Young Writers Society

Once they leave their original vessels, souls cannot return to any vessel ever again. Not in their original state, anyway. The souls that are forced to return are altered in a way that is not fully human. (The details of these 'souls' will be revealed soon-ish.)

One of the main differences between Clarice's universe and ours is the presence of Essense. Essense is a substance that is present in every human's blood.
In lower/normal concentrations, Essense is relatively harmless. It serves very little evolutionary purpose, and it seems as if dumb luck is the only thing which kept the trait from disappearing altogether.
In high concentrations, it can grant the wielder strange powers which can manifest in different ways. In high concentrations, it can also cause an array of health problems which will be expanded upon later.
High concentrations of Essense in the blood is caused by a very rare mutation. Only a few families have it.

The majority of her family has the mutation for high concentrations of Essense. She's got an abnormally high amount of it in her blood, even for a member of her family, and that's why her powers are so unique.

An eighteen-year-old with the unique ability to manipulate spirits and soul, Clarice spent most of her life as the ill-informed necromancer of her family's religious cult. After learning of the true nature of the rituals she'd been performing, she runs away to reverse the damage she's done.

A seventeen-year-old with the ability to see through the eyes of other living creatures within a certain radius, Mishka is one of the only people in the nearby town who knows what goes on within Clarice's family. He doesn't involve himself until his friend Camille goes missing.

The head of the family and Clarice's maternal uncle, he raised Clarice after her mother died. Jules has the ability to manipulate blood flow within and outside of a body.

Mishka's friend, who was kidnapped by the cult.

Clarice laid on the grass in front of her house, staring at the night sky. The neighbors across the street were throwing a party, and she trying to listen to the music. With a bass-line she could feel from across the road, it was unlike anything she’d ever heard. She was so immersed in the music that she didn’t realize that someone had come up behind her until they cleared their throat. She sat up with a start.

“Relax,” Came a voice from behind her. “It’s only me."

Clarice breathed a sigh of relief. She knew that voice. “Georgia,” She said, and turned to face her friend. “You can’t sneak up on me like that, you scared me!”

Georgia gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that.” She said as she moved to sit down next to Clarice. “But in my defense, you were very distracted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you were listening to the party music.”

“Perhaps I was,” Clarice turned back around. She watched with disinterest as a group of partygoers piled into a car across the street.

“Perhaps?” Georgia smirked. “So you were listening?”

“That depends,” Clarice watched as the car turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.

“On what?”

“On whether you’ve come to join me.”

The tips of Georgia’s ears flushed red. “Why else would I be here?” She laid back on the grass.

Clarice didn’t say anything, and let the conversation lapse into a comfortable silence. She closed her eyes and focused her attention on the sounds around her. Georgia did the same, but her patience didn’t last. She rolled onto her side and looked at Clarice. “I can’t hear it.”

Clarice hummed in acknowledgment. “Mmm, neither can I.”

Georgia rolled over onto her back, then sat up. “We should sit closer. Maybe we’ll hear it better.”

“No,” Said Clarice. She gave Georgia an indignant look. “We shouldn’t.”

“Not that close—” Georgia waved a hand dismissively. “Just on the edge of the
yard.”

“I’m open to sitting on the curb.”
“Alright.” Georgia smiled. She stood up and moved to sit on the curb.

Slowly, Clarice rose to her feet. She walked towards the curb but hesitated before sitting down. “If my uncle sees us—”

“He’s in the garden right now,” Georgia reassured her. “The squash is ready to harvest, so he’ll be busy with that for a while.”

“If you’re sure about this, then I guess...”

“It’s just sitting, Clarice.”

Clarice crossed her arms over her chest. It wasn't just sitting, and Georgia knew that. "Fine,” She said, uncrossing her arms. “I’ll sit.”

Georgia patted the curb beside her. “I’m waiting.”

Just as she was about to take a step forward, a car skidded around the corner. It swerved from side to side, and Clarice took several steps backward. “Georgia,” She warned. “We should—”

The car swerved to their side of the street.

A scream pierced the air, punctuated by the sound of screeching tires. Clarice fell backward in surprise and felt a splatter of blood and dirt spray her face. The car drove off into the distance, and Clarice found herself staring at Georgia’s motionless body.

The realization of what she had to do settled upon her like a deadweight. Clarice fumbled in her pocket until she found her switchblade. With a shaking hand, she drew the blade across the tip of her middle finger. It started to bleed. Clarice streaked the blood along the ritualistic tattoos on her chin and hands. She could feel her connection to the spirits growing stronger and stronger until she could finally sense nearby souls.

She raised her bleeding hand to the sky and felt the weight of a soul reluctantly settle in her palm. This soul was no different from those she’d held before, and yet it was. This wasn’t just another person, just another stranger. This was Georgia. Clarice might as well have been holding her own beating heart in her hand.
Clarice’s grip on her friend’s body became tighter as she concentrated, tears streaking down her cheeks, on bringing her back.

Clarice felt a hand on her shoulder. She flinched and turned her head, only to see her uncle, Jules, kneeling next to her.

“Wait,” He said. “Her neck is still—”

"Right."

Clarice watched as Jules placed a hand over Georgia’s neck. She stared blankly as he healed her wounds, and didn’t bother averting her eyes when the bones beneath
Georgia’s skin began to visibly shift back into place.

Jules leaned back. “Go ahead.” He said.

Clarice placed her palm over Georgia’s stilled heart and pressed the soul against it. It began to struggle against her, and Clarice pushed down as hard as she could. There was a sickening crack as the soul sank back into Georgia’s chest.

Georgia’s chest began to rise and fell, but she did not open her eyes. Instead, she began thrashing about, as if trapped in a nightmare. Clarice tried to hold her friend steady, only to receive a slap to the face.

“Let me,” Said Jules, gently nudging Clarice aside. “You’ve just brought her back, you shouldn’t overdo it.”

Clarice opened her mouth to protest but thought the better of it. Even now, in her shaken state, she knew better than to go against her uncle. She closed her mouth in resignation and gave a weak nod.

“I want you to follow me, Clarice,”Jules said. “Can you do that?”

The alternative was sitting in the blood-soaked grass; she didn’t have much of a choice.
Clarice nodded.

“Good.” Jules stood up and offered Clarice a hand. She took it and stood up. “I’m going to pick her up now. Can you go ahead and get the door?”

It wasn’t a question.

Clarice walked over to the door and held it open while Jules picked Georgia up and, ignoring her struggling, carried her up the steps and into the house. After a moment's hesitation, she followed him inside.

"Clarice?" Jules stopped at the base of the staircase leading upstairs.

"Hm?"

“You’re looking a bit pale. Are you lightheaded at all?”

Clarice was feeling more than a little lightheaded. Her vision was clouded by dark spots, and she was finding it hard to keep her balance.

“Yes,” She said. “The world is starting to spin.”

“Sit down, then.” Jules began to walk up the stairs. "I'll send someone to check on you as soon as we get Georgia settled, ok?"

Clarice sat down on the steps and closed her eyes.
She could wait.

She was awoken several minutes later to someone gently shaking her shoulders. Clarice opened her eyes and lifted her head, slowly coming back to consciousness. She lifted her hand and rubbed the sleep from her eyes before turning to face the person who'd awoken her. Unsurprisingly, it was her Uncle Jules.
She glanced at him and felt a wave of concern wash over her. Jules looked exhausted — he was alarmingly pale, and there was a bandage on the crook of his elbow that was half-soaked with blood. "Are you alright?"
Jules nodded and sat down next to her. "I'll be alright in a few minutes."
"Is Georgia—" Clarice couldn't help the yawn that escaped her, even if it could be construed as disrespectful. “Is she alright? Where is she?”
"She's upstairs, sleeping." Jules said. "Her injuries were severe. I healed them as best I could, but she's in for a rough night."
"But she's going to be alright?"
"As alright as any of those we bring back..." Jules looked away, averting his gaze.
"What do you mean?" Clarice's eyebrows knit together in concern. Her voice took on a desperate tone. "Isn't she going to be OK?"
"Clarice..." Jules sighed. He forced himself to meet her gaze when he spoke, albeit with a sense of reluctance. "You know what's going to happen."
"But—" Clarice cried out. Her voice came out much louder than she'd meant, but she couldn't find it within herself to care. "But she wasn't even dead for five minutes!"
"Clarice." Jules put a hand on his niece's shoulder, momentarily silencing her. "That's not how it works. You know that."
"No, I don't know that," Clarice slapped her uncle's hand away. "You've told me how our powers work." She was shouting, now. "You haven't told me why they—"
“I’ll tell you when you’ve calmed down.”
Clarice closed her mouth abruptly, and turned away from Jules. She took several seconds to compose herself.
"I know how my powers work, Uncle." Clarice said, forcing a look of neutrality to replace her angry expression. "I don't know why they die so quickly."
"I don't know."
"Then how can you be so sure that she'll—"
"Clarice..." Jules looked mournfully at his niece. "We've seen this happen before."
Clarice stood up, and the world spun. She gripped the railing and steadied herself until the dizziness subsided. "Which room is she in?"
"She's resting." Jules said. "You shouldn't—"
Clarice's grip on the railing tightened, until her knuckles were practically white. "Which room is she in?" She repeated. "I need to—"
"You've lost blood." Jules stood up. "You need to lie down."
"So do you," Clarice said. "You look awful."
"I appreciate your concern, but it's misplaced." Jules said. "I've given myself time to recover, you haven't."
Clarice wanted to argue that she'd barely lost any blood, but she knew it would be pointless. She'd used her power. She'd lost Essense, and there was no such thing as losing a 'small amount' of Essense, not in someone with normal levels as high as her. "I've been resting!"
"You haven't eaten." Jules said.
Clarice bit the inside of her cheek. That was true.
"Go lay down," Jules said. "I'll grab you something to eat."
Clarice frowned. She wanted to see Georgia, but she knew that this argument was going nowhere. "Okay," She said, and began to walk slowly to the living room.

The living room wasn't that far away, but Clarice was lightheaded by the time she reached it. She trailed down the stairs and through the kitchen, before entering the living room and all but collapsing onto the couch.
Clarice pressed her face against the cool couch cushion and listened to the house settle around her. The creaks and cracks were as familiar any lullaby, and soon her eyelids began to feel heavy with exhaustion. But just as she was about to fall asleep, Clarice was pulled back to reality by the sound of footsteps. Ugh, that must be her Uncle. She lifted her head from the couch cushion and slowly sat up.
Jules walked into the living room with a box of oreos and a glass of orange juice. He sat next to Clarice on the couch and passed her the glass of juice.
Clarice regarded the juice with a look of disgust for half-a-second, before she pinched her nose shut and downed it in a few gulps. She gagged and stuck out her tongue in disgust.
"Alright," Jules rolled his eyes. "Enough dramatics. Each your oreos." He held out the box.
Clarice grabbed a few of the oreos. She picked them apart, eating the cream center before the cookie exterior. "Alright," She said, after she'd eaten half-a-dozen of the cookies. "You said you'd explain."
“That I did,” Jules reached into the container and took an oreo. He pulled it apart carefully and popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly to stall for time.
"Uncle—"
"Patience is a virtue, Clarice," Jules took another oreo from the container, then took it apart. "I need to eat too."
"You said you'd given yourself time to recover."
Jules popped the entire oreo into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I needed to eat something," He admitted. "I misjudged my limits. You wouldn't happen to know about that, would you?"
Clarice frowned. "I'm not in the mood for jokes, Uncle."
"Neither am I."
"Then, please—" Clarice clasped her hands together and placed them on top of her lap. She met Jules with a determined stare. "Explain."
"What would you like me to explain first?"
"Why will Georgia..." Clarice closed her mouth abruptly. She couldn't finish her sentence; Georgia's death felt too far off for her to speak of it in terms of certainties. "Why do they not survive?"
"Honestly? I'm not sure." Jules leaned forwards. He sighed. "I have tried for years to understand the subtleties of the human soul. I've studied every text I've been able to lay my hands on. None of them have a concrete explanation, other than that the souls don't re-take to their original containers."
"Once they're out they can't go back in?"
"Not all the way, anyways."
"And we don't know why that is?"
"Something changes about them." Jules looked to the side, breaking eye-contact. "Something fundamental."
Clarice closed her eyes and sighed. "Is there any way that Georgia could—"
"Not that I know of."
"That's it, then?"
"That's it."
"I'm going to go lie down."
"Sleep well, then."
Clarice stood up and walked out of the room. When she was out of sight, she dug her nails into the palms of her hands, leaving little crescent-moon shaped bruises. She didn't look Jules in the eyes; she couldn't. The fact that he'd resigned himself to Georgia's fate made her blood boil, made her grind her teeth in sheer anger.
If her uncle didn't know a way to save her friend, then she'd have to find one herself.

2.1
Mishka fed the dollar bill into the vending machine but waited before punching in the item code. "Camille," He looked over at his friend. "Sour cream 'n onion or barbeque?"
"Neither," Camille said, without looking up from his book. "They're both bad."
"Well you need to pick something," He said. "I already put in my money."
Camille gave a small smile. "That's your own fault." He said, amused. His eyes remained focused on the pages.
Mishka rolled his eyes. "Just help me pick, asshole."
"Anything for you," Camille smirked. He dog-eared the page of his book, closed it, then tucked it under his arm. He went to stand next to Mishka, and looked at the vending machine. "What about the plain chips?"
"Is that what you want?" Mishka turned his head to glance at his friend.
Camille shrugged. He moved to rest his head on Mishka's shoulder as he looked at the machine. "If you want something else, I don't mind."
"Nah," Mishka waved his hand dismissively. "Plain's good."
"Alright."
Mishka punched in the code for the chips, and watched as the machine expelled it. With an apologetic brush of his hand he pushed Camille's off his shoulder and knelt down to grab the chips. He opened the bag and held it out between them.
Camille wasted no time. He grabbed a handful of chips and shoved them into his mouth, eating with all the enthusiasm of a starved animal.
"Guess you were hungry." Mishka reached into the bag and grabbed a few chips. "Does your aunt not feed you enough?"
"She tries," Camille wiped bits of chips off of his face with the back of his hand, then brushed the bits off on his jeans.
"Tries?"
"She seems to forget that I don't eat meat." Camille elaborated, as he reached into the chip bag once again. "And as delicious as her side-dishes are, there's rarely enough for a proper meal."
"Have you talked to her about it?''
"Yes," He popped a chip into his mouth. "But she doesn't seem to understand why I don't eat it."
"Ah," Mishka exhaled. "That's difficult."
"It is," Camille popped another chip into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "It's almost funny. She says she's accepting of my faith, but then does this." He sighed. "I think she thinks it's a phase."
Mishka hummed in acknowledgment of his words. He didn't know what to say.
Camille let out another sigh. "I tried to bring up the topic of going to a temple," He looked disdainfully into the distance. "They're too far a drive, apparently."
Mishka intertwined his fingers with Camille's. He could tell that he needed the space to vent.
"It's frustrating," Camille lowered his head, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the anger had left them. "I remember the peace I felt when I went to one. Like I was part of something bigger." He squeezed Mishka's hand. "I just want to feel that again."
"You will."
"You seem so certain,"
"We'll be able to leave this town in a year." Mishka bent down to grab Camille's messenger bag from where it rested on the ground. He shouldered it. "Then we can go wherever you want."
"We?" Camille looked up. "You'd come with me?"
"Would you let me?"
"Always," Camille answered without hesitation. He looked at Mishka, whose face was flushed red. Camille blushed at the sight and turned his head away. "Anyways," He said. "We should get going. I still have fliers to put up."
"Right," Mishka said. "Should we split up? We'd be able to cover more ground."
Camille considered it for a moment, before shaking his head. "We rarely get to see each-other outside of meetings," He said, as he linked arms with Mishka. "Let's make the most of it."
Mishka smiled. "Alright," He opened the messenger bag and took out a handful of fliers, which he passed to Camille. "You get the left and I'll get the right?"
Camille smiled. "Can you pass me the tape?"
Mishka rummaged through the bag for several seconds, before letting out a groan. "I would," He said. "But we forgot it."
Camille frowned. He passed the fliers back to Mishka. "This place isn't the best for plastering anyways." He said. "We could head back to the café and grab it?"
"Sounds good to me," Mishka said as he tucked the fliers away. "Let's go."
The pair walked to the mall parking lot, where they unlocked their bikes and discussed their plan for the rest of the day. They were so preoccupied that they didn't notice the van that was slowly driving up behind them. It stopped not too far away.
It wasn't a suspicious vehicle at first glance. It was painted a light blue color, with decorative stripes that belonged more in the seventies than in the present. There were no windows, however, and the front windshield was tinted a dark color. If one were able to peer through the front windows, they would see a man pretending to check his directions.
Mishka hopped on his bike and began to pedal away, and Camille started to follow. That was when the van opened its doors. Two teenagers sprung out and grabbed Camille, who managed to let out a single yell before he was dragged off of his bike and into the van. Mishka turned around in surprise and saw that Camille was gone. He heard a loud 'thump' come from inside the van, and it didn't take long for him to connect the dots.
He reached out with his sight, first peering through the eyes of a bird to get an aerial view. When he saw that it was just the van, he reached out for the familiar connection that was Camille. He peered through his eyes and found that he saw nothing but the red and black backs of his eyelids.
Great, Mishka thought. He was unconscious.
Now beginning to panic, Mishka turned his attention towards the other people in the van. A quick look through the eyes of one verified that Camille was, in fact, unconscious and that he was not, in fact, dead.
Mishka pedaled in front of the van before it could drive off. He began to shout, scream, anything to draw attention to the seemingly empty parking lot, but no-one came to help, and the van backed up and began to drive in the opposite direction. Mishka followed as fast as he could, but It wasn't long before he was left in the dust. The van was too far for him to see its path.
Fortunately, Mishka had another trick up his sleeve. With the ability to see through the eyes of other creatures, within a certain radius, he didn't need to follow the van himself.
Still pedaling, he peered through the eyes of a deer on the side of the road. It stared at the van for only a second before running off, but that was just enough time for Mishka to see which street the van turned down.
After briefly flicking back to his own point of view to check that he was still pedaling straight, Mishka gazed through the eyes of a bird. It didn't give a very clear point of view, leaves obscured its vision too much to see more than the tires of the van, but he was able to see the next turn the van made. Mishka flicked back to himself, then to another animal, this time a squirrel, and saw the van turn down another street, which he knew was a dead end.
He tried to see further but found that the van had driven out of the radius that he could use his powers within. Mishka kept pedaling, and let a string of curses flow freely from his lips. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the police.

The police were, surprisingly, disinterested in Mishka's claims. Years of dealing with the protests and defacement he and Camille had planned or executed caused them to think that this call was the start in a series of pranks. Mishka screamed at the dispatcher, yelled obscenities in every language he'd ever known, but the end result was the same. He was disconnected.
Cursing his luck, Mishka followed the route he'd seen the van take, until he came to the dead-end, at which point he ditched his bike and began looking through the eyes of others.
The first set of eyes belonged to someone sitting on a stoop, and Mishka was surprised to learn that it was a residential street, with small but cosy looking houses. The person's eyes followed several children riding by on bikes, but Mishka himself was more focused on the background. He saw the van in the distance, in all its hideously outdated glory.
He flickered over to one of the children's points of view, then to the gaze closest to the house. He found himself staring at someone inside the house. They stood in a kitchen, measuring out a dosage of liquid sleeping medication. Then they walked over to a cupboard and opened it. Mishka tried to take in every detail, to see if there was any medication with a name on its label, but found only snack food.
The person he was watching through grabbed a few mints from a jar and put them into their pocket. They grabbed the dosage of sleeping medication, closed the cupboard, and walked out of the room.
Mishka was met with the sight of a girl around his age. She was thin, and had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her mousey brown hair laid in a too-tangled ponytail down her back, and her brown eyes stared blankly ahead of her. Her tan skin had a ghastly pale look to it, as if the girl were on the verge of fainting. Had Mishka been able to hear the girl, he would've heard her breathing — shallow, rapid, and rattling.
The stranger handed the girl the sleeping syrup, which she took with shaking hands. She pinched her nose and threw her head back before swallowing it, and pulled a childishly disgusted face when the taste hit her. The stranger gave the girl the mints. She tore off the wrapper of one and popped it into her mouth. She muttered something, but her lips weren't the focal point and Mishka found it hard to read them. He was able to make out the next ones.
“How is she?”
He flickered to the girl’s perspective to read the stranger’s response. He didn’t need to read the stranger’s lips to tell that the answer was an unequivocal ‘no’. His entire body language suggested that something was wrong, from the slight downturn of his lips to the worried furrough of his eyebrows.
Back to the girl. The man’s lips moved quickly as he spoke; Mishka could only make out the last few words.
“—the night.”
Mishka took in the stranger’s appearance when he finished speaking.
He was a man in his mid-thirties, and he looked different from the girl, both in appearance and in health. His skin was several shades paler than the girls’, and his eyes were a different shade of brown. Yet neither could be considered to look unhealthy — his skin was rosy and his were alert and focuses. His hair was very much the same as the girls, but had been recently bleached blonde. The roots were beginning to show, although this looked more intentional than anything else.
Back to the stranger’s point of view.
The girl clasped her hands over her mouth. She closed her eyes, tight, and shook her head repeatedly. For a moment it looked as if she was about to stand up and leave the room, but the moment she shifted in her seat she grew dangerously dizzy and was forced to lean back against the sofa. She balled up her hands into fists at her side and screamed.
Mishka had little difficulty making out what the girl said; a single syllable enunciated clearly and loudly.
“No!”
Back to the girl’s point of view.
The stranger, the man, now had a concerned look plastered on his face. He reached forwards when the girl showed signs of fainting, but pulled himself back when she started to shout. He sighed.
“Clarice,” He said, speaking slowly. “You knew this would happen.”
Back to the man’s point of view. The girl —Clarice, Mishka reminds himself— is screaming so quickly that he can’t properly read her lips. He can understand the beginning and the end, and a bit in between.
“She — and — made me — it!”
Mishka tries not to dwell on this argument, but he watches nonetheless. Whoever these people are, they might have a clue about what’s happened to Camille.
Speaking of Camille, Mishka is having a hard time sensing his presence. Normally his spirit, or Essence, rather, is strong. He hasn’t got much more of it than average, but it’s enough that Mishka normally has little trouble finding him. But now? It was much, much fainter.
Still, he could sense him. Mishka grit his teeth, steeling himself for whatever he might find, and flickered to Camille’s point of view.
He was in a small bedroom, sitting on a bed. There was a length of rope binding his hands to the bed frame. Camille was staring down at his hands. From what Mishka could tell, it was too complex a knot for Camille to simply untie with his teeth.
Still, that wasn’t about to stop him. Mishka watched with bated breath as Camille attacked the knot with his teeth. He struggled with it for several minutes, and made no progress. All he managed to do was tighten the knot.
Mishka flicked back to his own point of view. He maneuvered his bike behind a row of bushes at the end of the cul-de-sac. When it was hidden he began to walk towards the house Camille was in.
As he walked, he flickered his vision between Camille’s point of view and his own. Mishka did this quickly, and alternating between blinks.
He saw Camille’s give up on trying to untie the knot and move to look out the window. The window looked out over the front yard. Mishka watched as he passed by Camille’s line of sight.
Mishka switched to his own point of view. He didn’t approach the window, didn’t turn his head. He did, however, shoot Camille a quick hand signal — a small wave. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Camille struggle to get closer to the window.
He walked back to the edge of the cul-de-sac and hopped onto his bike. He flicked back to the point of view of the people to see before. After checking that they were still occupied, he flicked back to Camille’s point of view. It was then that he realized that he’d have to untie the rope himself. He didn’t have anything to cut it with.
When Mishka cut back to Camille’s point of view to assess the knot, but saw that Camille was looking out of the window. Mishka swore under his breath. He’d have to make do.
Mishka biked up to the house and stopped his bike. He checked once again that the strangers in the house were still preoccupied, and saw that they were upstairs.
The children and parent he’d seen earlier seemed to have gone inside; now was the perfect time to do this. Mishka scanned the street again before running up tho the window and pressing his hand to the glass.
Camille gave him a desperate look, and Mishka felt his heart ache. He gestured for Camille to move clear of the window before he hurled his bike through the glass.
Camille threw up his hands as best he could, blocking most of the glass from flying near his face. When he lowered his hands, Mishka could see a few cuts on him. Fortunately, they didn’t look very deep.
Ignoring the shards of glass sticking out from the window frame, Mishka climbed through the window. He stood up, ran to the door, and locked it from the inside.
Camille was shaking with fear. His wrists were bleeding from the rope digging into his skin. Mishka walked up and wrapped his arm around him in an embrace.
“I’m here,” He said. “I’ve got you.”
“My hands—” Camille pulled out of the embrace and raised his hands, which were still bound. “I can’t—”
“On it.” Mishka said. He stepped back and began to untie the rope.
Just as Mishka was beginning to make progress in untying the knot, the sound of heavy footsteps came from down the hall. Camille went pale.
“Who’s—” Camille’s voice shook to the point of being nearly unintelligible. It took him several seconds to compose himself enough to finish speaking. “Who’s coming?”
“I’m checking.” Mishka said. He flickered to the point of view of the person coming down the hall, and saw that it was the man he’d seen earlier. “A man.” He said. “He’s alone and unarmed. No key.” He flicked back to his own point of view, and resumed untying the knot. “Hold still.”
They lapsed into silence. For several agonizing slow seconds, all that could be heard was the rattling of the doorknob. Mishka tried his best to tune it out and focus on the knot.
Finally, the knot was loosened enough for Camille to slide his hands free. He rubbed at his wrists and looked up at Mishka.
“Thank you.” Camille said.
“Don’t mention it.” Mishka replied. He walked over to where his bike lay on the floor and gave it a quick once-over. Nothing seemed too off about it, it would still work. Mishka lifted it off the floor and dropped it back out the window. “Alright,” He said. “Let’s go.”

Mishka toppled out of the window, and was quickly followed by Camille. He pushed himself up onto his feet, them helped Camille up. He grabbed his bike from where it laid on the ground and helped Camille onto the back of it, before hopping onto it himself.
Desperate to get away from this house, he began to pedal as fast as he could. The pair rode onto the street, then down and out of the cul-de-sac. Now running on straight up adrenaline, Mishka continued to pedal as fast as he could.
Camille looped his arms around him to steady himself, and Mishka relished the feeling. It was a reminder that Camille was with him, that Camille was free. He was, relatively speaking, safe, and that meant the world and more to Mishka.
Mishka stopped the bike at a bus stop. There were several other people sitting and standing there, all of which seemed content to ignore the strangely disheveled teenagers. Mishka glanced them each up and down. Although they didn’t know it, these people would be his source of protection. He doubted that Camille’s kidnappers would try anything in a crowded place. The mall parking lot had been deserted, after all, and he was certain that that wasn’t a coincidence.
He checked his pockets for change, and came up short. Mishka cursed under his breath. He’d need to pay for the fare home.
“Camille?”
Camille lifted his head slightly. “Hm?”
“Do you have any change? For the fare, I mean.”
“Let me check.” Camille dug around in his pockets and pulled out three quarters. He passed them to Mishka. “Is this enough?”
Mishka took the change. He counted up the change, then nodded. “Yeah,” He said. “That’s enough for the both of us.
Camille sighed in relief.
The bus rolled up. They hopped off of the bike. Mishka loaded it onto the bike rack in the front of the bus, then followed Camille up and onto the bus. They paid the fare and snagged two seats that were next to each other.
Camille leaned his head on Mishka’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Not long after, his breathing evened out. Mishka glanced over at him, and realized that he’d fallen asleep.
Good, he thought. He needs it.
Mishka was on high-alert for the rest of the bus ride. Every car that passed by. Every stranger on the sidewalk. They all set him on edge. He found himself looking through the eyes of every one of the other passengers on the bus. Much to his relief, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
He stared out the window, flickering through the points of view of whoever the bus passed by. Mishka was so engrossed in this that he didn’t realize that Camille had woken up until he was shaking his shoulder.
He flicked back to his own point of view, body already tense from fear and anticipation. He turned to face Camille with wide eyes, only to sigh in relief when he saw that it was only him.
“We’re here,” Camille said. Shakily, he stood up. “It’s time to go.”
Mishka stood up. He followed Camille as he walked off of the bus and grabbed the bike off of the bus’ bike rack.
Neither of them said anything as they climbed onto the bike and pedaled down the street. It wasn’t until they’d been riding for several minutes that Camille spoke up.
“Mishka,” He said, his voice quiet but steadier than before. “I’m alright. They didn’t get to do anything to me.”
“They could have,” Mishka replied. “And I could have— You could have—”
“I didn’t.”
“They didn’t believe me.”
“Who didn’t believe you?”
“The police.” Mishka said. He stared forwards as he spoke, trying his best to focus on the road ahead of them. “I called and they told me not to prank them.”
Camille said nothing for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you know who took me?”
“Who?”
“A group of teenagers,” They hit a bump in the road, and Camille wrapped an arm around Mishka to steady himself. “It was a prank.”
“It couldn’t have been.”
“You seem very sure.”
“Do you know who I saw in that house?”
“No,” Camille said. There was genuine curiosity in his voice. “Who?”
“A grown man and a sick girl.” Mishka answered. “She was a teenager, but there was no way she did this.”
“Maybe they didn’t know I was there?”
“Did you see who took you?”
“No.” Camille admitted. “They covered my eyes and forced me to drink something.”
“They drugged you?”
“I fell asleep.”
“That’s a ‘yes’, then.”
Camille didn’t respond.
“We should take you to a hospital or a doctor or—”
“No.” Camille’s voice was suddenly very stern and serious. “I am not going to be subjected to that.”
“Right, right.” Mishka scowled. “But will you let someone look you over? Isn’t one of the new club members taking an EMT course?”
“Sarah is hardly qualified to treat drug-related problems. She can do first aid, not that.”
There was another bump in the road, and Camille wrapped his other arm around Mishka. He leaned into him and rested his head on his shoulder. He sighed. “If I feel worse, I’ll go to the clinic.” He said, gently. “They won’t ask too many questions.”
Mishka breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He said.
“The turn off is up ahead. Should we take the long way?”
“Probably,” Mishka said. “But I haven’t got the energy.”
“Fair enough.”
They took the turn off, and found themselves in a side street. Mishka kept them to the side until they came to a cafe, which he stopped in front of.
He and Camille got off of the bike. Camille waited as Mishka locked the bike to the rack. Then they walked into the cafe.
The cafe was relatively crowded, but it didn’t matter. Camille’s mother ran the cafe, and he lived with her in an apartment above it. He worked there most days after school, held club meetings there. The other employees knew him well, and he didn’t even need to ask as he walked past the counter and up the stairs to the apartment above.

Clarice tossed and turned in bed. Despite the sleep syrup Jules had given her, she couldn't sleep. She was too preoccupied with the fact that her only friend was dying, too preoccupied with finding a way to stop it. Her mind was hazy. Her body called out for sleep. But Clarice couldn't let herself rest. Not yet. Not until she had some semblance of a plan.
Clarice turned the conversation from earlier with her uncle over in her mind, reliving and remembering exactly what he'd said.
He'd said that he'd studied all the texts that he'd been able to get his hands on. Those texts had to be somewhere - Jules didn't have a computer, none of them did.
The most logical assumption was that the texts would be somewhere in Jules’ study, which Clarice had only been inside a handful of times.
Shed need to get the texts, somehow. But she doubted that her uncle would simply hand them over. Even the heir wasn't allowed to read them until her powers were fully developed. That left only one option.
Shed have to steal them.
Clarice rolled over In bed. Thinking had exhausted her, but she felt satisfied with the fact that she had the basics of a plan.
She dreamt about Georgia, about her dark curls and darker eyes. In the dream, Clarice was running a comb through her knotted hair. She started combing the curls at the tip, just like Georgia had shown her, before slowly making her way up to the crown of her head.
It was comforting. The rhythmic pull of the comb and the smell of Georgia’s shampoo made Clarice feel calm. In her dream, she didn’t remember what had happened. She could relax.
The curls began to turn different colors. Green and brown and purple and gold. And then they turned blue, and Clarice found herself on a beach, staring at the ocean waves. She thought that this was strange, because she had never been to one.
The sound of waves filled her ears, so loud and beautiful and all-consuming that she felt like she was at the end of the world. She heard a cry nearby. Clarice turned her head to look for the source, only to see Georgia.
Georgia was waist-deep in the waves. She wore the clothes she’d been wearing the day before: simple black slacks and a long-sleeve light blue collared shirt, her hair pulled into two braids down her back.
Clarice felt her eyes widen. She suddenly felt breathless, as if all the air had left her. Georgia looked like something from a painting. She couldn’t look away.
Georgia turned to face Clarice and raised her hand in a wave. From where Clarice was standing, she could see that Georgia was smiling. She waved back, and began to walk towards her.
The sand was smooth on her feet, but painfully hot. Clarice’s pleased expression turned to one of pain. She started to run, faster and faster. The world became a blur around her, and Clarice didn’t notice the bloodied footprints she left on the sand. She didn’t stop when she reached the water, but she slowed down. The world came back into focus, and Clarice could see that she was closer to Georgia. She slowed to a walk.
Just as Clarice reached Georgia, a wave knocked into them, and she and Georgia were sent flying. They soared across the water, across the beach, all the way to the dunes that encircled the sandy strip.
Sand filled her eyes, her nose, her mouth. In a single blink, Clarice cleared the sand from her eyes. She coughed, and the sand drained from her nose and mouth.
Clarice sat up and looked around. She was met with the sight of Georgia laying in the sand. Georgia’s body was bruised and bloodied. Her eyes, although covered in sand, stared blankly out at nothing.
Georgia’s mouth was moving. It opened and shut like a fish, blowing blood red bubbles into the sky. The bubbles floated up and into the sky, rising higher and higher as Clarice watched. Just before the bubbles were about to disappear from view, they popped, and Clarice was splattered with blood.
Georgia’s mouth closed. Sand began to pour out from her eye sockets, and Clarice watched in horror as it buried Georgia’s body.
It was then that Clarice woke up.
Her eyes opened, and she was met with the sight of her bedroom ceiling. She was drenched in sweat, her head was pounding, and her body felt as if it had been set ablaze. Worst of all was her throat — it felt raw, as if she’d been screaming.
Clarice tried to sit up, only for a wave of dizziness to wash over her. So she laid her head back down on the pillow, and resolved to stay that way until she felt well enough to move.
She didn’t know what she’d do after that, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. The nightmare was too fresh in her mind.
Clarice didn’t know how long she laid in the dark, watching the ceiling fan spin overhead. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes.
Time was marked not by a clock, but by her own rapid breathing, the squeaking of the ceiling fan. So Clarice didn’t know how long she’d been awake when she began to hear someone talking.
That was strange, Clarice noted. It was late, no one should be talking by now. But then again, Jules was probably awake. He was often up late into the night, and the shock of Georgia’s hit-and-run had probably shaken him.
It had to be Jules — her aunt and cousin were traveling this week, leaving him and Clarice the only inhabitants of the house. Well, them and Georgia, who was a semi-permanent resident, but she wasn’t really in a state to be talking.
Clarice turned her attention towards the talking. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would hear something that could help Georgia.