Into the Aether_Part One(22)

Releasing his wrist, August bent to one knee, and began rummaging through the officer’s belt. On the exposed area of her back, the burn was healing itself.

“How—” Aaron began.

“No time,” she replied sternly, retrieving the keys to the handcuffs and unlocking them. She made her way toward the doorway. “Come, now.” Aaron took the jacket off the ground and picked up his suitcase. He turned around to see August kicking in the door to the room opposite them. There sat a terrified middle-aged woman, her hands clasped around a phone.

August reached into her mind, looking for her name. “Frances,” August said in a low tone.

The fear on Frances’s face melted into a blank expression. August stood in front of her, looking at all the memories of the past few minutes. Taking care not to hurt her, she gently pulled them from the woman’s mind. The phone Frances was holding fell to her lap and tumbled onto the floor.

How do you know this woman? Aaron thought.

“Hush,” she said to him. They all kept very still for several seconds.

A void was left where August had removed the memories. If left alone, this void would eventually lead to a mental illness as Frances’s mind would keep trying to recall the lost events. The more memories August removed, the more difficult it would be to replace them with false ones. Once, she’d had to remove several days’ worth of memories from a human when she was much younger, and that man ended up with what they now call schizophrenia. If it wasn’t for her father, he probably would have been institutionalized for the rest of his life.

August swam in Frances’s collected experiences, looking on her happier memories, hopes, and desires. If she were to insert an event that was too unlikely to happen, the woman’s mind would eventually reject it. Before the events across the hall, Frances had been flipping through the channels, looking for her favorite television program.

“Frances, you watched your program and thoroughly enjoyed it, even though it was a repeat,” August said telepathically.

Frances stared straight ahead. “I understand.”

August made her way out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs, running her hand along the wall.

Aaron trailed behind her. “Wait! Put on this jacket.”

She stopped and took off her old one, then thrust it into his hands. Her wound looked as if it were several weeks old now.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What did you do there?” asked Aaron.

“I have erased the memories of us,” August stated without looking at him.

“What about the police officers?”

“It is unnecessary. They will not remember. They will recover eventually.” When they reached the stairwell, she opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs. “Other than the front desk clerk, have you spoken to anyone here?” she asked, then began making her way slowly down each step with her hand on the rail. After the first flight, she moved faster.

How did you know I spoke to the front desk clerk? “Just Emily, I mean, the Jotunn, and the bartender,” he replied, following her with his suitcase pressed against his chest.

It took them just over a minute to reach the door to the lobby.

“Phillip, I need you to come in and remove the memories from the bartender.”

“Understood.”

She pushed open the door, stuffing her hands into the pockets of the jacket. Casually, she walked toward the front desk. Aaron took the cue and did the same, pulling his squeaking suitcase along behind him. The clerk was still there, typing away.

“Good evening,” the clerk said without looking at her.

“Good evening,” she replied.

“How can I help you?”

He looked up at her with a bored expression. His face slackened as August reached into his mind, extracted his memories of the evening, and replaced them with something plausible.

The front doors opened and Phillip walked in. Without making eye contact with Aaron or August, Phillip walked to the bar and started talking to the bartender.

“It took me all day, but I got the high score!” the clerk said triumphantly. Aaron looked back at the man behind the desk to find him smiling.

“Do you have an Aaron Alcott checked in?” August asked.

The clerk looked down and typed something into his computer. “Aaron Alcott?” he asked, still typing. “I do. Would you like his key card?”

“No. Remove him from your computers.”

“Of course!” The clerk continued typing furiously. “Done.”

Phillip walked out of the bar.

“It is done,” he stated.

“We must go now,” August said. She and Phillip hastily walked to the car, Aaron in tow. Phillip opened one of the passenger doors to let August in, and then gestured toward Aaron. Phillip put Aaron’s suitcase in the trunk alongside August’s and then slipped into the driver’s seat.

“A safe house, Matriarch?” Phillip asked out loud.

“Matriarch?” Aaron asked, looking at August.

“No, take us to the depot in Toronto.”

“Wait, don’t I have a say in this?” Aaron asked.

“No, you do not,” August said.





Seven





Cybil awoke, but kept her eyes closed. The layers of her bedding weighed comfortably on top of her: a top sheet, a knitted blanket, and a bedspread. Seeing as it was January, and she had to pay for the utilities, she thought it wise to add extra blankets or put on a heavy sweater instead of turning up the heat. She stretched her arms beneath the warm collection of blankets and let out a loud yawn. Her ex-husband, Brent, would scold her whenever she did this, calling her a fog horn. It was a habit she’d had since childhood and in truth, it had become part of her morning routine.