The Four Arenas

The world after the War of Grace

The Spell of Thousands

Thousands of epochs ago, the rascals had the audacity to defy the gods. And when things got a little bit tough, they prayed to the angels, the everlasting nemesis of the gods. Divine

creatures they were (or so legend says), the angels sent down their best league of soldiers to fight alongside the manipulative bastards who once sacrificed their own to the same gods they eventually defied.

However, the said bastards, or rascals, or humans—as they called themselves—did not foresee the Greatest Scandal of Ages. They must have forgotten that in every war, the oldest weapon ever wielded also thrived: sex.

Delicious, godly sex.

And angels were not spared. Their stay on land made them vulnerable to fleshly desires and their holy mission was tarnished.

Products of sin and lust between gods and angels, the Opulents came to being. With the blood of gods and the grace of angels, they were almost supreme. Their wings were not made of feathers, but manifested as abilities—powers that ended battles overnight.

As the War of Grace continued, with constant shifts of alliances, the humans retreated from the war. A few thick-faced men then prayed to the Goddess of the Hearth. Ever warm and kind, she offered the humans her protection and gave them the Vestas , havens the rascals named in her honor. Allowing no godly or angelic magic within them, the Vestas protected the humans amidst the chaos.

Meanwhile, outside the Vestas, the war continued. Gods grew weary, angels fell.

All the while, the Opulents, divided between gods and angels, decided it was time to unite. A choice, they called it. An act of villainy, the others said.

Amazed by their discovery of autonomy, the Opulents embodied it. They glorified in it.

“They used their brains, see?” the great Ivor Develler often said to his great-granddaughters, or whoever would listen. “Bloody gods and angels were too busy fighting against each other. They almost didn’t see it coming.”

Almost.

The gods were not pleased. How could their own children defy them? The angels were disappointed and saw it as form of betrayal—another Lucifer .

And so, the biggest plot twist happened: the gods had a secret meeting with the angels.

They had a new enemy, the gods said. They had to work together and do something before the Opulents could do something , the angels agreed.

But the Opulents were too powerful. Killing them meant sending them to heaven or the underworlds. The angels would not welcome them in their holy grounds, and none of the underworld gods would welcome any threats to their thrones.

Again, the wise and opportunistic humans stepped outside their Vestas to join the convention, wanting to see an end to the war they started. They said that the problem was not the Opulents, but their wings .

Thus, the Spell of Thousands: the most infantile, imperfect, and notorious spell ever attempted.

With a great sacrifice from both gods and angels, and a few valuable ingredients the humans found among their fairy friends, they cast the spell upon the Opulents.

In a snap, the world tilted. Snow hovered in the air for a few seconds as the universe fixed itself. In a blink, the Opulents lost their wings —their powers, their weapons. And they started dying, their immortality lost forever.

As mentioned, the Spell of Thousands was infantile and imperfect.

The gods and angels meant for all Opulents to lose their wings , but something must have gone wrong, probably a wrong ingredient like a nymph’s hair instead of lashes, or the lower incisor of a vampire instead of the upper one, because the spell did not affect all Opulents. Or, as Ivor Develler believed, the old gods might have done a trick.

But

then there’s the Curse . A condition that suddenly develops at any given time, the Curses themselves could be quite odd. They ranged from mundane to horrifying, but it did as intended—limit the wings of the Opulents.

One of Ivor’s sons-in-law had his Curse when he was thirty. He woke up one day blind. One great-granddaughter got hers when she was eighteen. Her hair turned pink. It was a horrible sight until it changed into powdery blue by noon that same day. It changed three times the following day. Now it may be over five. They stopped counting after the third day.

No matter, it was a miracle. The spell did not strip all Opulents of their powers—their wings. A few kept their greatness. And as gossips say, some were still immortal.

After the Spell of Thousands , the gods retreated to their realms. The angels took a flight back to heaven; the humans remained as much as they could in their Vestas. Everyone went home, leaving a herd of confused Opulents who did not have one.

Once the perfect soldiers, they had become cursed and flawed. They were far from immortal to join the gods; not sinless and pure to stand with the angels; and most definitely not humans to live among the rascals.

But they had each other. They came together to form an empire out of the void left from the War of Grace. They crowned an emperor. And with their trusted soldiers, the emperors ensured the survival of the Opulents, centuries after another. They built alliances and treaties with other beings, including the rascals.

They came into being because of a war they did not start, they gained their freedom, were cursed for it, and they thrived. They refused to be used again. Like the rest, they had to survive. They caused havoc where it was due—giving the good a little something to fight with; throwing evil a little challenge if needed. As the most common victims (for that’s how they always thought themselves to be) , humans called them villains—the most disgraced word in the human dictionary. In mockery, the Opulents created the Department of Villainy, soldiers ( Villains ) who would spy, kill, and die for the empire.

The Opulents were their own race, a rich empire scattered all over the globe. Cursed but thriving, hated but feared.

Ivor Develler was the current Opulent Emperor.

But this would not be his story.

This would be about Isla Develler, an Opulent through and through.

She had a rare and powerful wing , and she was a proud soldier to the empire—a Villain to enemies. Also, if Ivor Develler could so gracefully die, she was next in line to be the Opulent Empress.

Well, that was until the day she got her Curse.

01 | To Die Among Wretched Humans

If mood was visible, Emily was the brightest one in the train that morning, with a beam of light over her head, spewing gold glitters that staled everything else in the gray, metallic tube speeding down the tracks.

Sitting across the human, Isla’s eye twitched at the terrible sight. Wrapped in a stylish black coat with a thick apricot scarf around her chin, Emily tugged her lip between her teeth, smile escaping as she tapped on her phone.

Boyfriend.

No.

Janet, best friend.

It was not just Emily’s mood that bothered Isla. It was the woman’s future. Her eyes flickered back to the group of singing humans at the end of the train. Someone hopped on earlier and started singing about healing the world.

The ignorant fools.

She did not hate that they were happy. She hated that not one soul was feeling as miserable as she was, blind to what she could see from one head to another, how their fates were tied together.

Disaster .

If there was anyone to blame, it would be the woman sitting across from her—Emily. Human, naive, Emily. And maybe Cris, her secretary.

They could have flown to her great-grandfather’s estate, but all private Opulent planes were banned in Vestian air since yesterday following the arrest of five Opulents in a commercial flight after they illegally carried vials of their own blood. It was not unheard of for Opulents to carry drops of their own powerful blood, but it was criminal inside a Vesta. As if the blood would work in their pathetic, powerless grounds.

When she complained about the train ride, Cris had said, “Unless you’re willing to leave your weapons behind, we can fly in a commercial human-manufactured metal box.”

The weight in her midriff was growing heavy, stretching her insides. Like accidentally eating soup from a vampire’s kitchen, but worse. Her gloved hands were shaking. The inspirational, hopeful singing was pushing the heaviness up her throat. She wanted to throw up. The heat and tangy taste of blood in her tongue melted the bitter taste of her morning coffee.

It was a lonely struggle of seeing, feeling, tasting.

And dreading.

She stood. From the corner of her eye, her fifteen-year-old secretary looked up from the copy of the lyrics he accepted earlier, a lock of his brushed up black hair hovering over his forehead. His gaze followed her across the aisle to human Emily. The three guards they were traveling with, dressed in black suits and strategically scattered nearby, like spies in a terrible action movie who get killed before the big fight, became slightly more alert.

“Congratulations,” Isla said, sitting close to the woman, voice deeper than that of a typical twenty-three-year-old.

The dislike was instant in the woman’s head. Emily was not pleased to find a young woman dressed in an elegant moss green dress with sheer sleeves. Isla recognized the white tea scent of her own hair as it registered in Emily’s brain, and she could also sniff the hint of envy playing around the woman’s thoughts. And now, realizing Isla was sitting too close, Emily was also thinking her space was being violated.

But Isla was planning something more than that.

Emily’s light brown eyes measured Isla up and down as she slid away, her perfectly trimmed eyebrows fused.

A bead of sweat formed on Isla’s temple. The hairs on the back of her neck perked up as the train continued its fast approach to their death. She crossed her leg over the other, back straight, shoulder stiff.

Anytime now , she thought, turning her head to stare at Emily until she trapped the woman’s eyes. “Congratulations,” she said without a smile. “Your boyfriend Timmy is proposing tonight.”

Fear registered in Emily’s eyes. In her head, there was more for Isla to read: Panic. Confusion. Was she facing a witch? No, not a witch. Opulent.

Sudden realization clicked in Emily’s thoughts and her face hardened. She looked away, head bent on her phone, her easiest escape; her regret echoed back to Isla. Shouldn’t have taken a train outside a Vesta, Emily thought before she murmured, “I don’t talk to your kind .”

This human deserved to suffer, but Isla regretfully needed to save this woman’s life by ruining her future. “You’ll say yes to him in the hospital tonight.”

Emily’s hand froze around her phone, her unspoken question stronger than the scowl she threw.

“After the accident.” She could see her teenage secretary looking at them from across the aisle. People were still singing at the end of their carriage, the melody a constant ache in her gut, the out-of-sync singing a terrible, beleaguering nuisance.

Not far from Cris was a girl, human, red long hair and freckles, eyes wide at Isla, curious but afraid. The girl was schooled well by the mother traveling with her, the one currently reading a copy of the Daily Vestian , probably reading the news on the five Opulents caught smuggling blood inside in a human plane. The girl’s head was full of curious thoughts, remembering her mother’s words about the Opulents. They are products of sin, darling. The bad angels kissed the gods and they bore them Opulents. But we don’t have to fear them.

Why, Mama?

We have our Vestas. And they’re Cursed.

Cursed?

Yes. Their punishment for being children of sin.

My friend says Opulents have wings.

She’s wrong. Opulent’s don’t have wings.

But—

They’re powers from the devil. Don’t fear, darling. Opulents feed on it like the others. Now hush. No more.

She smiled at the memory, at the innocent, curious thoughts. The girl flinched, her wide eyes somehow amazed. Isla knew how this girl would die, the screeching sound of steel ringing in her head.

She turned to Emily again. “Something terrible is going to happen and we’ll all die in this train. We , meaning me included. Except you.”

Emily’s face blanched.

“Terrible, isn’t it? Unacceptable, even. To die among wretched humans…” she said, clucking her tongue. “Such disgrace.”

She gave Emily a pitiful smile. She was the strongest link in the train.

“You will have a good marriage, but only for a while,” she said as she pulled at her silk glove, hands shaking.

“What are you talking about?” Emily asked, leaning away from Isla as the train carriage swayed. If mood was visible, Emily’s was disappearing, the gold glitters landing gray like charred paper around her.

Without warning, Isla’s cold, clammy palm closed over Emily’s bare hand, and instantly the angry and fearful eyes turned white as Isla showed Emily her memories from last night.

Her boyfriend Timmy making love to her; the ring inside the velvet box she found hidden in the cupboard; she stepping out of the Vesta to ride the train, sharing her profound excitement with her best friend Janet.

Then Isla showed her what would happen next.

The singing in the train ending. Black and yellow blasting down the length of the train carriage; bodies thrust around. Scorching heat and wretched cries.

Death everywhere.

Total silence.

Isla with twisted limbs and lifeless icy blue eyes staring straight at her; the red-head girl taking her last breath while encased in her mother’s arms; she, Emily, moaning and coughing, the tassels of her apricot scarf singed.

Then darkness.

Isla smiled, grip tighter around Emily’s shaking hand. “Now, the good part.”

Emily opening her eyes to the bright light of the hospital.

Timmy crying beside her bed with relief, asking her to marry him because he could not bear to lose her; she saying yes as she choked in tears.

“Do you like it?” Isla asked and Emily, eyes still white, nodded slowly, tears streaming down her eyes. “Of course, you do, you selfish creature. Do you want to see more?”

Emily nodded and Isla gave her a gift—a look far into her future.

Emily cleaning the cupboards, dark brown hair unwashed for days; her hands had become portly and rough. Kids running around screaming; smears of food and poop indistinguishable on the walls; she opening a door to Timmy naked in bed with her best friend Janet. Divorce. Drugs. A child in prison. Suicide.

A certain miserable life.

Isla lifted her hand. Emily blinked, light brown eyes filling with confusion, panic, and misery. Isla’s gaze was on her glove as she slipped it back on. She did not have to see the woman’s face. Her goal was achieved.

Emily’s light was as dim as her new future. The gold glitters were now ashes falling around her, becoming one with the seat and floor where they landed.

Looking up, Isla met her secretary’s gaze. When she turned to Emily, tears were streaming down the woman’s eyes, phone forgotten on the floor between her feet. Her future was murky, but Isla could no longer see a Timmy or a Janet. The universe had tilted and righted itself in a new axis. Emily’s new fate conspired with everyone else’s in the train.

The song was ending, and their death was no longer a thing of the future.

Emily looked like compact ash wrapped in a scarf. Her question persisted like vermin. Will I be happy? But she did not voice it. She hated the thought of having to ask an Opulent.

“W-who are you?” Emily choked out as Isla stood.

“Isla Develler.”

Emily scrambled away. If she was afraid earlier, she was frightened now.

Isla ignored Emily, blocking the woman’s thoughts completely as her secretary rose to join her by the door, followed by the three guards.

She glanced at the red-haired girl again, but the child ducked under her mother’s arm, behind the Daily Vestian . Isla’s eyes flickered to the top left corner of the page facing her.

March 24, 2020.

She frowned just as they came to a jostling stop. Stepping off the train, her eyes quickly scanned the underground station before everyone else filed out: red brick walls with sticky residue of posters that caught grime and filth over the years; the cement ground had marks of wheels and shoes that hinted frightened and skidding footsteps.

She found another human holding a copy of the Daily Vestian .

March 24, 2020.

But there was no time to ask. The traffic of humans, and their distinct smell of warm blood and sweat overpowered her, pushing her to where Cris waited at the bottom of the stairs that led to the bristling morning city streets. Commuters circled them in a hurry to climb and reach the top, scrambling not because they were running late, but because they were desperate to return to safety.

Precisely twenty steps away was a Vesta.

That meant no reading thoughts, memories, and future.

No wings.

Just more humans.

---

After the Goddess of the Hearth gifted the Vestas to the humans hundreds of centuries ago, they still held strong. The humans were kept safe in their many patches of land, and London was just one many around the world. Like wastelands, no magic could spark in a Vesta.

Isla looked out the tinted window of the car. Holding umbrellas under a gloomy spring drizzle, the Vestians roamed under skyscrapers, thick electrical wires and dangling street signs, footsteps light and certain. Ladies in tight, bright dresses and heels strutted down the sidewalk, their faces heavily painted, eyes darkly lined; men, in coats and boots rushed along, oblivious, lost in their own thoughts and worries; bystanders with placards of services lined against soot-covered brick walls. And children were everywhere, with rucksacks, running after one another, some in dirtier clothes looking ten times their age, dying each day of hard labor. Beyond, upward, in the skyscrapers, the elite. Never seen on the streets, too high and mighty even for their own kind.

It was a picture of a contrasting, beautiful, miserable existence.

“Centuries after the war and they’re the victorious ones.”

“Victorious?” Cris absently asked, bent on his phone, scrolling down endless messages. “Who? Humans?” He scoffed. “Their fear traps them in their Vestas. They’re the losers.”

He may be right. They deserved the fear. Their Vestas were protecting them, also killing them. They’d step out the borders now and again, but mostly only for a few minutes of train ride. For these humans, stepping out meant a world of unknown danger. And that was where she was eager to get to.

Into an Erebus.

Isla studied Cris, head bent on his phone. He looked like any typical teen with his black leather backpack, but the boy dressed like an old Opulent cursed in a teenage boy’s body—plaid shirt, brown pants, and suspenders.

She frowned.

That morning, he walked into a room looking older and much taller than she last remembered, but he dismissed it by saying he must have finally gotten his Curse. It may have been a joke, but it could also be true. And if it was, she would need a replacement soon. All recorded Opulents who got the Curse of the same nature only lived two years.

Driving through the last remaining miles of London, she said goodbye to the enormous billboard of a man in a tuxedo sitting on a stool, his eyes closed while he sang. His shadowed face had been everywhere, spotlighted above dark, moldy buildings.

The name Luke Edner, in bold and giant letters, hovered over his head. Half of his face was good-looking enough for human standard. Manly with sharp, clean-shaven jaw; classy with his tuxedo; thick brows. The hand holding the microphone had veins popping out; and the way he sat on that stool elongated his leg.

But he was purely human, and Isla Develler never took an interest in human men. Her boyfriend Axon, a demigod, would ruin this Luke Edner’s career with a snap of his godly fingers.

Many demigods had long surpassed the humans in the entertainment world because, apparently, humans had always had godly fantasies. They circled back to where they began thousands of years ago—worshiping the gods. Clearly, they had not learned their lessons from the War of Grace.

But this Edner human survived, even collecting Opulent fanatics, Isla’s sister included.

Humans did not deserve to be worshiped. They had always been the worshipers, weren’t they? They would kneel before anything that was beautiful, living or not. They worshiped their phones simply because it cost more than the last one.

But Isla could not just take her sister away from her odd fascination. It was how Lola survived the loss years ago. First, it was with a metallic vampire band. Then, just recently, it was this Luke Edner.

She looked at the rearview mirror and found the human driver staring at her before quickly diverting his gaze. He should be used to taking other creatures for a ride. But maybe he was not used to someone like her .

“D-Develler?” he had stuttered earlier when they had to show him their identification cards, a protocol imposed by London upon every non-human creature for safety reasons .

There was a reason the Devellers had been the reigning rulers of the Opulents for centuries. Their powers—their wings as they called them—were with their minds. But like all Opulents, they were Cursed. Nearly every Opulent she knew had gotten their Curse.

Except her.

Isla began to relax when they crossed the last border and entered an Erebus. The smoke of pollution slowly clearing the farther they went.

Erebi were the only place left for the Opulents after the war. A dark gray void fogged the battlegrounds smeared with god and angel blood. It took centuries for the void to clear. But the spirits of the snow that hovered in midair when the Spell of Thousands was cast still lingered, floating and glowing like tiny orbs. Sometimes, when blown by the wind, they sang faint melodies that reached the ears.

Isla opened the window. The chilly air swept in, whispered memories of winter past. The smell of fresh grass veiled the magical things that may or may not be present there, beyond, or beneath. The tiny winter glowing orbs hovered in the air like fog.

There was no sign of anyone within a mile, but who could tell? They were in an Erebus. It may no longer be as dark and filled with despair as what the god they named it after personified, but it could be, depending on who or what was in the path.

Mystical dangers hid behind vast fields that was just waking up from the winter months. There was magic and power here. Wonder. Forgotten and sleeping chaos.

As they traveled on, the view outside the window showed more signs that the Erebus was occupied. There were small villages that may or may not inhabited. They may be owned by fellow Opulents; or minor or orphaned demigods. In rare cases, humans, too.

The only certain thing was that an Erebus was almost always free of gods and angels. The former would visit now and then, but they would always return to their realms. The latter, however, had been absent since the War of Grace ended thousands of centuries ago. It was as if the angels had completely abandoned the world after they took part in the Spell of Thousands. But the old gods and spirits still lingered, ever present, older than time itself.

---

The emperor lived in a countryside villa three Vestas after London where a human emperor once lived. It took a lot of mettle for a human to erect a home outside a Vesta, but it was not unheard of. The rascals would hunt exotic creatures they could sell back home or to whoever would want them because they had almost squeezed their own lands of resources.

White columns lined the facade of the Emperor House. Isla looked up, trying to remember when she last saw it. Was it two years ago? She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t live with Ivor, but her sister did. Lola remained with the old Opulent while Isla moved everywhere after the Academy to complete missions for the empire.

The butler welcomed her into the estate. The scent of pine wood and cigar smoke carried a wistful feeling. The walls were now free of the colorful drawings Isla and Lola scribbled on them when they were children.

She could not see memories of inanimate things like Lola could. The ones playing in her head were her own. The laughter of children under ten, their muffled running steps along the many carpeted corridors, the naughty whispered chuckles under the covers during the night.

“There you are!” A chirpy voice cried from the top of the stairs.

Lola was dressed in a light blue denim jumper with the cuffs folded above her ankles, a brown shirt underneath, and a pair of brown leather desert shoes. Her shoulder-length lavender hair bounded with her steps and changed into the color of mustard sauce when she landed in front of Isla. Her golden-brown eyes filled with excitement and hinted wickedness. “Happy birthday!” her sister greeted as her hair turned silver.

“I like this color,” Isla said.

“I’ll try my best to keep it,” she turned to Cris. “How are you doing, kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” Isla’s secretary replied, walking past them.

“You are a kid,” the women chorused. “You’re fifteen!” Isla added the same time Lola said, “Seventeen’s still a kid!”

Isla blinked at Lola. Her sister raised her brows in question. “What?”

“You said he’s seventeen.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Isla looked at her sister, brows fused. “Well?”

Lola’s smile was frozen on her lips as she blinked at Isla once, then twice.

She could easily search her sister’s thoughts now and get an answer fast, but she did not. Lola was the only one she always chose not to read because she promised. “You told me to rush here. Is Ivor dying?”

Lola’s face lit up with understanding. The she rolled her eyes. “He always says he’s dying.”

“Then he’s not?”

Lola’s chuckle echoed down the hall. “Of course, he is. We just don’t know when!”

“Then why am I here?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not to celebrate your birthday. He called you for something really important.” She tugged Isla toward the library.

“What’s this about, Lola?”

Her sister let out a nervous laugh. Then, without answering, said, “The old man’s waiting.”

---

Isla sat across her great-grandfather with a cup of tea. Lola had disappeared to the kitchen to finish baking her cake.

Ivor’s white hair reflected his face, brittle and wrinkled. The large lumps under his murky blue eyes made Isla think he’d been depriving himself of sleep, hoping it would kill him. She had seen photos and paintings of him when he was younger, and compared to then, he was now a living corpse.

She wanted him to die—he deserved to die. She was ready to rule, but without a Curse, the empire was hesitant because the nature of her Curse could either make or break her way to the throne.

There were Opulents waiting for her Curse, hoping it would be bad enough, all of them eager for a chance to kick her out. Her cousin, Rowan, was the most ambitious contender. But there were others. Eight Senators, in fact, all from powerful Opulent families, all pining for power.

“You’re still alive,” Isla said. “I’m disappointed.”

Even the echo of his laughter was slow to reach her ears. “Not now, but I can feel it will be soon.” Portraits of deceased Devellers surrounded them, all gawking at Ivor, their faces telling him they needed him in the afterlife. He looked on at Cris, eyeing the teen with a mild smile.

Ivor always had a soft spot for wingless Opulents like Cris. Waifs as they called them, they were the Opulents who suffered the most after the Spell of Thousands. They were the ones who were stripped of their powers. Versants , like the Devellers, were the lucky ones.

Isla’s wings were known to her since she could remember. Lola’s too. Unfortunately for Cris, ever since they found him outside the Develler doors as an infant wrapped in a thick blanket in a storm, he had shown no ability save for his immense stoic mien.

He could pass as human anytime, except that his blood was the same color as theirs—blue. Glowing blue. Tasty, too, as the vampires would claim.

She saw the look Ivor threw Cris. Was it pity? Concern? She could not tell.

Then she stiffened, because suddenly she could read Ivor’s thoughts. He had always been so powerful and it was almost impossible to get through him. She saw an image of a woman with long wavy black hair walking away, her back turned to Ivor.

Her great-grandfather caught her eye and then… nothing . His thoughts were guarded again. “I don’t appreciate you using your wings on me, child.”

“And I’m afraid you’re getting weaker because I can.”

He sighed and another memory slipped:

She saw herself through Ivor’s eyes; facing a group of people. They were around a long table surrounded by Versants.

There was one problem with that memory. She recognized the Versants, but couldn’t remember that particular moment.

Her frown deepened, confused and bothered that he could not guard his thoughts. “When did that happen?”

She caught the look he stole Cris. Her secretary sighed, pocketing his phone, a sign that he was about to deal with something important.

“What’s happening?” she asked, gaze hard on Ivor. “Cris, when did I have that meeting with the Senators?”

When Cris was ten, he made Isla grace a contract which protected his thoughts from her. Even if she wanted to look into his head, her body would not allow it. Without Cris’ consent, Isla could never penetrate him.

There had been many times in the past where she regretted ever gracing a contract with her secretary. This moment was one of those.

“You had a few meetings with the Senators. Which one are you talking about?”

Her eyes slanted to Cris, narrowing by the second. “The one I don’t remember having.”

Cris stiffly walked toward her, sharing a look with Ivor. With a nod, he dismissed the guards by the door who dutifully exited the room. “Two years ago,” he answered. “You were twenty-three in that memory, Isla.”

She scoffed, feeling incredulous, but the knot in her belly tightened. “I just turned twenty—”

“Five,” interrupted Cris. “You’re twenty-five.”

The copy of the Daily Vestian in the train flashed in her mind.

March 24, 2020.

Ivor was looking at her with the same look he threw Cris earlier—pity and concern.

“Isla, two years ago, you had your Curse,” Cris said, voice serious but practiced. As if he’d had this conversation too many times before. “You got a bad one, Isla. And it’s something we’ve never seen before.” Cris, who was always eager to deliver the bad news, continued. “Your Curse is a frozen memory.”

02 | No One Will Know You There

Looking into memories someone was reliving at that same moment differed from searching the ones tucked away. Isla was standing in a corridor of Cris’ mind and she could see doors. They were unlocked, but closed. The memories Cris played in his mind stood outside, but she did not want them. She needed the ones behind the doors.

She only had her mind to will them open, then with her senses, she entered like a ghost, witnessing everything, all the while fighting the ones in the corridor because they could be loud, demanding attention. They would attempt to pull her out of the rooms, but with years of practice, she had mastered how to navigate the mind, recognizing the future, the current thoughts, and the memories by how they made her feel.

“You look taller,” she heard herself say, and she felt Cris panic a little. She remembered it was that morning.

Instead of answering, he said, “You’re needed at the Emperor House now. Emergency.”

She went out of that memory room and back in the corridor, meeting other memories that did not interest her, searching for the night prior that one. When she found it, it was not a familiar scene.

She was looking at herself through his eyes. She could sense Cris’ frustration. He might be scowling. Her own words echoed as she watched herself talk. She looked weary; her eyes worse than Ivor’s drooping ones.

“We can’t travel by plane. All Opulent flights are banned at the moment,” Cris was saying.

He followed her eyes to the clock on the wall. Three hours before midnight.

“We won’t make it.”

Cris nodded.

“I don’t want you to tell me when I wake up. I’ll freak out.”

He took the folded paper from the table. “We’ll let Ivor tell you.”

She sighed, closing her eyes, weary.

“I can tell you about the Curse when you wake up.”

She shook her head. “Don’t. Just have Lola call me.”

“You’ll see the dates everywhere.”

She looked around her home office and pushed her phone toward him. “I’ll be confused, nothing more. Give me my old phone. We’ll travel by land to Emperor House.” Then she handed him a card case. “And keep this for now.”

Then it went blank and Isla was back to the present. She frowned at Cris. “I think that’s enough,” he said.

A breath of disbelief escaped her lips. She turned to her great-grandfather, then at Lola who came when Isla demanded for her. “This is bloody crazy.”

The grimace on Lola’s face reminded Isla of the time when Ivor asked her to check the memory of the toilet bowl to see if he accidentally dropped his missing ring there.

Dread was not enough to describe how Isla felt. It was like that time again when they received the news of their father’s accident just months after their mother’s disappearance.

Her sister walked closer. “Your memory froze two years ago,” Lola calmly said, but there was a hint she was tired of doing this. At that thought, Isla’s heart raced as everything slowly sank in.

She pointed at Cris, frustration with each word. “I don’t understand anything from what I saw.”

“Your memory froze at the eve of your 23rd birthday two years ago. Anything after that only stays with you for six months,” Lola cautiously said.

“You’re saying that I can only accumulate what—six bloody months? Then it happens again?”

Lola reluctantly nodded, biting her lip.

Isla believed them when they said she finally had her Curse. In fact, she had been expecting it, been trying to prepare for it because Curses could come anytime, at any point. She had imagined the worst Curses ever documented and thought of ways to deal with them. But she never considered this one.

“For two years now, your memory resets every 24th of March and 24th of September,” Cris explained. “We call it a reboot. Everything from the last six months just vanishes and you wake up again thinking it’s March 24, 2018, a day after your 23rd birthday.”

Her head snapped to Ivor who had remained quiet. “You’re now a hundred-and-fifty-two?” He nodded gravely. To Cris, she said, “And you’re seventeen.”

“I’m twenty-three and you’re twenty-five,” Lola impatiently added. Clearly, she had done this too many times.

“It’s March 2020.”

“Yes,” Cris replied, walking back to her with his phone in hand. “Fourth reboot, same memories retained. You have six months until the next reboot. We’ve been probing for ways on how you can regain your memories, but we can’t find any permanent solution,” he said, answering the questions in her head. “The only thing we’ve established so far is that the memory resets are always on time—always the 24th of March and September, and always at midnight.”

Breaking his silence, Ivor said, “You’ll review memories to get a grasp of the present through the people around you. But it wore you down—all of us, I should say. Cris the most. He had to be in every meeting you had. He had to review all missions and cases your team handled so he could brief you. Then you decided—we all decided—that you use the Booth.”

The word sent chills up Isla’s spine. Whirling on her heels, she said, “You must be kidding me, Ivor. I agreed to use that bloody thing?”

“Yes, because you realized it was necessary,” Cris replied, holding up his hand to show her the card case she gave him.

“Last week, I had to make a hard decision and pulled you out from the Department of Villainy,” Ivor said in a grave voice.

Her eyes widened at Cris who said, “That’s why we weren’t able to get here in time yesterday. You wrapped everything up at work until yesterday. The arrest of the Opulents on that plane just made it more difficult because no private Opulent planes were allowed in Vestian air.”

Isla moistened her lips. She wanted to beg Cris to let her inside his mind again so she could replay everything. And then she remembered something. “What about Axon?”

“Oh,” Lola said, throwing Cris a glance. “That one bit.”

“What do you mean, ‘Oh, that one bit’?” She turned to Cris. “You told me he’s out of the country with his mother.”

“He’s still in London,” Cris admitted.

“He never picked up my calls since this morning. His line is always dead.”

With a straight face, Cris replied, “That’s because he might have blocked you.”

Before she could ask the question, Lola said, “He cheated on you.”

She stiffened, and her eyes turned to slits. “He cheated on me when?”

“Oh, quite some time ago. Two years? A week after the first reboot, I believe?” Lola asked Cris, who nodded.

She blinked rapidly, trying to grasp the fact that her boyfriend— ex-boyfriend —had the audacity to cheat on her. “With whom?”

“Not important. She has a restraining order against you.”

“Fucking half-breed bastard!”

Lola patiently said, “And I suggest you don’t stalk him. You did on the third reboot before you were briefed about the Curse. You thought you were still dating.”

“Did I make a fool of myself?”

Cris cleared his throat. “Lola had to pay for the woman’s nose job. Then we had to appear in front of a human judge in a human courtroom.”

“She’s human ?” she ground out, on the verge of frenzy. “ Human ? Please tell me she is at least a quarter nymph!“

Cris shrugged. “Red blood came out of her nose when you punched her, so…” He gave her a tight smile. “She was very human.”

Her head fell back. Closing her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose and cursed under her breath.

“Your Curse is only known to everyone in this room.” Ivor’s voice made her open her eyes.

She landed the worst Curse known to Opulents. “Rowan will find the best way to kill you if he learns he has a higher chance to be emperor,” Isla pointed out.

He smiled. “Tempting.”

She stood up and paced. “This will be a scandal.”

“No, it will be a banquet,” Cris said. “They’ll feast at the chance to prove your incompetence.”

“Well, they would not be wrong. Who would want to have a ruler who can’t even remember her boyfriend cheated on her? With a fucking human !”

Everyone just stared, their faces blank. Obviously, this had happened before.

“If I’m incompetent to be empress, then it’s all over. Rowan and his father will win.” Isla inhaled deeply. “Have we looked into other Opulents who might have gotten a similar Curse?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Looks like you’re the first,” Lola replied.

Her muscles tightened, the weight at the pit of her stomach heavier. “Then the Booth is what I’ve got for now,” she gritted out, not believing that after all these years, she’d have to enter one again.

“Yes,” Ivor said.

“Then I can return to work?”

Cris and Ivor shared a look. “You can’t remember everything you worked on. Worse, we fear that your agents are noticing the lapses,” Cris answered for Ivor. “One filed a negligence report against you. You forgot to brief him about the water nymphs surrounding the target.”

“And why did I have to brief him about the bloody nymphs? They’re practically harmless.”

“The agent had a hydrophobia Curse.”

She gritted her teeth. “I just need to adjust using the Booth, develop a system of what to look for, where to go. I can still do my work—” She stopped at their utter silence. Ivor would not meet her eyes, his thoughts guarded. Cris cleared his throat again, his thoughts also unavailable. Lola had a frozen smile on her lips, as if she was on a verge of another dreadful news.

“The western Booth is fried,” Cris finally spoke. “We learned two months ago. We tried everything but it’s stopped functioning.”

“You can’t be serious. It can’t be—”

“You tried to take it home, child,” Ivor interjected, tone disappointed, almost angry. “Without my permission.”

She froze. “You mean I broke it?”

The old man stiffly nodded. Lola looked away, wiping her hands on her jumper. Cris was the one who said, “Yes. Something must have gone wrong when we moved it from London. The Western Department of Lost Things is currently looking for a way to fix it, but it doesn’t look promising. This is a big loss, Isla. There is only one Booth in each arena.”

Isla shook her head. Who would think that the loss of the thing she despised the most could render her hopeless?

“There is an open position in the Eastern Department of Lost Things,” Ivor said.

She groaned.

“We’ve already started working on the house there,” her great-grandfather replied. “You can’t uproot the Booth from there to here. We’ve already lost one.”

Isla met her sister’s eyes. Lola looked at her with pity and she hated it.

“You can’t rely on someone else’s memory to regain yours, child. You very well know how memories change over time,” Ivor said. “You need the Booth.”

Cris took one step closer, hands in his pockets. “It’s at the other side of the world. No one will know you there. Because the western Booth isn’t available, they’ll start segregating work to the rest of the Department of Lost Things. The eastern one needs a manager as soon as possible. You’re suited for the position.”

“I’m beyond suited for the position, Cris. I’m overqualified.”

Everyone else fell silent. They were not expecting her to do anything. In fact, they must be so used to this that they were just waiting. She groaned and dropped her head. “It was my decision to go to the Eastern Arena.”

“Yes,” Lola said. When she looked up, her sister was smiling at her warmly. “And I said I’ll come with you.”

---

Isla skipped dinner and retreated into her old room. She looked around and scowled at the old photos of her teenage self with Lola and their cousin Diana.

Everything was white because it helped with the headaches. Spending an entire day looking into everyone’s thoughts could bring a bout or two.

A knock came to the door and Lola slipped inside, hair orange with locks of silver. Her cheeks puffed with her smile. She crossed her arms in front of her, leaned against the door, legs crossed. “You look grumpy.”

Isla scoffed. She was furious about many things. She was angry at the gods and the angels; the humans were given, their fairy friends included. She was angry at the Spell of Thousands for bringing the Curse.

Lola pushed away from the door. “Look, I’m here because you told me before the reboot to tell you something.” She knelt in front of Isla. “Looking into memories of people around you took its toll and I’m telling you—you almost went insane. Using the Booth to scan your own stored memories would be heaven . And that’s your word, not mine.”

With a groan of frustration, Isla tried to roll away, but her sister held her knees, dipping her head to peer at her. “This is a different Booth.”

“There are only four and they are all bloody the same, Lola. They all came from the same place and they all do the same bloody thing.” But she knew what she would eventually do. It was her who decided on this.

“You’ll be perfect for the job. The Eastern Department of Lost Things just lost a manager.”

Isla scoffed. “I can guess where she got lost .”

Her sister shook her head, and her hair started to turn pink. “She retired, that’s all. There’s an existing team out there.”

Isla blinked a few times in disbelief. “I must have been a mess to decide that I could man this department.”

Lola stared at her and said nothing, but she knew what her sister was thinking. She would not be an empress if the Senators found out. If their cousin found out.

With a sigh, Lola stood and placed her hands in the pockets of her denim jumper. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“It will be one hell of a boring job, Lola.”

“Ivor became Emperor because of his work as Booth Explorer. Dad, too. And mom was proud working with the Department of Lost Things. It was her legacy.” The mention of their mother made her eyes narrow into slits. Lola’s golden-brown globes became arrested, and she blinked, taking a step back. “I know how hard it is to be near a Booth, but I’ve seen you do it six months ago and you were amazing.”

Isla walked to the door that led to the bathroom. “I know. No need to convince me. If six-months-ago me thought this is the best idea, I’ll do it. It’s not like I can return to being a Villain.”

Lola grinned. “You’ll miss killing creatures, I know. But I think you’ll also enjoy this new position. Not everyone can walk around memories.”

She shook her head, walking into the bathroom. “Good night, Lola,” she said before shutting the door.

She rubbed her face with her hands and then turned to the mirror. She looked back at her icy blue eyes. If only she could look into her own thoughts through a mirror. Now, that would be famous. But that never worked. All she could see was a furious and lost Opulent. And a scared one.

The moment felt surreal. She wondered if she was absorbing it the way she should. Although she was feeling too many things at once, she felt a part of her was distant, just sitting there at the side, watching her go through this.

She swallowed. If the news of her Curse leaked out, she’d be damned. One touch from Rowan and she would be done for. And with his wing, he could manipulate the Senators and vote her out.

Isla turned to face the mirror again, thinking of the Booth.

How did she ever manage to get back in there six months ago?

Then she closed her eyes and sighed with resignation. Ivor was right. She could not go around looking into people’s head to piece her missing memories together. The longer she had to live with this Curse, the more memories she’d lose. It would be more difficult to regain them because people’s memories of her would change and fade. As time stretched, she’d have no memories of herself.

The Booth was the only option. It could give her the ability to revisit her memories. Her memories. Not of others— hers . Just as the way she remembered things and how she perceived them .

But the Booth was dangerous.

All memories are.

She closed her eyes and shivered as a poignant point of the past rushed through her.

Everyone knew her mother got lost inside the Booth and never came back. They also knew Isla was with her when it happened. And everyone remembered how she came back alone.

No one knew what happened inside the Booth. And for some time, neither did Isla. No one forced her to remember. Even the Booth could not give them anything because her memory of that day was blank—erased. It was trauma, they said.

But the funny thing about memories is they always come back to haunt.

Memories of that particular night with her mother rushed back to her. Every word her mother told her, the panic that followed, and the screams that came with it… they all came back to her all at once when she did not even ask for them.

And she never told anyone. How could she? Where would she start?

How would she tell them it was all her fault?

---

“Everyone now knows you’re back in the Isles.”

Lucas sighed, bounding down the last steps of the charter plane.

“These people are crazy. They’re still at the airport waiting for you to get out. But no news about Cale yet, so that’s good, right?” Judah, his assistant, squinted at the blazing sun. He cursed with awe, looking at the empty runway behind them.

Lucas walked away from the runway and into the airport building, Judah behind him, shouting about the line of palm trees and the mountains to their right. “Do people even know you here?” he asked.

“No. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

They walked out of the airport, Lucas with his canvas bag and Judah with his giant black suitcase. Hot, humid air swept past them, whistling around the empty bay.

A honk and a green classic Land Rover rolled in front of them. Behind the wheels was a grinning young lady in white shirt. She waved at them through the open window before jumping out.

“Sister?” Judah guessed just as the woman approached Lucas for a hug. “How’s my famous brother, Luke Edner?” she asked.

“He’s dead. It’s Lucas for now,” he replied with a grin, kissing her cheek before circling to the driver’s side. His sister climbed into the passenger seat; Judah struggled with his suitcase into the backseat. “That’s Judah. Judah, Tina. Sister.”

With a huff, the man poked his head between the two front seats and asked, “Younger?”

“By one year,” Tina replied. “Welcome to Cale.”

Judah tuned to Lucas. “So, I know that you’re planning to stay for a month, but I’ve already set up a meeting with a few endorsers. It’s at three and—woah!” The man cried out as Lucas stepped on the gas, sending the younger man back. “Slow down!”

Tina turned to look at Judah, a wide grin on her face. “He’s the new one?”

Lucas just nodded, veering the Rover onto the highway.

Tina pulled one leg under her, facing him. “When are you losing the man bun?”

“The hair has a contract,” said Judah. “He can’t lose the man bun.”

Tina’s jaw dropped. “He’s not serious, is he?”

Lucas shrugged. “He’s not lying.”

“You signed a contract on your hair?”

“I now have legal reasons to keep it.”

“And the five million Western dollars that came with it,” said Judah. “Are we in a Vesta?” Judah asked, bending low to assess the view of the mountain outside the window to his left. At the opposite side was the ocean.

“Yes,” Tina replied.

“Looks like an Erebus.”

Lucas looked at his assistant through the rearview mirror. His confusion was understandable, having lived all his life in the west. This must be a new world to him.

Here, the sun shone brightly; the sea was both shy and harsh; storms were constantly unforgivable. Unfortunately, the gods were as equally crazy as they were on the other side of the world.

And this was home. No crazy fangirls. No meetings. No cameras. Nothing but the farms and family. Nothing but his privacy, which also had a contract. His agency would have to pay if the town of Cale and Luke Edner were to be mentioned in the same sentence. The contract was not his idea. It was his grandfather who insisted because he would not have random girls knocking on their doors looking for Luke Edner, the jazz singer they wanted to fuck .

“Since you’re new, allow me to let you in on some interesting facts,” said Tina to Judah. She pointed at the right side of the road. “We’re in a Vesta, but that woodland is an Erebus.”

Judah peered closer at the window to his right. “An Erebus inside a Vesta?”

“Not really. It extends to the sea,” Tina said, sharing an amused grin with Lucas.

“I’ve never been inside an Erebus. I mean, I’ve been while riding the train, or the plane. But never stepped foot in one.”

Tina looked at him with incredulity. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Tina smiled at Lucas, brows raised high. “Young. And clearly ignorant,” she said, clucking her tongue. “People in the West sure live in a bubble.”

Judah slid closer to the window. “Is that a roof?” he asked.

“The Wyrd House. For the children, it’s the Haunted House.”

“Ghosts?”

“Sure. Nothing’s impossible in an Erebus. They say that a woman lives there, trapped by the god of the underworld. The usual stories.”

Lucas’ smile slowly died. He had been in the woodland many years ago. In fact, he had stood outside the Wyrd House. A shiver ran up his spine and he cleared his throat, brushing off the memories of that one afternoon.

“Which underworld god?” Judah asked.

Tina snorted. “Take your pick. We have a couple of them in the East.

“Is that house owned by humans?”

“Not anymore. It’s now Opulent property. But it was once a hospital during the last human war. Then a prison after.”

“Prison for who?”

“Humans, of course.”

“You’re kidding. A prison inside an Erebus?”

“Frightened yet? That’s why you don’t venture in the woodland. Never even think about it.”

Lucas did not say it, but he felt different. The woodland was a looming presence, a place that called out to him, to enter its sleeping enchanted world. The locals would claim to feel the same, but only a few dared enter. It was simply not for humans. No Erebus ever was.

Judah turned his attention to the other side of the road. “And this plantation?”

“Ours.” Lucas turned into the dirt road that led further into the sugarcane plantation. “Welcome to Hacienda Gaston.”

His new assistant looked amazed, the Erebus woodland now forgotten as they rode past the village of farmers that worked the fields, fine dust clouding behind the wheels. Finally, two giant gates and an enormous courtyard.

“Whoa, what is that?” Judah gaped at the giant tree in the middle of the courtyard that blocked the view of the mansion.

“What? The tree?” Tina asked.

“Yeah.”

“Balete. A century-old. See those?” She pointed at the roots hanging in the air, sprouting from the thick crown. “They’re called strangling figs. They will eventually reach ground and grow; thicken, until they eventually strangle the host tree.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tina chuckled. “You’re so oddly amusing and ignorant. I think I’ll enjoy showing you around.”

The mansion was big enough to cover the view of the mountains behind it and Lucas shared another amused smile with his sister as Judah gawked in astonishment.

“I knew you were rich—the charter plane and all—but… this is something else. You’re filthy rich .”

“Not us,” Lucas replied. “It’s the older people living in this house.”

“We’re not rich until they die,” Tina added.

Stopping the vehicle at the bottom of the stone stairs that led up to the doors, he looked over his seat at Judah. “Get out.”

The man struggled out of the vehicle and pulled his suitcase out. Tina closed the passenger door and poked her head into the open window. “Are you going to join us for dinner later?”

“If the old man will tell me why he summoned me back home, I might,” he said.

“Wait—you’re going?” Judah asked, looking bewildered. “Where?”

“Home,” Lucas replied, as if Judah should have known. “I don’t live here.”

“But you can’t just leave me he—”

“Feel at home,” he said, driving away.

“But the meeting!” Judah shouted helplessly.

Lucas just smiled and drove home.

A small, rough road led to his little harbor and no one, not even the farmers who worked the surrounding fields, could enter. He parked outside the concrete and hardwood tiny house deftly hidden from view in the middle of a rice field. Trees surrounded the patch of land.

His tiny secret.

Inside was an open space: kitchen, living room; a bath and toilet that opened to the outside; above was a half-deck with a mattress and a lamp. One side of the house was entirely glass, looking out into the wide, open rice field, spilling sunlight during the day, and displayed the lit interior at night.

After drinking a glass of water, he swung his bag over his shoulder and pulled the reclining sofa away from the wall. Then he bent down and pulled open the hidden trapdoor on the wooden floor.

The narrow staircase squeaked under his weight. The sunlight from upstairs spilled down to guide his steps, the floating dust motes visible in the light. He flicked on the switch, revealing all of his secrets.

The yellow light flickered, then stilled. In the middle was his table, empty save for a lamp. Shelves lined the walls, some empty, others displaying his priceless secrets, sitting there waiting for him.

Lucas placed his canvas bag on the table and with deliberate ease, pulled out the only object inside—a long cloth woven with red and white geometrical patterns. It looked and felt just like any cloth.

But it wasn’t just any cloth.

Hundreds of people, even the gods, had sought the legendary birang of King Laon. And now it was home, just where it was meant to be—in his possession, safe inside a Vesta.

Myth said that King Laon gave his people anything they wished for through the birang he wore around his head. There were many tales of what happened to it after the king died, most of them false. Lucas read countless books to track its trail around the globe.

One good thing about being famous was brushing shoulders with the upper echelons of society. For Lucas, he preferred the demigods. Not for their charms and godly presence, but for their secrets.

It took five long years of arduous research, befriending demigods, a few Opulents, and at one time even a minor god, just to get his hands on this mystical artifact.

He found an underground auction—very illegal, of course. There, he bought the birang, and it cost him the entire fortune he earned from his last ten concerts.

“I’m not even sure if you work,” he said to the cloth.

The auction was held in an Erebus, in an abandoned temple of Veritas, the Goddess of Truth. That was the only consolation he had. The auctioneer did not have to show them if it worked. He only needed to tell them it was the real thing. So yes, this thing could work. But like many mythical artifacts, the birang demanded someone worthy.

He carefully folded the cloth and placed it on the shelf. It was not even aesthetically pleasing. Stepping back, hands in his pockets, he still admired his collection: A vase he got from the south; a blade from a forest in the west; a piece of paper; a pipe, a necklace. A few others lined the other shelves, all worth his entire fortune and agonizing journeys.

He did not consider himself a hero by protecting these things. He was just a crazy collector who appreciated the story of each, hoping that perhaps, someday, someone worthy would need them—perhaps even him.

He turned away from his collection, switched off the lights and climbed back upstairs.

He slid the sofa back into place and looked around.

Now, why did the old man call him back home?

03 | I’m a Trained Villain

By the time Isla dressed the following morning and climbed down for breakfast, she already convinced herself hard enough that she had a terrible dream—a nightmare. But like most days, Cris had to ruin her fantasy.

He met her in the hallway and said, “We should book a flight soon.”

She ignored him and continued down the hall and into the dining room. The morning sunlight streamed through the wide windows, casting light over the long wooden table. Ivor was already eating his bacon and muffins. Lola, her hair the color of sunlight wrapped in a blue chignon, was quietly eating in her usual spot to Ivor’s right.

“I have the details of the Eastern Department of Lost Things with me if you want to look into it,” Cris continued, an irritating shadow behind Isla. “They have a long list of clienteles you may be interested in, most of whom potential supporters when you become empress and—”

“Good morning,” Isla curtly greeted Ivor, taking the seat to his left. The old, dying man just nodded with a small smile before he sent Cris a look of warning. Lola beamed from across the table. “What do you want to do today?” Lola asked, her cheerful voice rather forced.

“I’m thinking of going to the lake.”

“The lake was closed last year,” Cris said, placing a folder just beside the fork Isla wanted to grab and poke into his eye, one thong at a time.

“Then I’ll go hunting.”

“Not the best time for hunting. Too many stray nymphs in spring.”

“Don’t worry, Cris. I’ll be shooting stray humans.”

Cris rolled his eyes while Isla’s flickered to the black folder beside her hand. Her jaw tightened. She blinked away and looked up to find Lola studying her. Then Lola smiled. “I’m thinking we can go shopping for—”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the butler interrupted, stepping through the doorway, eyes directed to Ivor. “You have callers—”

“We’re not callers, we’re here for breakfast,” the familiar voice said, followed by a tapping sound on the hardwood floor. Isla rolled her eyes to the side to look.

Dressed in a gray sweater vest over a white dress shirt, the man walked into the room with his fancy walking stick.

“Good morning, Rowan,” Lola greeted.

Their cousin walked over to the table, his eyes looking around the place as if he could see. He could not. It was his Curse. But he was so good at masking it that no one could truly tell. He had the uncanny ability to look one straight in the eye. It always gave her the chills. But that was his strategy.

Rowan enjoyed sensing people’s unease. It came with the blindness, the sensing. His wing , on the other hand, was a different matter.

“I can’t miss the famous Develler muffins,” he said, moving his walking stick to the side until he found the empty chair beside Isla.

“Where’s Diana?” Lola asked.

“Here!”

Diana looked different from Rowan. In fact, she looked different every day. Her hair was still brown, but her eyes were green and set wide apart. Her brows were thinner, her cheeks too hollow. And she looked a little older. Her hair and body always remained the same. It was just the face that changed daily since she got her Curse at eighteen.

Isla may be one of the very few who could still remember what she really looked like before her Curse, being able to look into the woman’s head. But lately, she noticed that Diana’s memories of her old face were also fading away. A pity, of course, because Isla genuinely liked Diana.

“It must be devastating to not remember your own face.” It was a joke she would often throw at Rowan, but never at Diana. The lady was just precious. While Rowan could be insufferable, Diana was a welcome company.

Diana walked over to Ivor and gave the old man a big hug. “Did you miss me?” she asked.

“What are you talking about? You were here two days ago,” the old man grumbled. “But I missed that look last week—the one with the rosy cheeks.”

“You mean my Jane look. I’m sorry, Ivor. She rarely appears.”

Scanning her cousin’s thoughts for anything suspicious and finding none, Isla deliberately switched Diana off her radar . She had always been safe, but one could never be too sure considering the woman’s father and brother.

“I see Martha showed herself again,” said Lola, gazing at Diana’s face when the woman sat beside her. They always had a special bond. Best friends, that’s what they were. The two of them had given Diana’s faces different names.

Rowan, on the other hand, was an entirely separate matter. At the moment, he was thinking about muffins. She searched further and then stiffened.

“Someone told me she already got it. They’re keeping it a secret,” the familiar voice was saying to Rowan. “Now, why is that?”

Rowan did not answer, but Isla felt his excitement. She felt him smile at his father’s voice.

Blinking, she pulled back.

“Did you like it?” Rowan nonchalantly asked aloud.

She froze. “What?”

A cold, calculating smile curled his lips. “The muffins.” He turned, his blind eyes staring straight at her. Thick brows hooded his deep-set black eyes, giving him a disarmingly handsome look.

“The muffins are as splendid as your eyesight, Rowan,” she replied, stretching her lips. “I hope you can see my mocking smile.”

“Isla, happy birthday!” Diana greeted. “Quite surprised when Lola told me you’re home.”

She forced a smile, eyes flickering back on the folder.

“But you’ve been missing out on a lot of the family drama!”

“I’m sure Isla has more important things to deal with nowadays,” Rowan said while the servant placed a plate of muffin and eggs before him. Without turning, he added, “Am I right, Isla? Things are getting a little challenging lately, isn’t it?”

Her jaw twitched. She wanted to ask him why he was here, but she already knew why he was here. The bastard must have been following her. But his presence here was not questionable at all, whatever his purpose may be. He would always drop by to check if Ivor was still alive. Their family estate was only half an hour away.

“Villain work is always challenging, but it’s getting boring. How are your pets?” she asked.

“The Department of Mythical Animals is doing rather well, thank you,” he replied. “I’m training a new Kitsune.”

“Fox?”

“He’s considering keeping it,” Diana added, rolling her eyes.

Isla saw the black Kitsune in Rowan’s thoughts. “Then I hope it develops the nine tails. You’ll need over one to pull you along everywhere,” she said to Rowan. Ivor had been silent, acting nonchalant, his knife grating his plate. The old man never grated his plate—he hardly had the energy. Therefore, he was not enjoying the light banters.

Lola and Diana engaged in the latest Luke Edner news. “I heard he’s in East Isles,” Diana whispered to Lola. “Did you see the photo? You think it was him?”

Ignoring them, Isla looked over to her secretary. Cris was bent on his phone, but Isla knew he was observing.

“I can perfectly do well with or without a pet, cousin,” Rowan said.

“I see ,” she replied.

He scoffed, and she was once more pulled into another memory.

“Our sources are confident the emperor is keeping her Curse confidential. There’s only one reason for that, son,” Rowan’s father was saying. “They uprooted the western Booth. Stupid thing to do, even for Isla. That only means she’s desperate. And one thing that can make an Opulent desperate is if they get a bad Curse. The question now is—what is it?”

She withdrew from his thoughts, blocking him completely for two reasons: one, he was deliberately taunting her; second, she hated his father.

Lowell Westcott locked his own wife, their aunt, inside a room after she got her Curse and they barely ever saw her. He liked to think he could take his wife’s part in the Develler clan, and he did great with his son. At twenty-seven, Rowan had embodied the same ambitious and manipulative trait of his father. His wing, one could say, was a great weapon.

Apart from the ability to sense emotions, Rowan could control it. But only if he touched you. Or if he had something you owned. Isla could write a bloody trilogy of the many times Lola, Diana, and she crept inside Rowan’s room to take back items he stole from them. She also heard he had a secret room in the Westcott estate solely for items belonging to people he knew.

She forced out a laugh, making Lola and Diana turn to her with wide, questioning eyes. “Rowan thinks I’m keeping secrets.”

He scoffed. Years of growing up with a borderline sociopath was enough practice. The sociopath being herself, of course.

“Are you children fighting?” Ivor sardonically asked.

“No,” Isla and Rowan chorused.

“Then finish your breakfast.”

Isla could not. Not when she was seeing Rowan’s possible future. Clear and almost real.

Rowan sitting at the head of a long table surrounded by the Senators. He was in a room, the Office of the Emperor.

Her stomach churned, her flesh contracting in panic. She searched him again, for any other possible future.

There were a few, but him being the emperor was the clearest of all. Her eyes flickered to Diana, and she shuffled through the woman’s possible future. And a shiver ran up her spine.

Diana standing beside her father while she watched her brother take his oath in front of an Opulent infant. Diana crying as her brother promised the infant to work hard to ensure its future, to give it the life it deserved as an Opulent.

“What’s this?” Rowan asked, drawing Isla back to the present. He tapped the black folder with his hand.

Isla snatched it away, as if saving it from fire. “Reports.”

He nodded. Then he smiled at her. “Of course.” He sensed something from the folder.

“Department of Lost Things.”

He frowned. “I sensed that you anticipate going there.”

He just nodded. “Hmm.” He helped himself into a bite of muffin and chewed. “What did you lose?”

She forced a smile. “Nothing.”

His thoughts were telling her he did not believe her.

“I’ll be managing one office,” she blurted out.

“But what about your Villain work?” Diana asked.

Lola and Ivor were not moving at all.

“I resigned to do some work for the Department of Lost Things,” she said to Diana. “Their performance is unthinkable. They failed to provide adequate assistance to the Department of Villainy last year and it’s unacceptable. As a Develler, I have to do something. Ivor and our parents spent years in that department.”

“There’s nothing challenging with the Department of Lost Things, Isla,” Rowan said.

“I don’t know about you, Rowan,” she said, “but I can clearly see some problems with the department.”

“And which office are we talking about? The west? I heard their Booth is currently unavailable.”

“No. The East. They have the poorest performance. They’ll need supervision once more work comes in from the west.”

“Eastern Arena.” Rowan turned to Ivor. “And Ivor approves of this?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you think it’s going to be safe for you?”

She smiled wryly. “Have you forgotten? I’m a trained Villain.”

“You’ve never been to the Eastern Arena.”

“That’s why I’m going.”

“Does that mean you’re giving up your position in the Department of Villainy?”

“I can always go back whenever I want.” She stood, grabbing a muffin. “Which reminds me, I have things to settle,” she added, escaping before he sensed the lie.

Cris jumped on his feet as she approached the doorway.

“Get me on a bloody plane tomorrow ,” Isla growled under her breath.

“Done,” he replied.

---

The distant echoes of chirping birds, the mist that washed across the vast blue mountains in the horizon, and the smell of buffalo dung greeted the dozens of farm workers of Hacienda Gaston in the tiny town of Cale.

They expected a normal cleaning today after yesterday’s sugarcane harvest, but they were unprepared for three things:

First, someone had burned the sugarcane field overnight, leaving the ground charred, acres of burned cane trash blanketing the field in black.

Second, and what would most likely be the town’s gossip for days, was the perfect circle of an untouched patch of land in the middle of the field. Later, the neighborhood would speak in wonder and fear about how even the fire was afraid of it.

Third, the it was the young girl of around fourteen sleeping peacefully in the middle of the circle.

04 | This Human Is Interesting

Don Honesto Gaston was seventy-nine. Very much alive, and unfortunately very slow. He took his time sitting down, then took some more to stare at Lucas.

Breaking the awkward silence, Lucas asked, “When will you get to the part where you tell me why I’m here?”

“Why? Are you in a hurry to leave?”

He fixed the man a wry look. “I’ve been here two days. Sure, I want to know why I have to stay longer.”

Honesto shook his head. “You rarely stay home.”

“Gramps, I’m busy—”

“I know,” the man interjected. He shifted in his seat and let out a painful groan. “Your father’s away on business. I can’t run the hacienda on my own.”

Lucas frowned. “You mean I should do it?”

“It’s about time.”

He groaned. “And where did papa go?”

“I said,” the man said, eyes turning stern. “Business.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. “When is he coming back?”

“Once he’s done with business.”

Before he could say something to get him in trouble, a knock came to his grandfather’s study door.

“Come in,” Honesto Gaston called.

A servant walked in, followed by their breathless farmhand. “There’s been a fire in the fields.”

Lucas sighed, stealing his grandfather a look.

“Go deal with it,” came the order.

He reluctantly stood.

“We’re glad you’re back, Sir,” the farmhand said as they came down the stairs.

“I’m not sure I am,” he grumbled under his breath.

On the way to the field, he asked why the burning happened. “We no longer burn the fields.”

“We didn’t, Sir,” said the farmhand. “Someone did.”

“Who?”

The farmland refused to tell him anything more, only that he should see it for himself. When they arrived, he saw a crowd in the middle of the burnt field.

“She’s not human, is she?” Lucas heard one lady ask as he approached with the farmhand. The workers saw him and before he could ask, one of them said, “Sir Lucas!”

Over a dozen of them stepped aside to reveal a confused teen. His brows fused when his eyes landed on the unburned perfect circle, the girl right in the middle. The brown maya bird picking on the dried leaves was the only fearless creature around.

The smell of burnt cane trash traveled up his nostrils. What happened here?

“We found her unconscious in that circle,” one farmer explained as Lucas approached.

“She’s not from here, that’s for certain,” a woman said before Lucas could voice the question, tone laced with scorn.

Lucas slowly approached the girl. She looked around thirteen or fifteen, he could not be sure. Too young,

he thought. “Are you all right?”

“She’s not hurt. We asked,” said someone behind him.

“Let the girl answer,” he ordered. Then gently, he asked again, “Are you hurt?”

She blinked, brown eyes looking confused. Her long black hair tousled, dried sugarcane leaves sticking out in some places; her white dress smeared with dirt like her face. “No,” was her croaky reply. She swallowed.

“Do you remember how you came to be here?”

She looked around. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Hacienda Gaston.”

“Hacienda?”

“A farm. Don’t you remember how you got here?”

She shook her head.

“What’s your name?”

She frowned at him, as if the answer was there on his face. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“How old are you?”

She shook her head. “I don’t… remember anything.”

“Anything at all?”

She blinked, her brown eyes filling with tears. “I can’t remember—” And then she started to panic, twisting over the dirt and dried leaves, causing the maya bird to fly away. “Where am I? How did I—What happened?”

“Hold her down again,” ordered the leader of the group. “She was hysterical earlier,” he added to Lucas.

“Don’t touch her,” he sternly said, lifting an open hand to the girl. “Calm down,” Lucas said. With a reassuring look, he touched her shoulder. “I’ll take you to the doctor. Is that okay?”

“I don’t know—”

“Then we’ll find help. They’ll know what to do. Someone might be looking for you as we speak.” He noted that her white dress, although ruined and filthy, did not look cheap. She could either be from the city or from a neighboring hacienda. He was not very confident with the latter. He knew everyone in the area; was friends with their children. But if this girl was from the city, then it meant she had to travel through an Erebus to get here.

Someone—or something—must have followed her here.

But that would still not explain how the fire started and how she was spared. It did not explain the unburnt patch of land.

Unless this was staged.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ll be all right?”

He nodded, not sure if an assurance was the best thing at the moment.

“Could be a Villain. I heard a few arrived today,” he heard one woman say. Lucas ignored the remark. He stood up, offering a hand. “Can you stand?” She nodded and took his hand.

On her feet, she swayed, and he steadied her with both hands.

“Carry her to the Rover,” he ordered two of the men.

They hesitated to approach the girl, afraid to touch her, but one scowl from Lucas and one of them hoisted the girl in his arms and walked away.

As he turned, an old woman grabbed his arm. “She’s not human,” she said, glancing at the circle on the ground.

Lucas sighed, summoning patience. “We’re in a Vesta.”

“She can cause something, Sir Lucas. We can’t have anyone—”

“And again, we’re in a Vesta.” He pointed at the ground. “This can easily be just a prank by some spoiled kids in the area.”

The old woman turned to look at the woodland across the street. Lucas shrugged from her hold and walked to his Rover.

He ran his fingers through his unbound hair. “Great,” he growled. Not three days in Cale and he had to deal with this.

His phone rang. Taking it to his hear, his grandfather’s voice asked, “Well?”

“Not sure. I think someone thought it would be fun to play with fire. I’ll see you for lunch.”

“Good. We’re not done talking.”

“About what?”

“Your assistant is here.”

He smiled, squinting at the sun. “I was hoping you’d enjoy his company.”

“Well, I don’t want him up here. Take him to the basement!”

“I’m pretty sure the house is large enough for Judah, gramps.”

As he hung up, Tina called.

“They said there’s a little girl in the field,” his sister’s voice said.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“From the woodland?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Does gramp knows?”

“No, not yet. Now, stop calling me.”

Tina laughed. “Loving your new job ?”

“Just call dad and tell him to come home quick.”

“No way. You call him.”

“He listens to you.”

“Well, not always. Alright. See you later. I’ll tour Judah around. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“Get rid of that girl before mom finds out. You know how she is with stray things. They inflate her charitable soul and all.”

He sighed as he reached the Rover. The girl was now in the backseat, looking out the window at the woodland across the street. “I’ll try.”

“Good! See you at lunch!”

Pocketing his phone, he jumped behind the wheel and looked over his shoulder. “You alright?”

The girl just looked at him. She looked so young and vulnerable.

He sighed and started the engine.

---

Wherever they were, however she allowed herself to be dragged to this place, Isla regretted it the moment they arrived.

She glared at the large manor in front of them. “What’s this?”

“They call it the Wyrd House,” explained Cris.

She turned and stared at her secretary. Behind him, Lola was blinking at the manor, her black hair blown to the side by the gust of wind from the giant trees around them. The tiny glowing orbs floated softly, sighing their faint melodies, echoing with the unfamiliar sounds of the woodland. A few orbs circled around Tien, the only guard she brought with her. As one of the Opulents she trained with in the Academy years ago, he was one of the few she could trust with her secrets.

“It’s a colonial house with—”

“No, Cris. The question is if it’s livable,” she interjected.

“I’m sure it is,” said Lola, taking a photo of the house with her phone. “Shall we?”

Isla stared at the old edifice before them. Made of bricks and wood, the mansion screamed ancient history. The fragmented wooden balustrades of the veranda above whispered their remaining days.

She walked away from their rented black van and followed her sister down the stone path and up the short flight of stairs, stopping at the double wooden doors.

Cris jumped from behind her and fumbled with an old set of keys. Isla impatiently waited. The strong wind rattled something to her right and she snapped her head to see sliding windows that looked more fragile than their dying great-grandfather back home. One shove and they would fly off their tracks.

“They’re capiz shells,” Cris explained, stepping away from the door.

“Very durable,” she wryly noted, studying the perfectly cut small square shells encased in wooden frames. “Laced with a water nymph’s blood?”

“No.”

“Precisely my point,” she grumbled.

Lola excitedly pushed at the doors and they creaked open, revealing what Isla had just imagined: Dark and dingy.

“It’s clean,” said her sister, looking around.

“The previous manager lived here,” Cris said as they all filed into the hallway, Tien right behind them, silent as he always was.

A small brown bird flew inside, carrying with it a whiff of the glowing orbs. It settled on a window sill.

“This place was once a hospital during a human war,” Cris explained over the clucking of her heels against the wooden floors. Lola was already looking around for a light switch. “Then they turned it into a prison half a century later before it was…”

Isla stopped and stared at him. So did Lola. “A prison?” Pointing, she incredulously added, “With those windows?” As if fearing it was also being judged, the bird flew away.

Cris shrugged. “It’s in the middle of an Erebus woodland. Creatures roam the place—entities and spirits humans are afraid of.”

“I bet the prison guard is the ghost of the boy I can definitely feel lurking somewhere, because this place is obviously not graced,” she wryly said.

“That and the woman in the kitchen. And a few house elves who aren’t showing themselves,” Lola murmured.

“Gracing land is not that common around here.”

“Why?”

Cris shrugged. “They embrace all spirits.”

“Nonsense. Who will be able to sleep knowing an old god may come to you anytime?”

“The former manager?” Cris replied with sarcasm. “Look, gracing land is not allowed in East Isles.”

“Why?” Isla asked, dumbfounded. Gracing properties was done on a daily basis back home.

“Because spirits have rights.”

“Cris, where’s the switch for the lights?” Lola asked.

The secretary cleared his throat.

Isla raised her brows at the young man, silently expressing her question.

“The place has no electricity.”

Her eyes narrowed at the incredible revelation, and she slowly stepped right in front of her seventeen-year-old secretary. “I thought you said work has been done here.”

“They only got to fix the roofing.”

The wind outside howled even stronger. A storm was coming. Perfect.

Lola, now looking a little hysterical, rushed to Cris. “You did not tell me I won’t be able to charge my phones. I have a very important online voting event at midnight—”

“I already called a company.”

“The former managers never complained about this?”

“Electricity doesn’t reach this place, so I arranged for solar panels.”

When he closed his mouth without saying the conclusion Isla wanted to hear, she asked, “But?”

“But they’re not sure about spending days in an Erebus.”

Lola gasped with disbelief, her breath turning into a dramatic wheeze.

“What do you mean?” Lola asked. “Find Opulent workers.”

Cris looked at them wryly. “There are none. Their workers are all humans. They—”

“They can be paid,” Isla said with finality. “Get those lazy bastards here first thing tomorrow. Double the payment.”

“This is not the Western Arena. Things are a little different here. The humans are more reluctant.”

Isla scoffed and Lola, whose hair had turned into a darker shade of purple, quickly turned off her phone to save power. “I’ll have to borrow your phone later, Cris. This is your fault. If Luke Edner doesn’t win, I’ll be… oh, nasty gods of Olympus, Diana will kill me if I can’t vote. We’ve spent nights creating accounts for the voting and—”

“I’ll visit the company tomorrow. The entire cost will be taken out of your personal account. The office just doesn’t have the budget for this,” said Cris, walking past them and up the stairs, completely unaffected. “There won’t be servants here as you requested. No other Opulents other than us either. Except for the staff in the Department of Lost Things, we’ll all be alone in this woodland.”

“But Cris, can’t we get that electricity set up like later this afternoon?” Lola asked, bounding up the stairs behind him.

“Not possible.”

Her sister stopped midway and groaned, hair turning blue.

Isla faced Tien. He towered over her and only stared when she faced him. His thoughts were filled with things he had to do before now and sleep: walking around the woodland later tonight to acquaint himself with the area, check for any hexes in the premises, track down dangerous creatures, and perhaps even visit some nymphs to gain more information.

“What do you think?” she asked him. “Is this a safe place for us?”

“From humans, yes,” he replied, his sharp-angled hooded eyes staring back at hers. “I’m not yet certain about the other strangers.”

She watched Lola brush her hand along the walls while she climbed the stairs, a thing her sister often did to connect with a new place. It was as if she talked to the walls and the railings as her hands lightly caressed their surface. Lola came to a halt and looked up at the top landing, as if the railing she touched just told her something.

Lola rarely shared what she saw in the things she touched, but on rare occasions such as this one, she did. “The walls have seen so many things,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Tien and Isla.

Isla followed her sister’s gaze to the top landing. There was nothing there, but there was something.

Lola broke into a smile, cheeks puffing. “I’ll have fun with the history lessons. Cris! We need candles!”

Isla followed her sister, intent on finding a decent room. A tinkling sound coming from the kitchen at the back of the stairs made her stop.

“Lunch?” Tien asked from below.

“Yes,” she replied, hands on the railing, eyes looking up at the landing above.

Something was always around in an Erebus, but this woodland in particular seemed different. It was not like most Erebus. Typically, magic could be sensed even if the creatures were trying to hide. But here, it seemed that it was muted, almost as if the magic was trapped somewhere.

---

The maya bird landed on the rock beside the kapre smoking a pipe outside his Balete tree in the woodland. Ramil’s long fingers and beard twitched a little, sensing a presence. His smoke screened the bird for a moment before it reappeared.

The kapre stared down at the bird. “You have been wandering around here lately. You never stay long in one place.”

The bird was gone. The handsome man was now sitting beside Ramil. While earlier he was a brown bird, he now wore a black robe with intricate woven patterns made of gold that faintly glowed as he moved. Underneath, his bronzed chest was bare and inked. The black patterns, Ramil knew, extended down to his arms and wrists, and on the back of his hand and fingers. The strokes were of language long forgotten, but to Ramil and the others who came with it, they were this man’s clothes. It spoke of time, of space, of nothing and something.

His dark hair was long and braided; his eyes were like the forest, deep green and filled with mystery. And his smile was as mischievous as always. “I settle now and then,” he said, voice deep and wayward. “This woodland is different, is it not, Ramil, my friend?”

“I have not seen you for a while,” the kapre said instead. “What business do you have here?”

The man who was not a man, nor a bird, nor anything that he may fancy to be, jumped to his feet. His robe floated softly before falling around him without sound. His smile that of mirth, his eyes glimmering with wickedness. “Adventure, that is all,” he retorted before he disappeared with the wind, then visible, a maya bird, small and harmless to the eyes, but a deceptive force. An augury. “I will see you around, my old friend,” his amused voice was whispered back to Ramil by the wind, leaving the kapre outside his tree, guarding the invisible doors of the Department of Lost Things.

The bird flew to the edge of the woodland and assumed a man’s form once more.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched the human inside the Rover across the street, safe in his Vesta, staring at the woodland.

Best we head south, Avi , the spirit of the wind whispered to him. Anitun Tabu is coming, and I hate to be leashed like my sisters. She brings storms.

He refused to hear his old friend, his eyes on the human. The Opulents in the old, beaten house came to mind again, and he smiled.

Avi , the wind whined. Why are you doing this?

“This human is interesting,” he said, eyes on Lucas Gaston. The man looked like he wanted to cross the street and enter the woodland. To find something, or perhaps experience something.

He is a dark storm , said the wind. Still young, but soon shall rage.

Avi smiled, deep forest green eyes glistering like the dust orbs nearby, an ember hidden beneath a storm.

“This is exciting, my friend,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Isla Develler will never know what’s coming for her.”

05 | Welcome to the Department of Lost Things

Just as in any society, most Opulents had to earn a living. The Opulent empire had multiple departments keeping everything in order, all interconnected, all had one goal: maintain the universal balance for the great advantage of all Opulents.

But it was not realistically easy. Politics was always present. Therefore, not all departments felt they were treated equally. Or seen as useful as others.

The Eastern Department of Lost Things was among those that had a lot of sentiments. From Opulent Resource privileges to the number of paid vacations, they had complaints. They craved for attention, the same kind bestowed upon the other departments with glossy marble flooring, unlimited and uninterrupted internet, maintenance, carpool services, and others.

They were not the Department of Treasury who kept all the gold, or the Department of Villainy filled of strong Opulent soldiers who did actual covert operations, or the dozen others out there who upheld the glorious name of the Opulent empire.

But they did things no other departments were capable of. Many ignorant Opulents thought they were just a simple lost-and-found department, but they were not. They specialized in finding things from the most bizarre to the most trivial. Their clients were major and minor deities! Even the Department of Villainy asked for their expertise—once! Or twice!

But like the many things or people they were paid to look for, the Department of Lost Things seemed to be invisible to most of the Opulent population. With only four offices, one in each Arena, they were under-manned, and they were drowning in assignments. Well, at least the other offices were drowning.

The easter office was just happily whining while doing close to nothing, which was not their fault, of course. They were not easily accessible as the other three offices.

Saying the office in the Eastern Arena was the least productive could be an understatement, as other Opulents familiar with their work would claim. The other three offices rumored they were useless. And to make it worse, they had just lost one useless manager.

Their office was the Tree House. Located deep inside a vast woodland, the Tree House was nestled between two giant Balete trees. It had no visible structure save for its doors.

An ordinary human—should one ever be stupid enough to step out of a Vesta and enter the woodland—could easily pass through it without feeling or seeing anything apart from the rare slight prickle at the back of their neck, but that was probably because of the entity that guarded the place.

The Tree House was not a “house”, but for the Opulents working there, it was home.

And today was just another morning at the office.

“And I’m telling you, girl, it’s going to be a hit,” the man was saying to the receptionist, Esha, who had her eyes closed while he carefully drew a bindi pattern on her forehead with a liquid eyeliner.

“I’m not sure it’s really unique ‘unique’, Al,” Esha murmured, without moving.

Al paused from what he was doing and leaned back. When Esha opened her eyes, he dramatically blinked at her in disbelief. “Now, why would you say that?”

Esha rolled her eyes. “Girl, your novel is practically about everyone in the office.”

Al straightened, his tall build casting a shadow over Esha. He brushed his taupe chiffon coat aside, revealing a white floral button shirt tucked under khaki pants, and placed his wrists on his hips. “No, of course not!”

Esha counted with her fingers. “An Indian who has never set foot in India—oh, wait, she sounds familiar!” she said, mockingly pointing at herself.

Al scoffed. “There are loads of Indians who had never set foot in India. Don’t be delusional. You’re my best friend, but I can’t write about you. My character actually knows her lineage, darling, and that’s Saraswati, the goddess of music, wisdom, speech, art, etcetera,” he explained with a dramatic wave of his hand. “And some unnamed angel of the sea or something.”

She uncurled her second finger. “A loner who is always, always sick?”

“Again, the girl in my novel has an actual disease. Come on, what do you think of me? I did my research,” Al said, flicking the tip of the eyeliner in his hand.

“Then how do you explain the priest Explorer and the Muslim driver?”

“First, a church needs a priest and my story has a church near this mansion where my antagonist lives. And he’s not a Explorer. He’s an investigator. Second, Esha, Muslims can drive, too! And Zaara is not a driver. She’s an Explorer. What’s wrong with you?”

Esha laughed. “Al, I’m just saying your story sounds very familiar. Not saying it’s bad.”

“And I’m just saying my story is not based on everyone here.”

“Al, you wrote our former boss as the fucking antagonist who lives alone in a colonial mansion with a ghost—”

“My antagonist has beautiful, long, silky hair! And she’s more malevolent, vile—evil! Mona was nowhere evil, come on! She was just useless.”

“Why are you getting angry? You asked for my opinion.”

Al rolled his eyes. “My novel is going to be different from us.”

“Your story’s theme is about people with the blood of the gods and angels,” she pointed out. “How is that different—”

Al gasped. “Now, hold it, girl! Let me tell you how the gods from Olympus got published by using their—” he stopped and stiffened in his spot.

“What now?” Esha asked him.

Her question was answered by the sound of opening doors and a burst of light from the woodland at the other side, washing over the brick walls behind Esha and the antique wood furniture around the small reception area, highlighting the floating specks of dust in the air. Glowing tiny orbs stopped at the threshold, unable to enter the Vesta ground of the office.

“Are we expecting a client?” Al asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Esha replied, jumping with a cry as a brown maya bird flew through the doorway and landed on top of the reception desk.

“Everyone’s in, right?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re not having any clients today, right?”

“I told you, yes.”

The silhouetted figure walked toward them. Esha grabbed Al’s arm as the figure stepped out of the bright morning light and onto the hardwood flooring.

The sound of heels echoed around them.

Al had already circled to the front of the counter, and Esha quickly followed. Her mustard khadi saree slipped over one arm as she did so and she absently fixed it, blinking a few times, her eyesight adjusting to the being standing before them.

The light from the open doors illuminated the woman. And before they could blink in astonishment, another figure appeared beside her: a young adult—or maybe a teen—male who was almost the same height as his companion.

The woman was in a blue dress with long sheer sleeves, the kind in a collared white shirt and suspenders.

Al and Esha looked at each other before they slowly turned their head back to gawk. The pair did not look like anyone from the East. Their very presence demanded for a throne to be wheeled in.

The door slowly closed behind the newcomers, and suddenly, their silhouetted faces were clearer.

“Welcome to the Department of Lost Things. How can we help you?” Esha greeted.

“Who are you?” the young man asked, eyeing Al and Esha.

They blinked. “Who are you?” Al shot back.

The woman let out a long sighed. “Isla Develler.”

Al and Esha’s eyes widened at the name. Al poked Esha’s side.

“Ouch!” Esha cried out, bending away from him.

“Where’s my office?” Isla asked.

They blinked. “Office?”

Isla Develler closed her eyes. She seemed pissed, and they panicked. “Cris,” she gritted out.

The young man was scowling at the two of them. “Did you not receive the memo?”

“What memo?” Esha asked, looking around as if the memo was there somewhere. “I don’t remember—”

The young man named Cris was not looking pleased. “The memo from the Office of the Emperor.”

“We did not receive a memo.”

“The one which states that your new manager is arriving today?”

Al and Esha blinked in surprise. “Manager?” Their head snapped toward Isla.

“What language do you speak that you can’t understand me?” Cris asked, his thick accent very audible now.

“It’s just…” Esha said, now in full-blown panic. “We were not informed. Mona just resigned and did not—”

Isla stepped forward, they stepped back. “Just lead me to my office.”

Esha jumped on her feet. “Th—This way, Miss Develler,” she said, gulping at the name.

Esha shared one last look with Al, both of them thinking Al’s novel might have just found its new antagonist.

---

Not fifteen minutes later, the five staff of the Tree House tried to nonchalantly gawk at the new boss sitting inside her office. The glass panel that separated her from the entire work area made the ogling convenient.

Seated behind the desk, she was talking with the teenage boy who arrogantly introduced himself earlier as Isla Develler’s secretary.

Esha had delivered coffee to everyone at least three times now, spilling half a cup on Das, their lead Explorer and the only one who seemed not to care that a Develler was inside their office.

A fucking—Al’s choice of word—Develler!

“How long do you think she’s going to last?” Esha asked the woman weakly typing on an old computer.

Fran pushed her glasses over the bridge of her nose and squinted at the glass wall five meters away from her desk. “The question is why is a Develler here.”

Al, wide-eyed, turned to Das. “Did we do something?”

At forty, Das was like the father of everyone. Well, he was one. He was a priest. Not that humans were eager to attend the mass he held once a week in the Vesta village nearby, but his faith was his Curse. And he was wise. And very forgiving, even if you spilled half a cup of hot coffee over his lap. “We have done nothing good or bad. We haven’t had a single client since last month.” He followed it with a sigh and a cluck of his tongue while frowning down at the stain on his pants.

“I don’t like him,” Al said, gesturing at Cris. And as if he heard, the young secretary turned his head to stare at them. In a blink of an eye, all five employees went in motion—Esha scampered out of the main office floor, murmuring she had to return to the reception; Das stared at his blank computer screen; Fran coughed and squinted at her keyboard; twenty-year-old Zaara, another Explorer, swiveled around and hid behind a copy of Pride and Blood, a Vampire Story .

As Al slowly moved to follow Esha, Cris walked out of Isla’s office and blocked his path. “Ms. Develler wants to have a word with everyone in five minutes.”

Al gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Of course, Cris,” he said, making certain that this child knew who he was talking to. He may be from the Western Arena, but Al was from here and this child did not know here . “Esha!” he called out, eyes on the child. “The boss wants us here,” he said to his friend when Esha hurried over. “You don’t scare me, kid,” he added to Cris with a wink before turning around to announce to everyone, “Gear up, useless Opulents. Boss talk!”

---

Isla was not sure how she should proceed. Everyone in front of her looked different. Their features were not specific to just one origin. Back in the West, there was a different kind of diversity. Apparently, so was the case here.

She faced the guy who seemed to be the oldest of the group. “Vedasto.” The name rolled out of her tongue differently than she had hoped for. “It says here you’re a priest,” she said, holding up the folder in her hand.

“Yes.” Vedasto said. “And you can just call me Das, boss.”

“And you can call me, Miss Develler.”

“I can call you child, boss. Take your pick.”

Isla’s jaw tightened. “Very well,” she said, eyeing everyone. “If this is how things go here, then I’m willing to be called boss . What I’m not willing to tolerate, however, is the lack of reports.”

“We have had no clients in the last month,” said Esha, the woman wearing a saree.

It would have been the perfect time to get into their thoughts, but this entire office was a bloody Vesta. “Yes, and according to the very poor endorsement left by the former manager, the reason being is that you have the lowest success rate. Now,” she said, lifting her finger when one of them started to explain, “I’ve looked into the three other Department of Lost Things and their reports of last year show that they’ve been getting a flock of clients from the Eastern Arena.” Al closed his mouth and bit his lips. “Now, tell me why the deities from the east would bother going elsewhere when they have their own Department of Lost Things here?”

Everyone just stared. Isla had to remind herself that she was not facing Villains, but some minor Opulents, all of them Waifs.

“If there are any concerns that I should know—” She did not even have to finish her statement. Three hands were already in the air. And as she nodded, three people started talking all together: Al, Esha, and the sickly girl holding a cup of coffee.

“The paychecks are late, and that’s not fair—”

“We don’t have a service. Well, we have a van and we sort of have a driver, but the van’s got to be rented. You must have seen the road going here. My dog’s tail can pave a better terrain—”

“I’m always sick. Having to go to the office that doesn’t even have any medicines or concoctions can be considered maltreatment. And there are very few faes nowadays who are willing to help with some of my weird symptoms. We’re Waifs, you know. We don’t have wings like you guys and it’s just—”

When Isla’s eye twitched, everyone sensed the possible horrible kismet. “Out,” she said.

Al, Esha, and the sickly girl blinked. “What?” Al asked.

“Out, all of you.” No one moved. “Don’t make me repeat.”

“Are you firing us?”

“I would love to, but I’m a fair leader. I’ll give you a week to prove yourselves.” She lifted her arm and pointed. “Out into the Erebus now.”

“But why—”

“Because I’d rather do this my way. Out of this bloody Vesta now.”

Cris was the first to move, and everyone else followed.

Once the last person was out the door, Isla looked around the old, beaten place. Bricks were peeking out of the peeled wall plasters; the ceiling blanketed in cobwebs; the glass pane that separated her office was crusted with dust. She turned on her heels and stalked after her team.

Her heels dug into the mud the very moment she stepped out, and she cursed under her breath. She left the Department of Villainy for this. Famous.

Five Opulents stood in front of her. Then she noticed a tall, slender man sitting on a rock beside one of the giant trees, his beard long, almost white from the smoke that came out of his pipe.

Definitely not Opulent. Not human either. She ignored him like how she did earlier and focused her attention on her five employees.

Suddenly, she felt better. Everyone was finally open for her to read. She focused on the sickly woman first.

Fran.

Isla had to withdraw and scowl. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, dumbfounded. How was this woman even alive? Merely a few seconds into her mind and Isla wanted to throw up because that’s what the woman was feeling. If she ventured further, it would be worse, that’s for certain. “Is that your Curse?” she asked.

The way Fran blinked at her reminded Isla of Ivor. Weak, but alive. Her pale face was one step away from the grave, and yet she was too weak to even take that one step. “What?” Fran asked, baffled.

Instead of answering, Isla turned to Das, who was thinking about Fran needing a seat. And that yes, it was her Curse.

Her eyes veered to Al, who was silently answering Isla’s question. Yes, Fran’s Curse is dying, but never dead.

“Thank you, Al,” she said.

Al blinked in alarm. “What—Did you…” He turned to Esha, then back at Isla. “Did you just read my thoughts?”

It was Zaara who answered. “She’s a Develler. She can read minds.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tried to remember something else. “And memories. And your future.”

“Potential futures— plural ,” Cris corrected.

Everyone had a sudden tinge of fear in their thoughts. And all were curious why she was here, a powerful Develler.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now, I would like to get to work.” They stiffened. Al and Esha dramatically clutched their chest.

Her lips twitched into a smile. “You know you can never lie to me, yes?” Their eyes trembled, flickering from her to the others. “I ask the questions and I don’t need verbal answers.” They looked pained, save for Fran who was already looking worse. Like an underworld god deprived of souls, Isla swept her gaze around, enjoying their very vulnerable and unguarded thoughts. “Now, shall we start?”

06 | Do You Have Something to Hide?

When she was finally done, Isla felt as though she had traveled miles on foot. Every single one of them had concerns tucked somewhere in every bloody door.

One, however, was so loud that she could not concentrate. His mind echoed loudly, forcing Isla to draw back and glare at Al. He pestered her with questions. Why was she here? Was she banished from the family? Was she here to dissolve their department? What happened to the western office? How did their Booth get broken? Could it be fixed? What time would this end? Oh, he felt tingly. Was it because she was in his mind?

Isla stumbled back and scowled at Al. “Now, I understand Fran,” she growled under her breath.

Al blinked. “Understand Fran?”

Fran stiffened, afraid Isla would tell Al of her ultimate dream that concerned him.

Isla smiled. “I can’t tell. I don’t reveal anything I see in your thoughts unless I find the need to. And that’s what I also expect from everyone I’m working with.” Isla lifted her hand and Cris dutifully handed her a black folder. “You all heard about what happened with the western office. Their Booth is currently getting fixed, which means that all other offices should expect more clients. I’m here to improve the performance of this office. But while I’m here, I want everyone to grace a contract.”

“Grace a contract?” Al asked, gulping, looking at the folder.

“Of confidentiality.”

The five Opulents frowned.

“Reviewing everyone’s file, it seems that all previous managers have neglected to let every staff grace a confidentiality contract whereas all matters concerning the department could not, in any way or form, be repeated to anyone else in any manner—written, oral, or mental. Such as the likes of a novel or any form of storytelling, gossipmongering among them,” she added the last words with her eyes on Al.

“We don’t speak about our work to anyone—”

“I know, Das,” she answered the priest, realizing just now that the man was wearing a priest’s collar around his neck, tucked under the collar of his white shirt. He could put on a robe and they would all be in a bloody mass. “But Opulent security is a concern that all other previous managers ought to have thought about. With the delicate information this department handles, you should be the first to grace nondisclosure agreement. We cannot have anyone start spewing secrets to enemies, can we?”

Esha gulped. “Enemies? But we only work on—”

“The Department of Lost Things was created not to find a goddess’ missing trident, Esha. It was created, first and foremost, to investigate memories and provide assistance to all other Opulent departments. But it seems that it had strayed away from its mission. The Department of Lost Things started to focus on collecting payments rather than actually using them to their advantage.” She smiled at Zaara. “And yes, Zaara, to answer your question, the Office of the Emperor rarely considers your help for this reason. You may have a bank of memories, but all of them are useless because, yes, Al, your clients have been paying you short.”

“But if we do not accept their terms—”

“Then we do not offer our services.”

“Then we do not receive payment!”

“They pay us with their memories,” Isla said, voice stern and cold. “That is what we are after. Not them or whatever they have lost. We want their memories because we want to use them against them or someone else if we need to. We need their memories to improve our research, our weapons—everything. We use their memories because they are leverage. If you let them give you a day or three of their memory for their missing underwear, then you are not doing your job.”

Everyone was now thinking she was indeed from the West.

“I’m an Opulent. You are Opulents. We don’t care for our clients. We only care that they pay us big.” She handed the folder to Esha. “Get inside and grace the contract.” Esha groaned, thinking of the process. “You only have to prick a finger, Esha” Turning on her heels, she added, “Cris will facilitate the gracing. And once you’re done, Al, I want to see the Booth.”

---

Isla rolled her eyes when Esha pulled her finger away from Al, crying that she couldn’t do it. Al growled at her, calling her a baby as he pulled her hand and, without warning, pricked her finger with the needle.

Esha cried out, but her friend only glowered while pressing her finger until a drop of glowing blue blood oozed out from the wound. Cris, who had been holding the woman’s other hand, released his hold and grabbed the folder. Al guided Esha’s finger onto the paper, sealing her to the contract.

They called it gracing because all Opulents had the grace of the angels in their blood. Any Opulent—Versant or Waif—would do anything stated on the contract, which meant they had no choice. They were bound to it.

Isla swiveled in her chair with relief. Now, anyone who would ask about her or the Department of Lost Things would get nothing from her staff. They may want to share something, but their grace would stop them. They would die without uttering or thinking about it.

She stood and walked out the door.

Of course, she was scared, but she could not show that to these Opulents. Everyone was a Waif here. Not one bloody Opulent was useful, but they were skilled. They knew their job. Their hearts were not just dark enough for the actual Villain work she was used to. Al was a good Keeper. He trained in the west. And most importantly, according to his record, no one had been lost in his watch. Yet.

“Al,” she said at the door. “It’s time.”

The large man straightened and turned away from Esha. Das and the others were behind their desk, silently watching.

“How much do you know about the Booth?” Al asked.

“My mother was an Explorer. She taught me. The Emperor did the same thing. Is that answer enough?” He shrugged and walked past her, hips swaying as he did so.

“I have your cards here,” Cris whispered beside her.

“We’re not using them,” she said.

Her strides were long and sure as she followed Al into a corridor adjacent to her office. The brick walls were old and rough; the floorboards creaked and thudded with their steps.

When they entered a dark room, memories bombarded her. It was designed exactly the same as the one in the west. She remembered her mother saying all Booths were the same. She never told her all rooms were similar too.

The only light was the one coming through the small skylight above them, directly over the typewriter sitting on a table in the middle of the room.

“I want to test it,” she told Al, her voice echoing around the room.

“Really?” Al asked in surprise.

“Not me. Him,” she said, motioning her head to Cris.

Cris sharply turned to her. “But—”

“Do you have something to hide?” she asked, eyebrow arched high. Al looked on with interest.

Cris sighed. Her memories of the past two years had been wiped clean. Even the Booth would not find the whole of it.

Cris gritted his teeth. “Where do we start?”

Al hesitated and looked at Isla. “Do you want to do it yourself or—”

“I’ll do it.”

She looked around, her back straight, shoulders pulled back. Shelves lined the walls, and she did not have to ask what they held. There was a red door to the left. She did not have to ask where it led to either.

“All Booths are the same, including the rooms,” Al said, tone completely professional, reminding them that this was his turf. “The entire office is a Vesta, but the Box is in a five-meter Erebus.”

“I know,” she nodded.

“This Booth, however, has a bit of a problem. Nothing major, of course.”

“What is it?”

“Sometimes the dial gets stuck. Not when you let go, of course, because then that will be a big problem. Sometimes you just got to use a bit of force when you go clockwise.” He hesitated. “When was the last time you were in one?”

Her jaw clenched. She could not say six months ago because technically, she could not remember that. So she told him the one she did. “Thirteen.” Cris cleared his throat. “Fifteen,” she corrected. “When I was ten.”

Al winced. “Now, I understand you want to do this alone, but I’m not comfortable letting you operate it on your own, especially for the first time after almost two decades.”

Cris cleared his throat again, and Isla gritted her teeth. “Fine. You can come with us,” she told Al.

The man grinned and nodded. “Then allow me to assist you?”

Isla looked at the stack of blank cards beside the typewriter and nodded. She turned to Cris. “You might as well learn how this is done.”

“I already read five books on how this is done—”

“I don’t care how many books you’ve read, Cris,” she growled under her breath. “Observe.”

Her secretary sighed. Al snickered, reaching for the black pen that was sitting right beside the typewriter.

“Hand,” Al said, his gaze deliberately mysterious and menacing. Cris met Al’s gaze with equal measure and lifted his hand. Isla, on the other hand, could feel the cold sweat forming on her temple. She had seen her mother do what Al was doing now. She had watched it hundreds of times in the past while sitting on a stool, her short legs dangling in mid-air as she swung them.

The corner of Al’s lips curled, his gaze hard on Cris as he took the teen’s hand, and with quick precision, pricked the tip of his index finger.

Cris blinked at the slight pain as Al reached for a card from the table. It was the size of a gaming card, but it was very different in many ways. Al positioned the card face down, showing the printed gold encryptions of a spell especially made for its purpose. In the middle was a blank space.

“C-R-I-S,” she spelled for Al, who nodded and wrote Cris’ name with the pen.

Isla noticed that the tip of Cris’ finger was still glowing blue. She watched him lift it to his lips before pressing the wound with his thumb to stop the bleeding. Her attention returned on the card. The glowing blue strokes slowly crawled and traced the encryptions.

“How long do you want it?”

“Two years,” Isla replied.

Al nodded and wrote the roman numerals II.

They waited until the entire encryption turned blue. Once it did, Al flipped the card over, revealing the blank space. Next, he settled himself in front of the typewriter. As if he had done it hundreds of times, Al flipped the paper lock up without looking, inserted the card behind the cylinder, rotated the knob, placing the blank front of the card perfectly in front of the type guide before he flipped the lock back into place.

Isla let out a quiet, shaky breath. She could almost see her mother with her round glasses behind the typewriter, doing the same fluid motion as Al. Cris walked over and stood behind the Keeper.

“You’re hovering,” Al said to Cris.

“I’m observing.”

“You’re hovering. Your shadow is touching the typewriter. I can’t see.”

Cris’ jaw twitched, but he stepped back.

“Thank you,” Al said, shaking his shoulders and sliding the carriage return lever to the right. Then he stood, much to Cris’ incredulity. And then the typewriter began to type on its own, making Cris jump in alarm while Al chuckled. The typewriter moved, hopping to the next line below the first series of numbers.

Isla grew impatient. She wiped the sweat off her temple, wanting to get this over with. How did she get over this six months ago?

Finally, the bell of the typewriter rang. Al flipped the lock and pulled the card out, which now held a series of numbers. Then he turned to Isla, brows cocked high.

She nodded.

“Where’s the Booth?” Cris asked.

Al and Isla faced the red door. “Follow me,” Al replied, walking over to it with Cris’ memory card in his hand.

Her secretary threw her a look of concern, one he rarely gave anyone. At the precipice of facing the Booth, Isla regretted not taking Lola with her today. But she scolded herself. No, this was her struggle. Lola would only be a distraction.

Al opened the red door and stepped inside.

Squaring her shoulders, Isla followed.

Then her heart hammered faster against her chest when she saw it.

Standing in the middle of the room, old and seemingly beaten with time, was a red phone booth.

07 | I Guess We Can Squeeze You In

There was enough light from the large skylight above, but Al pushed a button on the wall beside the door and it closed, shrouding them in total darkness.

A click and the light inside the Booth flickered, giving Isla a clear view of the rotary phone inside through its glass panel walls. She flinched when Al moved toward it and stepped into the five-meter Erebus surrounding it.

He pulled open the door. It even had the same squeaking sound, noted Isla.

Al raised his brows in question. She lifted her chin and walked toward him. Cris followed.

The Keeper narrowed his eyes at her secretary.

“It’s my memory,” Cris insisted.

With a dramatic sigh, Al said, “I guess we can squeeze you in.”

Her legs shook as she stepped inside. It was suffocating, but she tried to breathe, facing the red rotary phone. As Al joined her inside, she quickly blinked against the tears burning at the back of her eyes. Cris struggled to squeeze into the small space with Al grumbling as he did so.

The three of them cramped inside like sardines in a bottle.

Isla held up her hand, amazed that she was able to control the shaking. When Al handed her the card, she picked up the handset and positioned the receiver against her ear. Looking at Cris’ card, she studied his unique Memory ID and dialed 003962. It was followed by two sets of codes, one for the past two years.

As soon as the dial tone returned, she picked one set of codes and placed her finger on the number 1 finger hole and turned the dial down to the finger stopper, noting the problem Al mentioned earlier.

“You’ll need to fix this,” she murmured.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Instead of painting Esha’s nails or forehead or writing that novel,” she added.

Al gulped. She looked at him. Now that they were inside an Erebus, she could hear his thoughts. He was still too loud, thinking too many things at once. But she also noted the man’s curiosity. He had too many questions about her.

“As I said, I’m doing this to test the Booth,” she replied to his silent question.

“She can really read my thoughts.”

“I still can, Al,” she murmured as she continued to dial.

Cris was silent behind them, watchful and curious.

The moment she dialed the fourteenth digit, and as the finger wheel sprang back to its home position to send the last pulse signals, the glass walls of the Booth began to flicker along with the light. With each flicker, bits of the walls encasing them disappeared, along with the room outside, replaced by a different scene: a garden basked in sunlight. The outdoor wind seeped through the flicker, gently cooling them.

A memory.

“This is what we call the Flicker,” said Al to Cris.

“I know.”

“It’s the invisible wall that separates the safe zone from the memory.”

“I know,” Cris gritted out.

The floor and glass panels disappeared, leaving nothing but the pedestal and the phone. The roof was also gone. They felt the heat of the afternoon sun that washed over the garden.

Finally, they were free.

Al and Cris stepped away from each other, taking a breath as if they had been trapped underwater for a long time.

Isla squinted against the bright sun before scanning the garden. It was familiar, but the scene before them was not. The sound of distant birds came through the receiver.

“Stay in the safe zone, Cris,” Al warned to the young man who had wandered outside the five-meter radius, looking at the other Cris standing nearby, bent on his phone while the three women in the garden talked around a table under an umbrella. They were drinking iced lemonade.

“They can’t see us?” Cris asked, waving his hand in front of the other version of himself.

“Of course, they can’t, neither can they hear us. We’re in a memory. And here I thought you’d know this,” Al replied while Isla continued to listen to Diana who was talking to Lola.

The memory version of herself, however, looked like she was listening, but she knew she was not. The look on her face told her she was looking into the woman’s thoughts, searching for her lost memories. She looked at her card to check the series of numbers she dialed.

This

was a year ago.

“We can’t hear them,” said Cris, turning to frown at the memory Isla and others.

“The receiver is the only way you can hear anything inside the Booth,” said Al.

“This is not exactly how I remember it.” He looked over to his other self.

“Our minds remember things we are not even consciously aware of while they happen. The Booth can replay a scene by picking up the memories of all our senses. And it lets us relive those memories. Or at least the one your mind and senses experienced at that time even if your memory of it has changed or faded.” Pausing, Al added, “Now, please, get back inside the safe zone.” Cris ignored him. “I’m serious, kid. This memory can shift anytime. If the Flicker returns, you’ll be left here.”

“I know how this works.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve read only five fucking books.” Al reached over and pulled Cris back into the invisible line that separated them from the memory. “Do you know how many Opulents—how many creatures—went missing in memories? Even their own?”

“I know a few. Two books I read detailed the Booth’s history. I know it comes from Pandora’s box and that—”

Al mockingly chuckled. “Of course, you did.”

“And I know this is not its first form. We adapted this design in the 1800’s.”

Al gasped dramatically. “Gosh. You’re amazing, you know that?”

Ignoring Al, Cris turned to Isla. She knew what he was not asking. And the answer was no—she could not recall this memory.

“Where is this place?” Al later asked, eyes on the façade of the manor behind the three women.

“The Emperor House.”

Al turned to memory Lola and Diana. “Who are they?”

“The one with the blue hair is Lola,” said Cris.

“My sister,” added Isla.

“And the other lady?”

“Diana Westcott,” Cris replied.

“Westcott? You mean she’s the daughter of—”

“Myra Develler.”

“My aunt,” Isla absently added.

“The one who has the insanity Curse,” Al finished, tone growing more curious. “And this woman is her daughter, the one with hundreds of faces. I know enough about the others, but not much about you, boss.”

Cris did not reply. Like Isla, he was busy studying the memory.

It was just as she remembered the Booth to feel like. It took her to a memory of someone else, to actually experience it in all her senses. Her hand tightened around the handset.

Even here, she could still not look into her own head. But she found that she could look through Diana’s. But there was nothing interesting there. Then she faced the phone again and dialed the first number on the series. Al reached for Cris, pulling him back just as the air around the safe zone flickered, transporting them into another time, another memory. Al nervously let out a laugh, and said to Isla, “A little warning next time, please.”

But Isla was not listening. Using the dial, she forwarded scenes by days and hours. Flashes of Cris doing things, mostly on his phone, rushed around them. Inside the Flicker, days and nights came like lightning. Images of memories flew around them in flashes of pictures, of day and night. And then she stopped, letting go of the dial.

They were in a courtroom. A human courtroom. Isla’s jaw tightened, her eyes on a black woman with a bandage over her nose. The human chit

who fucked Axon.

“Who is that ?” Al asked, pointing at the godly man beside the black woman.

“Axon.”

“Human?”

“No. What makes you think I’ll consider a human?” asked Isla.

“Her ex,” Cris answered Al, watching the memory version of himself seated beside memory Isla at the other side of the room. “It’s weird to not hear anything.”

“Demigod?” Al asked Isla, still gawking at Axon.

She did not reply as she scowled at the blond, handsome devil holding the black woman’s hand. Memory Isla was scowling at the human from across the courtroom while the judge’s voice echoed through the receiver and into Isla’s ears. The woman started crying.

Isla cursed under her breath. They were in a human courtroom, in a Vesta. She could not read Axon’s thoughts, nor could she look into the woman’s.

“Tiffany Child has a minor injury—” the judge began, but the woman sprang to her feet and started screaming like an angry pixie.

It was so loud Isla had to keep the receiver off her ear. Al’s face stretched in amusement and curiosity. He could not help it, so he pressed his ear against the receiver to listen in when Isla replaced it to her ears. “I can’t understand what she’s saying. Her voice is all nasal and congested.”

“She wants me to pay for her nose job,” Isla wryly said.

“Why?”

“Because she broke it,” Cris impatiently replied. “This is not a significant memory, Isla. It’s—”

“I want to remember her face,” she interjected, eyes on the woman. She could not see clearly, but she knew the girl was humanly gorgeous. Curly, long hair; sharp jawline, luscious lips, slender neck, well-endowed breasts, and her hips… gods of Arenas, was it even humanly possible to have those?

Then she scowled at Axon, her godly ex who towered over the woman, his broad chest and muscled arms guiding Tiffany Child back to her seat. She pictured him claiming this human in his bed, sprawling her in the middle like claiming a sacrifice. She could hear his pants of pleasure, his powerful hands as he pleasured this greedy mortal.

She wanted to murder him. The bloody half-breed! She should have listened to Ivor. Demigods were the most imbalanced combination of two species with the worst traits—narcissistic, conceited bastards.

“Isla,” Cris prodded. He looked around the courtroom, at the image of herself sitting like a lifeless rock behind a desk with violet-haired Lola beside her. His own version was quietly typing on his phone.

“Are you always on that thing?” Al asked him.

“I have important matters to attend to.”

“Like what? Opulense?”

“I don’t use social media in the manner that you think, Alejandro.”

“Do not call me by that name,” Al snapped.

“Why?”

“That’s my father’s name.”

“I know. I read your file, Junior. “

“Silence,” Isla ordered, echoing the one the judge ordered the court.

The old man added more things regarding damages and settlements, but she was not listening. Her own blood was pounding up to her ears in fury.

“Isla, this is not a significant memory,” Cris repeated.

Her eyes fixed on Tiffany Child. Should she find the woman now? Cause her some tragedy? Should she look into the woman’s futures? Perhaps lead her to a different end—one that would be a bit more dreadful and immediate? It would not end the world if she did. One human would not make such a significant dent on the universal order.

“Isla,” Cris said again, this time more sternly.

Isla blinked and looked at Cris’ card.

Then she dialed, bringing back the Flicker that took them to another memory.

A fireplace, carpeted floors, wooden paneling, a large window. “Who is that?” Al asked, although it was clear he knew who it was.

“The Emperor.”

“Good gods of the underworld, he looks so… ancient,” he said, stepping just far enough behind the invisible border of the Flicker.

The memory Isla was looking into Ivor’s memory. He was letting her, thinking she needed this. And from where she stood, she could also feel the pity he felt for her. Her jaw tight, Isla looked down at the dial. She could review these later on her own. For now, she needed to reorient herself with the Booth.

She forwarded the memory. As she moved the dial up and down, she remembered watching her mother do it many times before.

She stopped, and they were inside Cris’ bedroom back home. He was reading a book. She placed her finger into the zero hole and moved it to five, forwarding the scene five hours later. Then she took them ten hours further.

The Flicker transported them to the night before her birthday. They were in her office. She did not have to listen to know what she was saying to Cris. And before Al could make a comment, Isla replaced the handset back into its place and the Flicker returned, the panels returning and squeezing them in before. Then they were back in the dark room of the Department of Lost Things.

Cris was fast to exit the packed Booth, wiping sweat. Al followed, whirling on his heels to face Isla. “He cheated on you with that girl, didn’t he?”

She looked at Al without saying a word, her icy blue eyes menacing. She had just survived a few minutes inside the Booth, fighting off memories of the last moments she had with her mother. She had no time to talk about Axon or that human wench, Tiffany Child. She would get her revenge, but that would not be now. She had things to fix here.

She pocketed Cris’ card and left the room.

“Is she angry?” she heard Al ask Cris.

“I rather we don’t find out.”

---

Lucas and the girl walked out of the hospital and across the street to a café. He had on his baseball hat and sunglasses. She had on the same dress that had been washed by the farm worker who took her in a week ago.

“This is just our second visit,” he told her when they entered the café. “I’m sure the doctors will find more things soon.”

“My memory?” she asked.

He paused to think. “Their job is to help you regain it.”

Her face was unreadable as she nodded.

The place was quiet, with only a few people around. Good enough for him, he thought, as he led the girl to the counter. “What do you want?” he asked.

She looked up at the menu. “I don’t remember how I learned to read.”

She did not even sound forlorn. She was just stating facts.

“I’ll have something cold,” she absently said, looking around the café, her eyes fixed on the woman with blue hair sitting in one corner.

“Milkshake?” he asked, not sure what cold drinks kids liked these days.

She just nodded. “That girl’s hair just turned blue.”

“Who?” Lucas absently asked, opening his phone to pay.

“That woman.” He looked up and threw the blue-haired woman a look.

“Sure,” he just said. “Let’s sit somewhere quiet”

Once they settled, he looked at the girl still looking at the blue-haired lady. “We need to call you something. Do you have a name in mind?”

She turned to him, face impassive. “No.”

He narrowed his eyes with a small smile. “I don’t know, but you look like a Jade.”

“Jade,” she repeated, nodding her head.

“Is that a yes?”

A shrug, and she turned again to look at the blue-haired lady. And her eyes widened. “It just turned silver.”

“What?”

“Her hair.”

Lucas turned and this time, he paid attention. The woman’s hair had turned gray.

Opulent , he thought. But she did not look local.

He lowered his cap and turned away. Too late, because the silver-haired lady noticed she was being watched and lifted her head. The curiosity on her face was shortly followed by instant recognition.

“We’ll have to go,” Lucas told Jade.

“But our drinks—”

“We can get some on the way home.” He jumped to his feet. “Let’s go.”

He cursed under his breath and guided Jade to the door when he heard the woman gasp in awe.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” he heard the voice call out behind them.

“Walk faster.”

“Stop! Stop!”

He did not stop.

“Stop!” the woman hissed behind them now.

Lucas gritted his teeth. Jade looked over her shoulder. “It’s orange now. Her hair.”

Lucas did not have to turn around because the same woman with the orange hair jumped before him, grinning with stars in her eyes. “Luke Edner,” she breathlessly said, brown eyes wide with wonder. “Oh my gods of Olympus! Luke Edner!”

08 | Don’t Go Into an Erebus

He grew his bristles, he had on a hat, and he had his sunglasses. He was not even wearing his Luke Edner look. Yet this woman recognized him.

“You don’t know how I fucking—” the woman stopped to stare at Jade, “—how I fucking ,” she continued, whispering the last word, and finished with, “love you!” her brown eyes wide, hair turning golden before his eyes.

“Yes, thank you,” was all he could say, pulling Jade along with him. Then he stopped and turned to face the woman. He hesitated, but his peace relied on this woman’s ability to keep a secret. “This is my home,” he told her.

“Nice home,” she said, nodding vigorously.

He allowed a tight smile. “I enjoy my privacy here.”

Again, she nodded.

“I truly do.”

She just nodded.

With a frustrated sigh, he said, “I’m asking you to keep this to yourself.”

The woman blinked. “Yes, of course! I’m new here—we’re new here. My lips are sealed. But I want you to know that I’ve been voting for you online. I’ve made noble efforts so your hashtag trends on the Opulense and every other social platform. I manage one of your fan cafes and I—” her voice faltered, and she bit her lips and winced. “And I’m talking too much.”

Lucas nodded. “Thank you.”

“Lola. My name’s Lola De—” she stopped, then smiled. “Just Lola, Mr. Edner.”

Lucas nodded and turned to Jade who was giving him a curious look. “We have to go,” he told Lola. “Enjoy Midway.”

“Oh, we don’t live in Midway. We’re actually from Cale.”

That made it even fucking worse, he thought to himself. “Great. Still, enjoy the city. I’m sure Cale doesn’t offer as much.”

She moved when he stepped away, as if she was drawn to him. Then she caught herself and waved goodbye with a dreamy look on her face.

With a sharp turn, he led Jade away from the woman.

“You’re famous,” Jade said.

“Not really,” he lied. “Let’s get back to the car. And I think you need new clothes and shoes.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut in a little sharply than he intended. He sighed. “I’m sorry. Just don’t say no when I’m trying to help you.”

Jade said nothing until they were back in the parking lot of the hospital. Once inside, Jade turned to him. “You’re not used to helping people.”

“I’ve helped others before, but just not someone like you.” He drove out of the parking lot and there, outside the café, was the same Opulent looking at them, grinning like a fool, her hair still golden. There was a man standing and talking beside her, unheard. Lucas cursed under his breath.

If he did not go out of Cale, if he did not have to go to this fucking hospital, he would not have met the Opulent.

Why did he even trust her to keep this a secret? Fangirls never did. They would always want to have the bragging rights to the same building he was in, the same ground he walked—the same fucking air he breathed.

He scoffed when it occurred to him. An Opulent. While it was not unheard of, he rarely encountered Opulent fans. He was not that big of a superstar to capture the attention of the most conceited and supercilious breed he’d ever had the chance to encounter.

“Why does her hair change color?” Jade asked, tone not at all curious.

“She’s an Opulent.”

“Opulent?”

“Most people call them Villains, but not all of them are. It’s a long story. You’ll get bored.”

“She did not seem like a villain to me.”

“You’ll understand when you know enough.”

“Why does her hair change color?”

He shrugged, turning into a shopping strip. “Might be her Curse.”

“Curse?”

“Opulents have them. They all do. It’s like a disease that runs in their blood.”

“All of them change hair color?”

“Not all Curses are the same.”

She nodded. And then silence. But only for a while. “Then maybe I’m a Villain. Losing my memory might be my Curse.”

“I don’t know much about Opulents and their Curses, Jade, but I’m pretty sure you’re not one of them.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Well, for one, the blood from your scratches was red.”

“What color is their blood?”

“Glowing blue.”

“Glowing?”

He nodded. “Glowing blue.”

“Then I’m human.”

Vampires also have red blood , he wanted to say. “Highly likely.” He parked outside a shop he was familiar with. “We have to hurry.”

“You don’t like them?” Jade asked moments later while he absently picked clothes that might fit her.

“Who?”

“Villains.”

The old woman in front of them looked up with a scowl and made the sign of the cross. He gave her an apologetic smile and ushered Jade away. “Don’t speak that word in public.”

“Why?”

“Because in this part of the world, humans are a little bit too touchy. And as I’ve said, they’re not technically called Villains. They’re Opulents.”

“Then what are Villains?”

“They’re the special kinds of Opulents. It’s a job title.”

“What job?”

“Soldiers.”

Jade absorbed the information a little longer. “Are Opulents enemies?”

“No, not anymore.”

“Why?”

He hated doing this. All he wanted to do now was go back to Cale, drop Jade off to the farmer’s house, and go home where he could be alone.

“Because they did things. Let’s not talk about this, okay? Let’s get you some shoes.”

“What sort of things?” Jade asked very much later as they drove out of Midway.

Lucas’ lids closed halfway to hide the rolling of his eyes. “Bad things.”

“They killed people?”

“Thousands—millions,” he replied almost impatiently. “I’m sure you knew this before you lost your memory. Your parents must have told you.”

“Did they kill humans?”

“And others.”

“Then why is that woman free to roam around humans?”

“Because they’re not prohibited to be inside Vestas. The war happened thousands of years ago.”

“What war?”

He stole her a look. The city had now disappeared, and they were now in an Erebus. He drove faster to get to Cale and safety. They passed by a small Erebus town with a few beings walking around like humans, looking exactly like humans, but were just not humans. The houses were made of stone, their roofs of straw. The doors and windows were always closed. Sometimes, there were no doors at all.

The fields on either side might seem the same as the ones in the Vestas, but they were not. There were flowers he was not familiar with; glowing dusts floating in the air like fireflies. There were trees that moved without wind, whispering secrets to whoever would listen.

Lucas stepped on the gas and sped past the small town in less than five minutes. Jade was still waiting for his reply. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“The War of Grace. It’s in the history books. Thousands of years ago, humans sort of rebelled against the gods because they were playing with us.”

“In what way?”

“Coveting wives, daughters… anything they wanted.” He paused when he saw a woman standing on the side of the road in a long dress, seemingly lost. She looked beautiful—black hair that did not seem to be moving but Lucas knew it did, he just didn’t see it. She had a gorgeous body, and beautiful coffee skin that glistened in sunlight. Perfectly not human. For a split second, their eyes met and he thought he saw a smile curl her lips. Then he looked away.

His foot pressed harder on the pedal, eager to reach the Vesta. He cursed when they arrived at a crossing and the old traffic light, wrapped in vines the color of pumpkin, turned red. They skidded to a stop and he restlessly tapped his fingers on the wheel, glaring at the lights while the animals crossed the street—dogs, cats, boars, buffalo, sheep, and many others. A young girl in a bright yellow dress with a bunch of wild flowers in her hand followed the animals. She turned her head toward them. Her cheeks were red and smeared with dirt, her skin tan from the sun. On top of her curly brown hair was a pair of short horns wrapped in floral vines. She waved at them before running through the animals who ran to follow her into the fields of grass and flowers. She disappeared into a field of tall grass, glowing orbs of dust rising in the air where she went.

“Who is that?”

“Could be a nymph,” he replied. He looked at the rearview mirror. The beautiful woman was gone. The light turned green again.

“So what happened next?” asked Jade. “What did the humans do when the gods were being bad?”

“They prayed to the angels for help. Their prayers were answered and leagues of angels came down to help because that’s what they do. But soon, the war became a bit different.”

“How?”

“It was becoming more about the gods and the angels hating on each other. But some of them—” He paused, growing uncomfortable, “let’s just say a few angels and a few gods came together—” He cursed because that did not come out as minor-friendly as he hoped. He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say they procreated together and produced the Opulents.”

“They married?”

He scoffed. “The universe will throw a feast if that’s to happen. No, they didn’t get married. They just procreated. Then the Opulents were born.”

“They are half-god-half-angel!”

“Yes. The worst combination. Makes them more vicious and powerful than any being.”

“And they joined the war?”

“At first, some fought beside the gods, others with the angels. But then they realized they’re more powerful, so they built their own empire. They killed whoever was in their path—angel, god, human, and others. Then they worked with the vampires, the mortal enemy of almost everyone.

“The humans were helpless. The Opulents did what the gods did to us for many years. They took our wives, our daughters, our husbands, brothers—anyone. Not because they wanted to breed with them, but because they just wanted to rid the world of humans.”

“Why?”

“They think we’re useless. We do unpredictable things. We tilt the balance, as they say. Books say Opulents have this innate gift of sensing the universe. Scholars believe it’s because of the angel grace in their blood, others argue it’s both the god blood and grace. So, anyway, since they have this special connection to the universe, they believe the universe constantly tilts because of humans. The stars misalign, as they say. To them, we’re more of a nuisance. Pests, as one of them wrote in his memoir.”

“Then what happened?”

“Humans could only pray. So we prayed to whoever god would listen, and someone answered. Vesta, the Goddess of the Hearth,” he said, motioning at the border up ahead. “She gave us that and many others.”

She nodded. “They say that no magic happens in a Vesta.”

“None at all.”

“Then why did that woman’s hair change color?”

“That’s not magic. That’s a Curse. It’s in her blood—some sort of a disease.”

They finally entered Cale and Lucas slowed down. “What happened after the Vestas?”

“The Opulents continued to wage war against every being outside the Vestas. By then, we have not yet called the ground outside a Vestas as an Erebus. We called them Haunted Grounds. For some, they called it Hunting Grounds because that’s the only place gods and Opulents could hunt humans. Later, after the war, we named any ground outside a Vesta an Erebus. Named after the god born out of Chaos. They said that dark mist covered the battlegrounds after the war, thus the name.”

Jade turned her head to look out the window, at the vast sugarcane field. “How did it end, the war?”

“The gods and the angels made a truce. The Opulents were the stronger enemies. They were the villains . But they realized it wasn’t that easy. They can’t just kill them because they didn’t know what would happen to their souls. So they asked for insight from the humans. Our ancestors suggested a spell. They called it the Spell of Thousands. The best human witches came together and developed the strongest spell ever created.”

“What did it do?”

“It stripped Opulents of their powers and made them mortal so that when they die, they won’t be more powerful than the gods of the underworlds or the angels if they ever go to heaven, which I doubt they do. The Spell of Thousands also gave them their Curse.”

Jade nodded. “So they lost the war.”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“Some of them still have their powers. They call it their wings . Which is why you don’t venture out of the Vestas. You can’t stay inside an Erebus for long where their powers work. They’re still out there. And they still do whatever Opulents do.”

“Hurt humans?”

He shrugged. “Whatever they fancy, I guess.”

“Like what?”

The face of a childhood friend flashed in his mind. Lucas veered the Rover to the side of the road and stopped. “Listen,” he said, turning to fix a stern look at Jade. “Opulents do a lot of selfish things. It’s always about them. They think they deserve better, they think they’re better . It may have been years since the War of Grace and everyone sort of managed to come to terms with the changes, but the Opulents stay true to their nature. They always think they’re doing things for whatever universal balance bullshit they’re trying to sell, but it boils down to them wanting to be the most powerful. And they are, in some sense, very powerful. Do you understand? As humans, we have to fend for ourselves. The gods will not help us. The angels had abandoned us. We are all on our own and our Vestas. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Don’t go into an Erebus.”

“Never. You don’t venture outside Cale unless you’re with me. You don’t cross into the woodland.”

“Because it’s an Erebus.”

Lucas nodded, eyeing the woodland on the other side. “People ventured into the woodland and never came out.”

“Why do we still let them inside our Vestas?”

Lucas pulled out of the side of the road. “Economics and Politics,” he replied. “But that’s for another day.”

---

The crickets and the toads surrounding the Wyrd House were not in great harmony; so did the strong wind outside that foreshadowed the storm. Someone from a distant part of the woodland was singing a hymn that whispered back to them like a soft whistle, as if crying for help. Worse, the house was still as dark as Isla’s soul.

“And why were you not able to meet this solar panel guy?” Isla demanded from across the long table, over the six candles, moths, wine, and steak.

“We waited for him to return but he didn’t.”

“Did you offer more money?”

“Of course!” her sister said.

“And how long did you have to wait for this guy?”

“Three hours?” she asked, turning to Tien who was silently cutting his steak.

“And why were you gone for almost the entire day?”

“We went shopping. Then we stayed at a café because I needed to charge all my gadgets.”

Tien looked up and stared at Lola. When her sister deliberately ignored him, smiling at Isla as if she was not hiding something, Tien bent his head back on his steak.

While Isla could look into their thoughts, she refrained from doing so. She counted in her head.

“I saw Luke Edner,” Lola blurted out.

Cris looked at Lola with the same condescending frown on his face, knife and fork frozen in midair.

Then Lola’s face lit up, her eyes all glimmery. Isla called that look an omen of something fanatic and crazy to come. “Can you believe it? He’s here . Literally here in East Isles!”

“You met him in Midway,” she repeated. “And what did you do?”

“I approached him?”

She carefully sipped her wine, wishing it was the blood of the stupid beings around her. Lola shifted uncomfortably in her seat when Isla’s glass met the table soundlessly. Isla looked at her sister, icy blue eyes dancing with the fury inside her and the flickering lights of the candles.

“You claim you came here to help me, but I knew from the start, Lola, that you also knew where Luke Edner was before we even left London.” Her chilly voice rolled from her throat like acrid smoke, as if fire was burning inside her, ready to burst. “You came here knowing why I have to put myself in this bloody dismal circumstance—one you also persuaded me to do, if you must have forgotten,” she continued in a low voice that was not at all comforting because Lola was looking ashen and overwhelmingly guilty. “And while I force five Opulents to grace a contract so the true purpose of my presence here doesn’t go out should they find out, you sashay around the city, chasing after a bloody human, exposing your color-changing hair and stupid, foolish Opulent fangirling self to him.” She did not shout, but she might as well have because Lola flinched.

“You might as well call Diana so the two of you can hunt that bloody human and offer yourselves as sacrifice,” she finished, throwing her napkin on her plate, and stood. “I’ll be late tomorrow. Tien and I will go to Midway. Go straight to the office. And you’ll also need to find a school,” she added to Cris. “It seems I have to do all the work myself around here.”

Cris and Lola did not even wait until she disappeared upstairs.

“She’s sensitive nowadays. What the bloody hell were you thinking?” she heard Cris hiss. “If she gets her hands on that Luke Edner, that human will be over.”

“You can’t be serious!” her sister hissed back.

“She’ll ruin him.”

“I just got a little excited!”

“Then stop acting like a child! Your sister’s future is at stake here! Unless you wish to call Rowan your Emperor, be my guest and shout to every bloody being who would listen that Isla Develler can’t be Empress because she gets her memory wiped twice a year! You of all—”

Isla did not hear more. She did not want to.

She was just tired.

---

Later, Lola came to her room, carrying a candle. “I’m sorry,” her sister said, hair the color of the night sky.

Isla ignored her, looking at herself through the mirror of the antique dresser in her room. The fourposter bed was behind them. So was the little boy.

He was just sitting there on the floor beside the bed, arms around his knees, his pale, translucent face wearing a wicked smile.

She had been ignoring the ghost since she first entered the room. And so far, he had been doing his best to get her attention, being as equally irritating as everything around her. She would not have to deal with him if the ground was graced.

“Isla,” Lola said, eyes begging. “I won’t do it again. It’s just that… it felt unreal to see him.”

“He’s just a bloody human, Lola. What’s unreal about that?” She placed her brush on the dresser. Then stood and went to the open windows. The maya bird flew away when she slid the windows closed. Her legs felt cold when she walked through the boy. He disappeared like smoke, only to reappear by the dresser, the brush getting his attention. He tried to move it like the many other things in the room, but failed.

“But he’s Luke Edner and—” Lola stopped. “It won’t happen again. I won’t seek him out.”

Isla slid into the bed, brow cocked, completely doubtful.

“Because I promised him. And a fangirl’s promise is stronger than Cupid’s arrow. You must know that.”

“Fine,” was all she said.

Lola broke into a smile. The boy managed to move the brush a little. Her sister placed her candle on the bedside table and climbed in. Then paused. “Hmm. This bed has seen a lot of deaths.” Motioning her head at the boy behind her, she whispered, “Your bed also tells me his name is Jeremiah. He snuck into the woods with his friends. They climbed up the roof to see how far the woodland goes, but he accidentally fell right into this room and died. His friends said they’d be back, but they never returned.”

The boy turned, probably sensing they were talking about him. Isla ignored him. Ghosts trapped in this world had always been harmless. At least for Opulents because they could not be possessed; their angel grace would repel anything that would try to invade their soul.

“How did it go? The first day at work?” Lola asked.

“They’re all Waifs,” she said.

“But surely they’re not that useless.”

“They know their work. I’m just not sure how good they are at it. I’ll have to find out.” Sensing her sister’s hesitation, she added, “And yes, I’ve been inside the Booth.”

Lola bit her lip. “Was it horrible?”

“It was fine. I’m sure I did well six months ago.”

“Did you review your cards?”

“No. The Keeper was with us. However, I took two years of Cris’ memory. Found Tiffany Child.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, that bloody bitch.” Her hand balled into fists. “I’ll have her neck now, but I have priorities, of course.”

Lola smiled. “You can’t go near her. She has a restraining order against you.”

“That’s human law, Lola. I will have her neck inside an Erebus.”

“That’s not really a villainy thing to do.”

“Of course, it is. The number of bitches in this world tilts the balance. The world needs cleansing. She’ll be a good start. And closing my hand over someone’s throat is not unheard of. Ask any Villain.”

Her sister laughed. “You know, she also called you bitch, right?”

“Humans label beings poorly.”

Lola sighed and slipped out of bed. “I hate your bed. It keeps giving me images of dying people. Do you know that you’re lying right on top of rotting flesh?” She picked up her candle and turned to Isla. “Humans aren’t that bad.”

“Of course, they are not, fangirl.”

“Luke Edner was pretty nice.”

“He has to be. He profits from your lunacy.”

Lola rolled her eyes. “He was really nice.”

“Sure.” She fixed her hair over her right shoulder. “Tien thinks you’re weird.”

Lola frowned. “Weird? Why?”

“He thinks you’re obsessed.”

“You looked into this thoughts to spy on me?” Lola asked with disbelief.

“No, he told me.”

“He told you I’m obsessed?”

“Yes.”

“With a human?”

“Yes.”

“Well, of course, I am. But more so for his music and his amazing voice.”

Isla lay down. “Shut the door, Lola.”

“He’s hot. He was really hot,” her sister’s dreamy voice echoed in the room.

Eyes closed, she sleepily asked, “Who?”

“Luke Edner, of course.”

Isla just scoffed.

“I can allow you a trip into my memory if you want to see.”

“No, thank you,” she murmured into her pillow.

Humans were never her thing.

09 | This Manor Needs a Housekeeper

It was March and harvest season, but the skies were gloomy that morning. In fact, it seemed angry, pouring heavy rain, and wafting strong winds across the woodland. The creatures that lurked between the trees took to their homes, and those that enjoyed the mud played like children, their laughter mingling with the strong whistles of the wind.

Isla slid the delicate window made of capiz shells to the side, allowing the wind to sashay into the room with tiny sprays of rainwater.

She clucked her tongue with annoyance. Her delicate vintage dress was being attacked too early in the morning. In a matter of seconds, the sheer long sleeves of her dress were sticking to her forearms. So much for fabric made of unicorn tail , she thought.

She stepped back from the window, curious, when she saw a woman standing outside. Her green heels left a wet trace on the hardwood floors of her bedroom as she stepped further back with a frown.

Turning, she found the little boy sitting beside her bed again, looking at her with knowing.

“Do you know her?” she asked him, finally giving the silent treatment a break.

He just smiled. Isla frowned. As far as she knew, ghosts could talk.

“Do you know what I can do to you, kid?”

He just looked at her, as if challenging her.

“Do you know that a single drop of my blood can burn you, extinguish you from this world completely before you even see the light?”

The boy’s eyes lit up with fear. But there was also a glint of malice, as if he doubted if she could really do it.

“If you are trying to talk, boy, I’m afraid I don’t have all day.” She looked around. “I think I have a knife here somewhere. I only need to make a slight cut, really.”

“Goddess.” His voice was an echo, a sound at the end of a tunnel. “She’s a goddess.”

“You know who?”

He shook his head.

“Has she been here before?”

Again, he shook his head.

“That was easy, wasn’t it?” Isla asked, turning to the door. “Be a good boy, Jeremiah.”

She heard him snicker before the door shut close.

Lola was already waiting for her by the second landing, hair fuchsia, face as bright as the sun that was not shining outside. “Someone’s at the gates,” Lola said, phone in hand. “The house doesn’t recognize her. She’s a—”

“Goddess. Jeremiah told me.” She looked at her sister’s pink PJs. “Go and change. I might need you. Prepare my knives.”

“Your knives?”

“The one in the chest under my bed.”

“But—”

“I’ll try my best not to find any reason to use them.” She turned to the stairs. “And I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“Cris already left.”

“Where’s Tien?”

“Out there guarding the door, I guess?” The wind howled outside. “You think she’s doing all this?”

“I’m not sure.” Running a hand through her updo, Isla descended the stairs. “Don’t come down. The walls will tell you if I need you.”

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Tien walked through the open main doorway.

“What does she want?”

“She wants to talk to the manager of the Tree House.”

She frowned. “Tell her to go to the Tree House.”

“She refuses to go. She’s demanding to see you now.”

Isla took a deep breath and sighed. “Have you made breakfast?”

Tien blinked. “I was not given instructions to.”

“Let her in,” she said, turning to the back of the staircase and into the kitchen.

The room was dark and the lady at the corner looked up. Her raven black hair curtained both sides of her face, extending down to the floor. Like the boy, her face was pale. She was dressed in a nightgown, the skirts long, covering her feet. “Get up,” Isla ordered.

The ghost just looked at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Get up or I’ll call a priest.”

The woman’s eyes lit with alarm. “Don’t.” Her voice came as a whispered wind around Isla.

“Then get up. What is it with you ghosts and being useless?”

The woman scowled at her.

“I reckon you’ve been here long.”

She just stared, her face disappearing.

“No, you don’t disappear on me, woman. You have nowhere to go anyway,” she ordered. “Go on, get up.”

Slowly, the woman got up and as she did, Isla heard a soft tinkling sound. She looked down to find that the woman’s left ankle had a chain around it.

“You’re no longer trapped in that corner. Step forward,” she ordered.

The woman hesitated.

“I said you’re not trapped there. Walk.” This time, her voice was firmer, more impatient.

“I can’t…”

Isla pointed. “Can’t you see that your chains aren’t attached to anything?”

The woman looked down and, seeing it for the first time, her eyes rounded in surprise. Looking up to Isla, her face changed. It transformed to something more… human. And she looked almost beautiful. At that moment, Isla knew she was looking at the woman before the chains.

“Walk,” she ordered the ghost.

The woman did, dragging her chain along the floorboards, the sound vibrating around the kitchen.

“I’m not sure if you can leave this house.” The woman looked at her, confused. “I can’t read your thoughts, but you want to escape this realm, yes?” Again, the woman just stared. “Fine. I can help you find a way.” At her words, the woman glowed. “For a price.”

“What?” she asked, her voice almost a lullaby to Isla’s ears.

“What’s your name?”

Her brows furrowed as if she was trying to remember. “Maria…”

“Maria, can you move things?” Maria looked behind her, movement almost dreamlike, her form leaving behind a trace of translucent sheet, an echo of her energy. At the spot where she had been curled up for years were different coins and trinkets.

“Yes,” she replied, turning her head back to Isla, her face blurring as she moved. It was like watching smoke being blown away by the wind, and when she stilled, the distortion was gone and her apparition became clearer.

“Good.” Finally, someone useful. “This manor needs a housekeeper.”

---

“So, I looked her up. It wasn’t easy.”

“Who?”

“The Boss, of course,” Al said. “I’m telling you, Esha, it wasn’t easy. I had to resort to threats. I called everyone who got drunk with me during my Boothkeeping training days. I’m telling you, the Emperor has been keeping her low key. She doesn’t even have an Opulense account.”

Esha’s face lit up with interest. “Okay. And?”

“And,” Al said, leaning over the reception desk, “She’s a trained Villain.”

“Villain?”

“Yes! Department of Villainy,” he whispered. “Villain Captain .”

Esha’s eyes widened, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. “No way!”

“And apparently, she has been practicing Villainy for over five years before she was promoted as Captain, manning over a hundred agents to perform covert operations for the empire.”

His friend swallowed. “She was promoted because she’s the great-granddaughter of—”

“No, darling,” said Al, wriggling a forefinger. “I thought the same as well. But no. She graduated from the Academy with full colors, top of her class.” He leaned closer and murmured, “She’s a badass.”

Esha looked around. “You think she’s killed before?”

“It won’t be surprising.” He looked around before he continued, “But I bet this one will surprise you even more.”

“What?”

Al smiled. “She’s the strongest candidate to replace the Emperor.”

Esha’s eyes widened even more. “No way! That’s why she has that hot Opulent guard!”

“Tien, my new fantasy, yes.” Al shook his head. “Isla Develler renders us all so insignificant. I wonder why she’s even here.”

“She told us.”

“And you believe her?”

“Well, of course. Don’t you?”

Al shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s been to the Booth three times this week. And I think she was not just checking Cris’ card. I think she has her own cards. That’s so weird. Why would she do that? She’s obviously adept to the thing. She doesn’t need practice.”

Esha narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you thinking?”

“I want to tailor my next heroine to her.”

“You can’t write about us !” Esha hissed at Al. “You graced a contract last week. Have you forgotten about that?”

“My grace will stop me from writing about us , I get it. But I tried writing last night, and I finished a chapter.”

His friend blinked. “You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then your novel is not about us.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not about us !”

“Are you fighting?” a deep, young voice asked behind them.

They both turned to find Cris standing in the doorway, wearing a black schoolbag. He was dressed in his typical plaid shirt, brown pants, and suspenders. A strand of his black brushed-up hair fell over his forehead while he was bent on his phone.

“No,” they both curtly replied.

“Then try to lower your voices. It’s too early in the morning. Or better yet, go to work. Isla will be a little late.” He turned left, walking away with his head still bent.

“It’s only been a week, but I swear I already hate that kid,” Al growled to Esha.

“I said lower your voice, Al,” Cris said over his shoulder, disappearing into the main office.

Al rolled his eyes. “My novel is going to be different from us ,” he repeated to Esha.

“Okay, I get it. Your story is going to be different.” Esha opened her mouth to ask a question, but then the door opened again.

Al frowned, looking over his shoulder.

“Cris just said the boss is going to be late, right?”

“Yes.”

“And Cris was the last one in among us, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Just checking. The last time someone walked in, we got a Devller.”

The silhouetted figure was not Isla, that’s for sure. Both Opulents frowned when the figure stepped onto the hardwood flooring, revealing muddy black sneakers.

Slowly, Al and Esha circled around the reception counter, their eyes adjusting to the strong morning light from outside. Glowing specks of dust floated in the threshold, carrying with it the soft, whimsical sounds of the air outside. Again, a maya bird flew into the office and landed on the reception counter.

The girl stared up at them, eyes wide with amazement. Al and Esha looked at each other before they snapped their heads to stare at the girl dressed in an oversized shirt and jeans. She was not a child, rather a teenage girl. The cloth which she carried like a satchel was as filthy as her sneakers.

Now, the Department of Lost Things may not be Olympus, but its doors did not easily permit entrance to just anyone, not when it was guarded by one of the most-feared entities in East Isles.

And there had been beings that entered their doors, but they were all paying clients and definitely not humans.

This girl was different because she seemed human.

---

The wind was howling outside as Isla stepped into the parlor. The light through the windows was low enough to hide the dusts, and bright enough to show the portrait of an unknown man hanging on the wall, his eyes seemingly alive, his tight lips keeping a secret . Whoever he was, if he ever was an Opulent, he did this house and every bloody being trapped inside such great injustice.

“Good morning,” she greeted her guest, taking the cushioned seat across the woman who was sitting in front of the wide window. The dirty curtains on both sides, which were obviously once white, floated in the air behind the guest, who appeared dry after standing outside in the rain.

The tree by the gate was mercilessly waving as the goddess glared at Isla. If Isla was to paint her mood, there would be a constant shot of lightning over her, and her glitters would be black, typical of the gods.

Her perfect long, wavy black hair was framing her face at both sides; her light blue eyes glowed in contrast to her smooth, caramel brown skin; her white patterned dress a far more extravagant sight than Isla’s. However, her makeup was overdone.

“Let’s make this quick. I have an appointment for our solar panels.”

“What took you so long?” the woman’s high-pitched tone demanded.

“I sleep quite peacefully when it’s raining,” she nonchalantly said. The goddess pursed her lips. The strong wind flew right into the parlor and Isla stood to close the window. “I was told that you are here to acquire my services.”

“And who may you be?”

Isla smiled as she searched the goddess’ thoughts from the back of the woman’s head. Reading gods had always been a challenge. They had epochs of memories. The hallways she would always find in their thoughts was like a maze, and it was always a headache—an intense thudding against her skull. She only stayed long enough to find the woman’s name.

“Anitun Tabu,” she said. “I’ve never heard your name before. But I like Annie better. You’re right, it sounds more appealing. And thank you for thinking that I’m beautiful.”

She saw the woman’s shoulder stiffen. “Who are you?”

Isla walked back to the antique chair and settled down, resting one slender leg over the other. “Isla Develler,” she replied.

The goddess froze, and in a blink, her mind blocked Isla.

Isla clucked her tongue. This woman was not just a mere goddess of some minor thing. She was one of the fucking big guys.

“What is a Develler doing here?”

Without answering, Isla said, “You could have gone straight to the Tree House, Annie. You would have been accommodated there.” The window rattled again. Isla inspected her yellow fingernails, testing the goddess’ patience. When she lifted her face again, she met Annie’s furious gaze. “Ah, of course. You’re not comfortable there. It’s a Vesta.”

The wind whistled sharply outside.

“You have to calm down, Annie. This house is the only one I have here. I don’t want it ruined.”

The rain died down, not completely, but at least the windows went still.

Isla did not blink away until Annie herself did with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Now, since you came here and found us, I assume that you understand our terms?” she asked the woman.

Her long lashes flickering with impatience, Annie gritted, “Yes.”

“Then you understand why you have to come to our office.”

“I will never set foot in that place,” Annie gritted out.

“But you must, Annie. How else do you think we can collect payment?”

“Can you not do it here?”

Isla stretched her lips into a mocking, sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Annie, that’s not how we do things.”

In an instant, the strong wind and rain began another attack outside. “Sweetheart, you really don’t realize who you’re talking to, do you?”

Isla sighed.

“You Opulents think yourselves powerful, don’t you? Why? Because you have the blood of the gods?”

Isla smiled. “And the grace of angels. We were your most powerful soldiers once—or have you forgotten?”

“Don’t lecture me about the war, darling, because unlike you, I was there,” Annie continued through gritted teeth. “And I have seen how your kind struggled through epochs because, let us face it, sweetheart, your kind may have been powerful soldiers during the war, but I cannot say the same after the Spell of Thousands.” Annie tilted her head to the side to look Isla up and down. “You say you’re a Develler. What is your relation to Ivor Develler?”

“Great-grandfather.”

Once more, Annie stiffened. Then she slowly nodded. “And why is a Develler in East Isles?” she asked again.

“Opulent business,” Isla replied with a smile and added, “And not your business.”

Annie shrugged. “Your wing is in your mind then.”

Isla just smiled, but deep inside she wanted to break the woman’s defenses and delve further into her thoughts, seek her secrets. But it was impossible. This goddess was powerful. Who was she and why had Isla not heard of her? But then, there were thousands of them.

“Opulents have to live with a Curse after the Spell of Thousands, right? I wonder what yours is. And I wonder…” Annie opened her right hand in the air and made a twisting motion, as if she was picking an apple from a tree, blue eyes igniting as she smiled. Suddenly the wind outside howled like Isla had never heard of before. “I wonder if I can make things a bit more difficult for you.”

Isla felt her muscles tighten, but she contained herself. Instead, she smiled at the goddess. “Annie, you’re not the first major deity I worked with. I may be new in the Tree House, but I know the business.” The confidence Annie collected thus far waned as Isla continued, “There were others who willingly pay for the services we provid them, you know,” she pointed out. “You know what that means, right? Now, what does it mean for you ?” Isla mockingly gasped as Annie’s face twitched with alarm. “Oh, yes, it means we have in our office dirty little secrets about anyone—including you—that may make your old man go berserk.”

Annie’s nose flared. Something heavy crashed on the ground outside, and Isla could only hope it was not her new car.

There was nothing more effective than mentioning the creators of these conceited deities.

“I don’t want to go to your little Tree House.” The woman’s voice was shaking with anger.

“We can process your payment later once you are confident enough to go to the office.”

“I’m not afraid to go there!” The silhouette of a twig slapped against the windowpane.

“Of course, you’re not. I can sense by the wind and rain. If you don’t like our terms, you can go to other offices.”

Annie’s face turned scarlet. “I already did. I came straight to the western office because they’re supposed to be the best, but they’re currently indisposed.”

“So I’ve heard,” Isla said with mocking pity. “The southern or northern offices?”

Annie’s jaw tightened.

“I’m assuming the waiting list is too long for you?”

Annie’s eye twitched and thunder rumbled outside.

“My team can certainly make room for you, but we don’t really like working in bad weather.”

The goddess closed her eyes and took a lungful of breath to calm herself, perhaps finally realizing that her anger was not serving her well.

Satisfied that she had tamed the woman for now, Isla crossed her leg over the other. “I understand you lost something quite dangerous and you want it found.” Isla lifted her hand just as Maria glided into the room to deliver her pen and leather-bound notebook.

“Yes,” Annie absently said, frowning at the ghost.

“This my housekeeper, Maria,” Isla replied, opening her notebook. Maria glided out of the room through a wall, the sound of her chains echoing behind her. “Now, what do you want us to find?”

10 | The Pungent Smell of Your Human Soul

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11 | She Could Be Lying

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12 | What Is She?

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13 | This Shall Be Interesting

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14 | Do Not Say I Did Not Warn You

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15 | This Is Family Business

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16 | Everyone Sleeps With Their Demons

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17 | You Are Safe Now

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18 | Do They Welcome Humans?

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19 | Good Day, My Villain

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20 | I Have Seen It All

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21 | Should I Stay?

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22 | This Is Black Magic Stuff

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23 | Because She Is Too Stubborn to Die

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24 | As the Last Seed Falls

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25 | Magic

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26 | To Not Know Is an Adventure

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27 | You Kissed Me First, Villain

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28 | Can’t You Be Something?

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29 | I’ll Get the Nymph’s Kiss

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30 | It’s Not the Music Anymore

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31 | What Did You Do, Lola?

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32 | You’re My Secret

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33 | Human With Something

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34 | Everything Shall Burn

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35 | A Darling

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36 | If You Have Time Later

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37 | And Now We Have One

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38 | The Sister

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39 | Once It Dies

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40 | Take Me Home

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Author’s Note

Hello lovely humans!

Now that you’re reading this, please receive my utter gratitude.

Thank you for taking the time to read this work.

At the moment, I’m not certain when the next standalone title for this one will come out. Nonetheless, I’m overly ecstatic to create another adventure for Isla and her team!

Until then, I hope you continue to support my other stories.

Best,

J.D. Ruiz (greenwriter)

https://yonder.onelink.me/6vpb/46a0c21e

This story is now available on YONDER, your next-generation reading app from the Wattpad family! Check out the link below or download YONDER from your app store!

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