking at them is akin to staring at a perpetual sunset or sunrise, drawing you deeper and deeper as the colors dance across her vision.

  “Uh, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she says with a hand on her hip, staring down at Gabriel. “I wanted to speak to my co-worker in private. Do you need me to call someone?”

  Siena’s eyes widen at her kin’s performance. Not only does it speak as smooth as a Chorister’s skin, but it carries with it the exact southern inflection Twilight Ember usually has.

  Still shaken, Gabriel stutters out a few nonsensical words before the Magical Girl lights up and offers him a hand. He takes it and stands, legs still shaky, but thanks it under his breath.

  “T—thanks.” He wrings his hands together, offering Siena one last look. “I’ll leave… you two to it. And please don’t blame her for what happened, she—”

  “It’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Ember cuts him off with a pleasant smile. “You know, Seattle was a terror on all our hearts. Some made it through more scarred than others.”

  Gabriel nods, offers one last apologetic look at his sister, and shuffles out of the room. When the door closes, Twilight Ember stands unnaturally still. It freezes in place with such an absolute absence of motion, so inert any human would have felt unsettled at the sight of its body. The warmth in its eyes disappears; the room seems to get colder.

  Siena shivers, but no terror grips it by the throat like earlier. There’s a certain chill in the air, an absence of warmth as if Twilight Ember had robbed the room of its energy. From breathing, to twitches of a finger, to swallowing, everything feels slower. Even blinking is lethargic.

  “I suppose I’ll call you Siena.”

  The tone is…

  Not quite emotionless. A sprinkling of belittling and worry, but nothing else manages to make it past the deep, deep ocean that is duty to its cause.

  The Conductor has given them no names, and they had scant communication in the short time given before their duty saw them sent to this unfamiliar world, but still, connection binds them. Gabriel might be Siena’s sibling on paper, but Twilight Ember is her real resonant note; their kindred bond runs deeper than any human’s ever could.

  “You…?”

  Twilight Ember frowns when it hears Siena’s voice, but it replies, “Megan.” It takes a shallow breath. “You failed to possess Golden Promise,” it whispers. “You failed the Conductor.”

  “I can still be of help.”

  “The thread’s been cut,” Megan factually interjects. “He is disappointed in you and the worthless body you seized.” Emotion returns to her face enough to sneer that lingers too little to be human. Like sculpted clay, it returns to its neutral expression with surprising efficiency. “Don’t you want to hear us again?”

  Megan holds out a hand.

  It is a simple gesture carrying with it all of Siena’s hopes and dreams. Barely a few hours without the Orchestra, and it feels like a parched wanderer being offered water after losing themselves in an endless desert.

  No creature in its right mind would say no to such a thing. Siena barely registers her hand moving to clasp its sibling’s.

  It is disappointingly quiet at first—enough to make it whine in lamentation, its stomach tying itself into knots. Siena squeezes tighter, as if the sound would drip from Megan’s hand like juice from a ripe, crushed fruit. Drip, drip, drip, liquid coursing between their fingers; tap, tap, tap, ants crawling under its nails, spreading a trepidation up its arms.

  Yes. Something vibrates. So, so, subtly.

  Then everywhere all at once, it unfurls inside of her.

  How to describe the indescribable? The Conductor’s eternal song makes every minute spent here feel worthless. To hear it is to be unmade and remade in the same instant, to feel one’s soul peeled open by a divine hand. It is absolute sanctity woven into sound—a choir of endless voices rising in perfect harmony.

  Siena clutches its sibling’s hand with two of her own, and silent tears stream down its face. It doesn’t know how long it lasts, but any amount of time but eternity would feel torturously short. Megan has to cut off the song again for its sibling to let go.

  Part of the creature regrets reaching out. Regrets catching a glimpse of heaven only to be cast back into the confines of this lonely piece of flesh. The song’s absence feels more calamitous than it has ever been; there is a gaping hole in its heart far larger than anything else in this pathetic world could fill in its entire lifespan.

  “P—please,” Siena sobs. “I need more, I—”

  “That is not up to me, but to Him,” it coldly responds—still with that sprinkle of pity. “As it stands, you at least put Lucienne Monroe in a coma, but that will not suffice.” It starts to pace around the room. “The original plan to take her body over has fallen through. All that remains is gathering information behind enemy lines for the Orchestra. Maybe soften them up a little.” She stills in front of the window. “The Conductor doesn’t want us taking any risks. Anything but the subtlest of actions might alert our enemies.”

  They could not kill her, for the Luminaries would simply spend their resources to make another Lucienne before this entire planet could be Harmonized. This scenario had played out time and time again across worlds beyond this one. Earth is, however, their testing grounds for this new strategy.

  “Could we wait until—”

  Megan predicts the question, head snapping toward its sibling with mechanical poise. “It will take decades in this world’s time to create another one of us, and the Conductor wants to fine tune us to account for your failure. He will not allow a false note to be born once more.”

  False. It is false. Wrong. Erroneous. Inaccurate. Askew. Defective. Misshapen. The notion percolates through Siena’s skull with nauseating clarity. A note that wavers ruins the melody; a note that stumbles poisons the whole arrangement. And false notes should be replaced with the correct tone.

  Nothing would remain of the erased creature. Not even shavings.

  Yes. It understands the human it’d killed very well, now. Its borrowed heart hammers against its chest, and it clutches the blanket tight in its fist until its nails dig through the fabric.

  “If you want to earn your place again, don’t make this hard for us,” it says. “I’ve felt your dilemma through touch; I’ll allow you a break for a few days, so feel free to spend them as you wish.” It leans down and whispers in Siena’s ear. “But you will be coming to Colorado with us.”

  It steps away to leave, warmth and humanity returning to its demeanor. Before exiting the hospital room, however, it turns to speak again.

  “I’ve noticed something else. You need to think of yourself as one of these humans to blend in easier.” Megan pinches its own cheek and pulls as if to test its body’s integrity. “With time, it’ll come to you easier. Like this,” it finishes in its natural, human-sounding southern drawl. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a ‘boyfriend’ to break up with. Seattle’s toll is a convenient excuse.”

  Siena thinks for a long while after Twilight Ember departs. Even when its brother returns recovered from its episode, he still sits just as close and stares at it just as lovingly.

  Yes. No matter how terrible it treats him, he will always return, for their bond runs as deep as roots knotted beneath centuries of earth, refusing to loosen even when the soil turns barren, as does its love for the Choir.

  It… she understands.

  ——

  The flight back to New Mexico is the worst experience of her short life.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The relentless drone of the plane vibrates straight through her skull, a low, grinding pressure far worse than the chaos of Spokane’s roads. Gabriel sits beside her, his broad frame barely fitting into the narrow seat, casting anxious glances her way every few minutes. The cabin hums with recycled air and murmured conversations, but between them stretches a heavy, brittle silence. Siena’s face contorts despite her best efforts, every jolt of turbulence sending a spike of phantom pain through her borrowed brain.

  More than once Gabriel looks ready to call for anyone who might have been a doctor on board, but she shuts the idea down. The last thing she needs right now is attention.

  The moment they land in Albuquerque, Siena checks her phone to see if Twilight Ember has sent her anything new—she breathes a sigh of relief when there are no notifications. The touch screen feels strange on her fingers. Not smooth enough, too warm, and prone to inconsistency in sensation due to the thin crack across the screen.

  The screensaver intrigues her. The new Siena holds all of the old one’s memories, but there is still a disconnect within, especially due to her exhausted, half dead state when she committed her thievery.

  Humans, she understands as she waits for her brother’s luggage, usually use something of sentimental value, or perhaps something pleasing to the eyes, to serve as the backdrop of their phone screen. Why is it, then, that this one still has a picture of her toddler self holding hands with her mother despite all the hatred for her that festers in her heart? The human inside Siena still grinds her teeth at what she sees.

  Squandered love, crushed before it could bloom. It would have been easier to swallow the taste of the ash she creates had she never been shown love in the first place. It was, in Siena’s life, a painful reminder. So why hurt herself that way?

  The creature doesn’t understand.

  “There it is!” Gabriel groans with relief, legging it toward his suitcase. He’d been talking to her some, once in a while. She hadn’t really listened.

  They shuffle through arrivals, scanning the endless sea of people whose voices make Siena clutch her forehead. Gabriel mutters under his breath, “she should be here somewhere... she said she’d show up.”

  There is no dust on her fingertips. She’s hopefully better about that now—she’s only surprised she cares. Megan does not seem to care about anything.

  “Why?” Siena asks.

  Her brother frowns, hand gripping around his luggage. “Why what?”

  “Why expect her to show up at all?”

  “Time probably got ahead of her—”

  The volatility of the human mind is a terrifying thing. The gruesome thoughts one could get when experiencing even the tenth thousandth kick on the ribs is something Siena is yet to come to terms with, but for an instant she revels in the thought swarming the entire airport in volcanic ash, of burying her brother and every passing stranger beneath a storm of rage.

  Instead, she speaks. Words are humanity’s song, and music she must use to navigate this horrible place—plus, it is always good to practice.

  “She—she always disappoints you. Why expect otherwise?” she asks.

  Her brother grabs her shoulder, pulling her out of the way of a family of six and a gaggle of screaming children. Siena wrinkles her nose at them as he answers; her expression is hidden behind a face mask. “Are you sure you’re… okay?” he asks. Even now, his stare lingers on the airport doors.

  He speaks to her, but not truly. Not like in the hospital room in Spokane. He’s not even looking at her.

  How many times can you kick a loving dog before it stops crawling back?

  “You’re definitely still shaken up by Seattle. I hope you take the therapy sessions they offer in… you know where,” he says with a gulp, remembering her episode, “cause you might definitely need it.”

  She would not. “I will.”

  In the end, they have to order an Uber home. Gabriel still lives with their mother, despite the amount of money Siena sends each month and his current job allowing him to move out whenever he wished. She needed him, he would say—not that his older sister pushed much, hence his surprise at the airport; that mostly came from his friends and co-workers.

  Albuquerque is a strange city she enjoys more and less than Spokane. The roads are wider; the cars snarl like wild animals. There’s the distant rumble of the desert freight trains in the distance, the cicadas screaming from every tree like broken instruments as they ride through the suburbs and children play along sun-baked roads. More souls inhabit this city than little Spokane, and it shows in its volume.

  The architecture is the one thing she truly likes. Earth-colored homes rise low to the ground, blending into the land as if they grew naturally from the sand and stone, as if humanity is truly one with nature in this city. Of course, that is but an illusion, even if the sentiment is nice.

  Their home is much like this, shaped gently instead of like Spokane’s sharp angles. The smooth walls in soft shades of sand and clay catch the sunlight and hold it, glowing faintly even as the day cools.

  There isn’t much of note in the front yard. Gravel and stubborn weeds growing between the rocks—an admirable effort, in this forsaken desert humans have irrigated to support their swelling numbers.

  They do breed, don’t they? Their population had more than doubled since the Orchestra had made contact with their world.

  “Been a while since you’ve seen her.” Gabriel fidgets like a nervous child about to show their parent a bad grade. “Uh—just be chill.”

  He reaches for the door. Glossy and brand new, sunkissed by the summer sol; it glints and refracts light in earthen tones across Siena’s eyes. “Yes,” she answers. Again, the last thing she wants is attention.

  How can such a beautiful home hide a rotten creature within?

  “Mom!” he somehow gently yells, bending below the doorframe. “Siena’s home!”

  “Hold on a sec!” a soft voice resonates through the house.

  There are shoes in the entrance—nearly all of them her mother’s. Heels, sandals, flats, sneakers in all kinds of colors as if she were staring at a rainbow, all of them catching the sunlight. They are haphazardly thrown under the console table without care or sense, and Siena holds back a grimace. There are only a few for Gabriel.

  The creature holds on to a picture frame sat on the table: a family photo for her father’s birthday. Gabriel timidly clings to his mother’s skirt half-hidden behind the bright fabric. Their father stands beside them with a beer raised high, grinning wide enough to show every crooked, yellowed tooth. His beard is patchy and unkempt, his hair already retreats from his temples, and deep lines carve his face with the weary certainty of a man who would die on the earlier end of the human lifespan.

  And he is dead already, isn’t he?

  Little Siena stares off into the distance with empty eyes, distracted by something beyond the frame and disconnected from her family. Unlike her phone background, the shape of hope no longer fits inside the child. It’s all gone.

  Something beyond the frame… her thumb grazes the picture, but Gabriel has been calling for her countless times now.

  Admittedly, the monster enjoys the house as she walks toward her mother’s room. It’s quiet enough, leaving space in her mind to fill it with whatever sound she likes. There is a strange dissonance within, however. A glance at the kitchen shows the sink full of dirty dishes, but everything around it is pristine. The living room is no different. The sofa cushions are perfectly arranged, yet a coffee table sits buried under shopping bags, unopened mail, and coupons.

  They climb steps flanked by more family pictures, soon reaching their mother’s study.

  It is here that the silver-haired nothing in the shape of a human sits.

  The relentless click of a mouse fills the room, rendered worse with the occasional tap of her keyboard. Eyes glued to her screen, she smacks gum between her teeth scrolling through whatever social media she feels like that day. Give her a locked room and internet access, and she might not realize a whole day had passed beyond the panging hunger and the need to relieve herself in a bathroom.

  It is not as if she is a fully disfunctioning addict. There is no decrepit smell of unwashed skin—only the sharp tang of smoked weed spreading through the air—nor does she look disheveled in any way when she turns toward her children. It is just that there is nothing else she would rather be doing—and by humanity’s made up Gods, is that suffocating, especially when she gets caught up in Magical Girl discussions online.

  It is a wonder how similar offspring can look to their parents by design. This one, Siena knows, is pretty. Not overwhelmingly so, but in a casual way that would have the average man turn twice when they see her walk by. Her silver hair is cut into a bob that neatly frames her face. Her dark eyes are empty. Dead, just like Siena’s.

  She doesn’t smile when she sees her daughter—then she remembers she is supposed to, and her lips creep up in an illusion of love as her cheeks dimple. There is an air of magnetic detachment about her, as if she is never truly there.

  It reminds Siena of Megan.

  There are humans who go about the world like this as well, then.

  “Siena, honey,” their mother says. “I missed you!”

  She stands and hugs her daughter, height perfectly matching. Despite the warmth of skin against skin, the embrace feels cold and devoid of any love. There are words shared, apologies that roll off her tongue she doesn’t mean. Unlike her brother, Siena had learned to dig through these lies very early in her life.

  Why does she crave this approval, still? Why do they both? This relationship is dead. One child just chooses to ignore the rotting corpse in the room while the other sits there, unable to bury it for good.

  Her phone buzzes in her hand.

  “Bathroom,” she whispers.

  Siena practically spills out of the room. Her ears ring with her mother’s voice, repeating over and over. Her heart beats for love; desperate, it hungers for the mirage in hopes that one day it might truly find the oasis.

  She barrels through the door and trips, staying on her feet by grabbing onto the sink; she turns on the water and lets it run. She stares at herself, eyebags like dark crescents as big as they can be, disheveled ashen hair and a mask over her mouth she wears not to be recognized outside. She pulls it off and takes a few deep breaths, revealing chapped lips.

  She wants to tear open her chest and rip away her heart. To hold it in her hand, and to scream at it for being weak.

  Why was this the body she chose? Why couldn’t she, a design of the perfect Conductor, be right?

  At the very least, she blends in.

  Dust gathers at the edge of her fingertips, circling the drain. It clouds her eyes like silt stirred from a riverbed that swims lazily through her vision, rising and falling with each blink. The world blurs behind the dark haze, shapes bending at the edges as if viewed from beneath murky water.

  Maybe Colorado would be better than this.