The sunken mall by kd ed.., p.1
THE SUNKEN MALL by KD Edwards, page 1
A Tarot Sequence Novella
K.D. Edwards
Published 2020 by KD Edwards®
The Sunken Mall. Copyright © 2020 by K. D. Edwards. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, unless it’s located in Brand’s dialogue, in which case the person probably deserves it, but either way he really doesn’t give a shit.
Cover illustration by Alex Yu-Chi Wang
Title and Chapter Design by Justyna Chlopecka
Inquiries should be addressed to
K.D. Edwards
KDEdwards.nc@gmail.com
Printed in the city of New Atlantis
Dedication
This novella is dedicated to all the exceptionally wonderful and talented readers who have shared their artwork with me, especially artwork inspired by The Tarot Sequence. I am constantly—constantly—humbled and enraptured by it.
I held a cover contest before posting this novella. All of the submissions were glorious, and I’ve included a galley of them on the following pages.
Be well, people.
“—uck,” I heard behind me.
I ground my back teeth together and turned to the spiral stairway that opened into my fourth floor bedroom. Brand was peering over the lip.
“What was that?” I said.
“Cargo pants?” he repeated. “What the fuck?”
I dropped the cargo pants to the floor, but kept the black slacks pinned to my waist.
“Did you need something?” I said.
“It can wait.”
I heard his boots vibrate back down to the living room.
I’d spent the better part of an hour fighting my closet to find the right outfit for my first official dinner date with Addam. He’d told me to dress comfortably, and also that it was a nice restaurant. That could mean—in his rich-person code—anything from designer track suits to tuxedos.
Gathering up the pile of every pair of pants I owned, I went over and dumped them on the floor of my closet. Then I yanked all of my shirts into a hug and shook them off the rod. Hangers clattered to the ground as I trudged back to the bed.
I pawed through t-shirts and sweatshirts, tugging anything with buttons to the top. Buttons were classy. Or zippers? No, buttons.
And so buttons got all my attention for the next two minutes, because that was what my life had become. I had a boyfriend. I had to care about things like buttons and color and fabric, even if they offered no protection in a fight, even if I couldn’t afford the best cuts, even if it’d been decades since I was used to these stupid comfortable but nice restaurants.
“Oh. Um. Rune?” Queenie said from the stairwell after I’d spent another few minutes studying a silk shirt. I hadn’t even heard Queenie come upstairs. She was sneaky quiet when she wanted to be.
“Yes,” I said as politely as possible.
“Well. Look at that. That’s pretty. And orange? An orange shirt?”
“It’ll compliment my skin if things go bad and I need to catch fire,” I said.
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Did you need something?”
“No?” she said, and scurried away.
I stared at my reflection, finally picking up on the obvious. To test the theory, I dug through the shirts to find a loud, ugly, plaid short-sleeve button-down. I held it against my chest and stood in front of the mirror.
When I heard new footsteps on the stairway twenty seconds later, I shouted, “Go back downstairs, Max!”
I went over to my dresser, picked up my phone, dialed. The other line clicked open into a suspicious silence.
“We talked about cameras,” I said.
“Short-sleeve button-down shirts make you look like the bald, heavyset cop from every 90s cop show ever fucking made!” Brand protested.
“Where is the camera?”
“I made sure no one watched when you came out of the shower. We’re just trying to help.”
“Because it’s as good as melted.”
“Last time you spent four fucking hours dressing for a coffee date and came downstairs in dad jeans.”
“Maybe everyone wears plaid at this restaurant. Maybe everyone wears dad jeans. What do you even know about it?”
“Plenty,” he shot back. “I had to run background checks on all the staff tonight, didn’t I?”
I hung up, went over to the stairwell, and yelled, “No you did not!”
I started tearing my room apart for the camera.
Half an hour before I needed to be at dinner, I clambered down the spiral staircase to the living room.
Brand and Max were sparring. Since they usually did that in the wider, open Sanctum on the third floor, it meant the close quarters were part of the training.
“Try it again,” Brand barked. “The Beholder’s Red Curtain.”
Brand had convinced the teenager he was being imparted secret Companion martial arts moves. In reality, he was being taught street-fighting tactics. The Beholder’s Red Curtain was an eye gouge.
Max circled Brand and tried to feint. Brand knocked Max’s arm aside, picked him up, and tossed him onto the sofa headfirst.
The move nearly unsettled a small table in the corner, on which a devil’s trumpet sat surrounded by a small collection of wrapped presents. Its pink and pale purple blossoms were traditional for the Fall Equinox, one of the island’s four official gift-giving holidays. Devil’s trumpet was also one of the most poisonous plants in the world. Atlanteans had a strange sense of humor. No Christmas trees for us—we celebrated with toxins.
(Not unrelatedly, the equinox and solstice fauna funded several cottage industries, including biohazard greenhouses, mass-produced antidotes, and pet funerals.)
“Rune, look,” Queenie said, bustling out of the kitchen. She had ragged-edged, glossy pages in her hands. “I found some cologne ads in magazines I bought at a yard sale. They have sample flaps.”
“Are you saying I smell?” I asked.
“No?” she said, though properly horrified, even with the question mark she put on the end of most sentences.
“You’re saying I smell worse than a neighborhood yard sale,” I pointed out.
She stuffed the inserts in my hand and ran back into the kitchen.
“You don’t smell. And you look nice,” Max said in a neutral tone, rearranging himself into a sitting position.
“That’s it?” I said. “No smart-ass comments?”
“No,” he said. “I promised Brand I wouldn’t say stuff like how much Addam is spending to buy your love.”
“Go get the wooden sparring knives and a blindfold,” Brand said. “We’re going to work on your passive-aggressiveness. Go!”
I watched Max scramble down to Brand’s basement room. The teen had cut his hair recently—literally the same haircut Brand favored, whether Max realized it or not. “He’s had another growth spurt,” I murmured. “He’s going to be tall, isn’t he? A fighter?”
“He’s got potential,” Brand said. “Though he sucks at Finding the Flower’s Seed.”
I cut my eyes at Brand, who shrugged. “Kicking bad guys in the balls,” he said.
“You better hope he has a sense of humor when he finds out you’re bullshitting him. Anyway, I’m heading out. If you take up a sniper perch across from the restaurant, we are having words.”
“I’m staying here.”
“Good. Don’t kill Max with the practice knives. That is literally the lowest bar in the babysitting handbook. It’s practically a curb.”
“I’m a good babysitter,” he said crossly.
“You almost threw him into a plant that causes psychosis and respiratory failure.”
“Go have your fucking date! And don’t forget to look four ways when you cross the street.”
“I know how to cross a street.”
“And be back by eleven.”
“Or not.”
“Fine,” he said. “But if you forget to refrigerate the doggy bag, or try to hide it in a heating duct, I’ll have my own fucking words for you.”
“He’s buying my love, not yours,” I said on my way out the door.
The restaurant was named Portals.
Like all trendy restaurants, it had a gimmick; but since this was New Atlantis, the gimmick was powered by deep and impressive magic.
The building was windowless gray stone. The interior walls—or so we would see, theoretically, when we were seated—were fitted with shielded portals that looked out on different parts of the human world. Dinner was as much event as function. The restaurant seated everyone on the hour, and guests waited together in a separate lounge until their hour arrived.
Addam was waiting at the bar. He wore a shiny button-down shirt and tight tan slacks. A slotted leather belt around his waist contained a dozen sigils—and knowing Addam, he hadn’t wasted the sigils on useless glamor magics. There was a reason I’d agreed to date him.
“So,” I said, and braced for small talk. “You…um…
He smiled at me, slowly. “Now is when people normally say they like the beard.”
“Huh,” I said.
“Hero,” he said back at me, and kissed my cheek. His sandy beard scratched at my chin, which, I suppose, wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
There were too many people waiting in the lounge, and they were looking at me. I tugged on Addam’s hand, and we snuck our way to a corner high-stool table.
The looks followed.
My reputation stretched back twenty years, forged from the molten, liquidated mess of my court’s fall. I had not been strong enough to protect myself then and had had to rely on the Tower’s patronage for survival. Those were lifelong wounds in my reputation, sending constant ribbons of blood into the water around me.
Though lately…just lately…something had changed. Since the events in the Westlands. I wasn’t sure yet if that was good.
We chatted for a bit. Mostly I fudged the truth to make myself look better. What had I done this morning? Exercised. Did I like the highly public and crowded restaurant? Yes, what a treat. Had I finished my Equinox shopping? Ages ago.
“It’s as if you think Brandon and I don’t talk,” Addam finally said, not unamused.
Ten minutes later, the entire room was solemnly escorted into the long, narrow dining hall. The portals were all dark; and the shape of the hall ensured that every table was flush with a wall. We were on the far side of the room.
As soon as the bulk of the crowd had crossed into the eating area, the portals flickered to life. Each table had its own waiter, and the young man attending us said, “A crescent moon over Death Valley, California.” The phrase reverberated across the restaurant from every server’s mouth.
The portal—slightly filmed by a Shield that kept anything from passing through—opened onto a stunning strip of desert. A thin, curved moon overhead was set against the darkness like the filament of a light bulb. The Milky Way, unshackled by city pollution, blazed overhead in all its gaseous glory.
The waiter said, “My name is Phillipo. Our first destination arrives with the amuse-bouche. Tonight we serve Saint Paul rock lobster and kiwi. The sommelier will be by shortly for your drink order.”
“I’d like a coke,” I said.
The waiter paused.
“And a grilled cheese,” I added.
Addam put his hand over mine and said, “We shall negotiate tonight’s act of rebellion. Thank you, Phillipo.”
When he was gone, I said, “Because it can’t just be a lobster. It needs at least three other names. Like a rich person, or an assassin. Where did you bring me, Saint Nicholas?”
“I shall enjoy learning your thoughts on that as we proceed through our six courses.”
“We have to order six times from a menu? I’m pronouncing everything phonetically,” I warned him.
“I suspect the menu will be fixed, saving the main course. Perhaps you’ll allow me to order for us both.”
The portals flickered and changed as lobster was brought and wine was ordered. Desert became an island—lush with tropical life, seemingly uninhabited. Before he took the food off his tray, Phillipo said, “Tristan da Cunha. One of the most remote archipelagos in the world. There is no landing strip—travel requires a six day boat cruise from Western Africa. Your amuse bouche.”
He didn’t put a plate in front of us. He put a leaf. A huge tropical leaf. On it was a single morsel of lobster on a round slice of kiwi, crisscrossed with some sort of butter-colored sauce. If every course was like this, Brand was not going to be happy with the doggy bag.
As for the portal view, I saw a lot of other people stand up and gasp about mermaids, phoenix hatchlings, and djinn. Addam and I faced a strip of sand occupied only by a fat, slick seal. The seal barked at us and slapped its fins against the sand.
At the table next to me, I heard my name. I turned just in time to see a man in a bowtie look down at his plate innocently, hushing whatever he’d said to his dining companion.
I caught myself in a sigh. “People are looking at me.”
“They are,” Addam agreed. “I’m very fond of doing it myself.”
“Sorry if I’m acting ungrateful,” I said. “I’m not. For this. This is nice. Well—no, this tiny little piece of lobster is ridiculous. But…this. Us. This.”
“It is nice. We’re very fortunate Brand allowed us an evening without an escort.”
“I’m ninety percent sure that’s true. Hopefully he’s keeping his nosiness to pre-event planning. And this. Look at this.” I pulled a brown paper bag out of my pocket and slapped it on the table. “I don’t even know how he snuck that into my jacket.”
Addam glanced at a map Brand had sketched with pencil. It showed all the exits and structural weak points of the building. In the bottom left corner, he had scrawled, And steal some breadsticks.
The seal began to make lower, throaty barks, wiggling on top of a rockier portion of sand. “I think that seal wants something I’m not prepared to give,” I said.
“Normally the portals are a bit less…prosaic,” Addam apologized. He tapped a finger over a note Brand had made next to a metal beam that supported the central weight of the restaurant. “What exactly are we to do with this information?”
“Ever since I brought down that cathedral in the Westlands, Brand has been obsessed with blueprints. I’m a little uncomfortable that destroying buildings is now part of his repertoire.”
See, that was easy, I told myself. I can talk about blowing things up. That’s sort of small talk.
Only now I didn’t know what to say next. I reached out, fidgety, and pressed my fingerprints into the dripping wax on the side of a candle. Phillipo immediately rushed in and replaced it with a fresh one. I sighed again.
At the table next to me, the guy in the bow-tie repeated my name. I flicked my eyes over just as he smirked and turned back to his companions.
My eyes began to itch. Never a good sign.
“Why am I nervous?” I finally admitted to Addam. “I don’t care about these people. I care about you. And you’re nervous too, aren’t you? You’re wearing that cologne I like. The one you wear when you want to impress me.”
Addam leaned into the table. “I wear this cologne every time I see you. Because you like it. Perhaps you only notice it when you think you need to be impressed.”
“You don’t need to impress me. You’re impressive. And, oh look, it’s a boy seal.” The seal next to us had rolled on its back, displaying a channel of engorged tissue on its underside. “I think I’m ready for the next portal.”
I took a bite of the lobster, which somehow seemed to melt in my mouth. A chain reaction of different flavors went off, one after the other. I kept my face neutral, refusing to give Phillipo the satisfaction.
My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone and saw a text from Addam’s brother Quinn. It read: Has the sad thing happened yet? I really feel like I have a lot to contribute when the sad thing is said.
Quinn was a fifteen-year old seer who saw probabilities, a rare and grave gift. I liked him quite a bit, although I had my own hang-ups about prophets. Paying attention to prophecy was like tossing real diamonds in the air mixed with shards of broken glass. The grab was rarely worth the injury.
“Has Quinn started taking that medicine yet?” I asked. We were trying to find ways to temper the teenager’s abilities, and stave off the madness that gifts like his lead to.
“He has,” Addam said in surprise. He gave my phone a guarded look, sighed, and lowered his fork. “The medicine mutes his abilities, but he still appears to have…moments. Is that from him?”
“Yup. Are you breaking up with me?” I asked.
Addam blinked at me.
“No?” I said.
“No, Hero. I am not breaking up with you.”
He only called me Hero when he liked me, so I showed him my screen.
“Quinn sees a sad thing and you assume we are breaking up?” Addam asked.
“Let’s set that aside and keep talking about the prophecy,” I said. “And the prophet. How is the medicine working?”
