Psychopomp
XX

Air escapes him, his lungs in desperate mercy to a throat that feels closed. Against cushioned restraints, his body leaps from the memory sleep and toward air. Drowsy tangerine lights clarify from blurriness, and Ewain coerces his body to calmness against its innate struggle for air. As his muscles loosen, his body relinquishes its tautness, he feels cool, fresh air pour through his throat.

“Psychopompos,” Art’s voice calls from his bones. “You need to zero. This is afflicting you too much.”

“Not yet,” Ewain resists with his newfound breath. “Get me out of this,” he tells the Consul who sits nearby.

The older counterpart promptly undoes the restraints, “Will you be in shape enough for the Catharsis?” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“I will,” Ewain assures as he sits up and plants his feet on the floor. Sweat beads on his forehead then his forearm as he wipes it off. Though he was brusquely cleaned before the Recall, specks of red still dye his sweat.

“Why?” Art demands to know. “Why are you holding onto the emotional signature? It’s baggage at this point. You know enough about the victim to establish a connection without it. It makes no sense.”

“After the Catharsis,” the young Psychopomp dismisses, feeling no need or obligation to explain himself to his partner.

“I….” his partner hesitates with his words, “I will not be able to omit this all from the report, Psychopompos.”

“Do what you must. I will do the same.”

After a moment of silence that assures him no further words would be said, the Consul speaks, “Were you able to identify the killer?”

“Yes.” The face still peers at him, as though his mind still hid under the bed, beheld the features with his own eyes. Reddened eyes that looked down a crooked nose, pockmarked skin, prominent cheek bones…. Peeling skin of calloused hands that choke…and beat…and force down green pills. Lideline. He sees it all with nightmarish clarity.

“When you’re ready, I will retrieve the sketch artist, then, so the Krypteian can find the man.”

A deep breath propels Ewain’s next words, “Retrieve them both. I am ready.”

Brief quiet occupies the Consul’s vacancy when he steps out of the room, and it leaves just as abruptly when he returns with the Krypteian and another man, lanky and less robust in his appearance with round spectacles that cling to a thin nose. All take uncomfortable seats before the Psychopomp, with Anaxander reclining more into his and the sketch artist readying his pad and pencil.

“Let us see the face of the man responsible for this all,” the Krypteian says, his eyes shamelessly scrutinizing Ewain.

“Whenever you’re ready, Psychopompos. No detail is extraneous,” the sketch art bows his head and prompts.

“There are two faces I will give to you. Both just as responsible for Miss Norma’s murder and both you, Krypteian, should secure.”

Surprise comes across all their faces, even breaking through Anaxander’s grinning stoicism. “You are certain of the two?”

“Without a doubt. From her own memories.”

Anaxander nods, “Show me the faces of the damned.”

Sparing not a single detail, Ewain constructs the descriptive outlines for the artist to trace and compile, stopping only when two black and white portraits akin to photographs materialize on the pages.

“Did you get any names or personal details?” Anaxander inquires as he studies each portrait.

Ewain looks first at the artist, “Leave us.” He waits until the man is out of the room before continuing, “No specific details on either, but I believe both are plebeians. This one,” he points to the more esteemed looking of the two sketches, “dresses as a patrician, but his speech was as a plebeian. He also…” Ewain sifts for the right words, “arranges murders.”

“’Arranges murders?’” The Consul repeats astonished, “You’re suggesting he hired him to kill the victim? Why?”

“I do not know,” Ewain forces himself to say, “I need to speak with Miss Norma to try and understand more.” He cannot reveal her secret, not yet…. He felt her shame, her utter humiliation when she realized how poorly she acted.

“So, she interacted with the man?” the Consul asks.

“One time. At a local bar, a day or so prior to her death. He approached her.”

“Scouting, perhaps. More information is needed,” Anaxander confirms with a piercing gaze toward Ewain.

“He suggested Miss Meredith Trachtenberg will be killed within…within a week,” Ewain recalls. A week has nearly passed. “She may be killed soon. Her estate must be contacted.”

“I will direct the Warden’s Office to reach out immediately once we finish here,” Anaxander says and grabs the two papers. “I hope you are able to deduce proper answers for us after you finish your work, Psychopompos.” The Krypteian rises and straightens his vest and shirt, “and I hope to have these two ready for the gallows when next we meet. Ichorians be with you.”

Lingering not another second, the Krypteian takes his leave with tempered purpose.

“The priests are ready for the Catharsis at your command, Psychopompos,” the Consul informs him.

Ewain nods, “Let us begin.”

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