The Divine Gambit Ch. 01

I didn't even know this place existed. I was never particularly inclined to breakfast, and it was out of necessity on the rare occasions I partook. I wouldn't have ever made time to go to a restaurant for it -- that would mean less sleeping time -- which might explain my ignorance, but I felt there was more to the story. I had lived in the neighborhood for three years and hadn't heard anyone mention the place.

Sam went in, explaining how she wanted to get a table before her mother arrived, and Beth and I followed. Well, I followed, and Beth hid in my shadow. The hostess took an exhausting time looking us over before telling us to take any empty booth. The place had a 50s American Classic vibe, and the hostess gave off a distinctly blue-collar demeanor. This was a place to get some good food and get out, not to host charity events or discuss business plans. It reminded me more of a bar or a pub than a breakfast diner. If I wasn't here to talk with Sam's mother about how apparently magic was real and now I had some inside me, I would've felt comfortable here. Well, that and it felt like everyone was watching us take a table.

We sat down, and I picked up a menu that was waiting for me there. I wanted to make it look like I was interested in the food options, but I was more interested in trying to understand my current predicament.

"Sam," I said softly, "Why is everyone sneaking glances at us?"

She smiled back at me, and I realized she hadn't touched the menu on the table. Maybe this was all some elaborate ruse to get us to go to her favorite breakfast haunt. As if I could get so lucky.

"Because you've never been here before, you smell like power, and the girl beside you has more enchanting done on her than many artifacts do. The president might have a hundredth of it on him."

Beth inched closer to me in the booth, her hip digging into my side. If she was capable of climbing into my shadow, she probably would have.

"I guess I'll have to wait for your mom for the easy answers."

We placed our orders, including Sam ordering for her mother, with a waitress who could've been between a rough 35 and a pretty rough 55. I wasn't asking. Sam said she would use the "little girl's room," and she went to the back of the dining area. When she stepped into the bathrooms and was no longer visible, Beth moved even closer to me in the booth. Forget shadow; I think Beth would've climbed inside my skin if it meant she could hide from everyone else in the building. Her elbow sharply dug into me as she clung to me, but the fear I could smell from her convinced me to tolerate the discomfort. Sam's presence must've been dissuading them somehow because now the looks were open and unforgiving, their curiosity bordering on oppressive.

The front door opened with the bells attached to it jingling their announcement, and the gawkers had a momentary lapse in their concentration. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in a minute. Beth didn't. A moment later, Sam's mom joined our booth with a troubled look on her face, her brow furrowed and her lip curled on one side. If I didn't know any better, I would've said that Sam had returned to the table with us because they were reflections of one another. If you looked closely, you could see how she may have been older, but an uneducated guess would've been that they were sisters a couple of years apart. I knew Sam was 21 like I was and that this was her mother.

"Hi, Mrs. O'Brien. How are you?"

She looked at me, at Beth, and then back at me with a recognizable sparkle forming in her eyes. The furrowed brow had faded by the time she started talking. "Please, James, darling, call me Cynthia. How are you -- How have you been? I haven't seen you in years. I hope my daughter is around. She asked me to meet her here to discuss some..." She paused for a moment, struggling to develop a suitable description. "Work, I suppose."

That was interesting. I had met Sam's mother a few times before when we were younger, through school events and group projects, but she always had been quite reserved and aloof. I had never experienced anything like the familiarity and charm she just let flow. Even more so, it didn't feel forced and synthetic -- she seemed genuinely pleased to see me now that her initial confusion was abated.

"I had been doing fairly well, I suppose. I'm not quite sure why I'm here -- Sam tried to beat down my door a couple of hours ago and insisted we meet with you now. She just went to the bathroom a --"

Before I could finish the statement, Sam returned and sat down, bumping her mother further inside the booth. Even next to each other, you never would've guessed Sam was the other woman's daughter. It was uncanny how similar they were.

"Hi, Mom. He's the one you need to talk to, so keep doing it." Sam gave her mother a side hug that seemed uncomfortable, kissed her on the cheek in a way that felt forced, and then picked up the chocolate milk she had ordered.

"He's the one? This isn't some ploy to g--"

"Mom! I wouldn't mess with this for that. I know what the consequences would be. No, he's it. Open your eyes a bit; he's blinding."

"Huh, would you look at that? The nice boy from school turned out to have a gift. Never would've guessed. You think B? I could see that."

"Mom, please don't talk about that today -- Wait, you think B now? I gave him one of the rings. He didn't know how to dampen himself. I think he's really, really fresh. This month, probably."

"That much is coming through the ring?"

"Yeah, I think he was lighting up the whole city last night. It was so intense that I couldn't sleep. Thought he was projecting intentionally to show off, so I tracked him down to give him a piece of my mind. Turns out he just has no idea what he's doing and needs help. Something's up with her, too. Try to feel her -- it's like a void, and all you can get are wisps of enchanting residue."

Beth and I sat silently while the two mirror-image redheads across from us discussed things we didn't understand. I felt like a child in a medical exam, with the doctor talking with my parents about how I was unwell. I was theoretically involved and present but didn't understand half the phrases and had nothing to contribute.

Mrs. O'Brien -- Cynthia? -- looked at us again and just stared at us for half a minute, breathing in a rhythmic and controlled manner. Then she spoke and addressed Beth for the first time. Beth flinched as the words were directed at her.

"Hi, sweetie. You look terrified. What's your name?"

Barely audible over the ambient noise of the diner, Beth squeaked out her name.

"Okay, Beth, can I see your hand for a moment? Nothing harmful, I swear." Cynthia placed her two hands across the table and smiled at Beth.

Beth slowly placed her right hand into Cynthia's awaiting palms. Cynthia wrapped her hands gently around Beth's and closed her eyes. After about ten seconds, there was a spark, and Cynthia yanked her hands back, staring at a fresh burn on her palm.

Beth was startled and immediately started spurting apologies. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." She was nearly in tears as she continued apologizing.

Cynthia reached into her purse, pulled out a small vial, and squirted some of its clear contents onto her hand. "Interesting, very interesting," she muttered quietly before realizing that Beth was pouring her soul out onto the table in an attempt to right some wrong that exclusively existed in her head.

"Oh honey, I know you didn't do anything. What's weird is that I can't sense you at all. If I look past you, I can weakly recognize your edges, and they smell of him." She pointed at me with her eyes while she continued, "Of course, I can see you physically and hold your hand and interact in all the mundane ways, but when I try to find your heart magically, it's like you've been completely obfuscated. I tried to poke the edge of the void to see if I could find you in there, and it poked back. It's hard to explain with what you know." She settled back into her seat, pulled out a tablet I thought was too large to fit in her purse, and looked at me while tapping on it. "Okay, James, it's time for you to tell me everything you know about yourself. We've gotta figure out what you are."

What I am? A confused computer science student in a very strange diner with two women who insist that magic is real. "What do you mean, 'what you are'?"

"You know, half-elf, were-beast, impling, banshee, gargoyle, naiad, centaur, treant. Stuff like that. You're not just a human -- humans usually find their spark around 10, when the first hints of puberty start -- so I believe you're some mythic creature that has had your merge prevented. Hopefully. So, tell me everything you've ever felt so we can start eliminating possibilities."

I laughed a bit at the scale of what she was asking. "Everything, cool. Where do I even start that? I'm studying computer science here. I swam competitively in high school and worked as a lifeguard during the summers and as a substitute here at school. Was in Scouts as a kid, and I enjoyed the camping trips. I like lifting weights. I have a cat at my parent's house. This is incredibly uncomfortable for me. Could you perhaps ask some questions and guide this? I have no idea what you want to know." I felt like Beth looked. Well, perhaps not quite that bothered.

Sam interrupted, "You said this started last night, and you were in a fight, yeah? Walk us through that."

We spent the next half an hour discussing everything between leaving Kyle's and falling asleep at my apartment with Beth on my chest. They were interested in my aches and pains, my willingness to investigate something that wasn't my problem, and the thing that had inserted itself in my mind.

When I mentioned that it had spoken to me, I could smell fear radiating off Sam. Cynthia asked several pointed questions about my interactions with it, and eventually, the smell faded behind the diner's food and cleaning supplies. When the redheads seemed satisfied with my answers, I talked about being able to smell some emotions.

Cynthia then asked several precise questions that made it seem like she knew significantly more than she had let on. Was I more comfortable in the water when I swam than on land? Did I have barely any body hair? Were the aches in my bones instead of at my joints or in my muscles? Had I gotten sick at all recently? Had I ever been on an airplane, and how comfortable was I with flying?

As I gave the answers, she kept tapping away at her tablet. Eventually, she pursed her lips and softly said, "I'm going to ask you to think about yourself in several scenarios here. I want you to know that it's all hypothetical; my suggestions will not happen in reality. No matter what I say, can you remain calm for me?"

"I guess I can give it a go. You seem to know a lot more about me than you suggested."

Cynthia nodded and then continued, "Alright. Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Find the entity you spoke to last night and feel him. Don't coax him forward; just brush up against him and get an idea of how he responds to what I'm saying. Let me know when you're ready."

I did what she said, located the foreign being in my mind, and reached out a metaphorical hand to hold onto it. It twitched at my touch but didn't respond like I was intruding. It felt welcoming to the contact -- encouraging and anticipating more. I nodded my head, hoping Cynthia was watching.

She spoke, "A couple of simple things just to get started with a baseline. Imagine you're back and swimming competitively. You have a big race against another top school coming up. Their best swimmer does the same events as you. If you win, your team should win the meet. If you don't, it will be hard to get enough points, and your teammates will likely have to overperform. How does it feel?"

I let the information flow into me and started describing it to the women. "He feels confident. That's an understatement, actually. He feels like I was already good enough to win alone and that together, we could crush some of the records if we wanted to. Too many would make others investigate us, but we deserve to have a pool record or two."

Cynthia continued, "And, on a scale of one to ten, how strong is the feeling you're getting? Don't worry about being precisely accurate now; you'll get a better sense of this as we continue."

"I guess a six? Oh, he disagrees. Lower. A four? Seems alright there."

Cynthia continued like this with several more quick situations. I was taking an exam I hadn't studied for -- it wasn't an issue, as he knew I typically read ahead on the materials and did well enough in my classes that a single lousy exam grade wouldn't sink me. My girlfriend had just canceled our plans for the second time in a row -- He wasn't concerned either. If she had a plausible reason, we would accept it, and if she didn't, we would ask her to consider how serious she was taking our relationship and if she wanted to continue it. We were a king among peasants; if she wasn't interested, we would find one worthy of our time. The self-assured confidence and absolute conviction in our high value were alien to me. Cynthia continued like this for another half hour. While many of the answers didn't feel exactly right to me, none garnered an extreme reaction from the entity. A question about being overcharged at a restaurant got a genuine six response -- the strongest reaction so far.

Cynthia eventually warned me, "I only have two more questions. The first will probably cause an answer that will be hard for you to understand. The final question will probably upset both you and it. Are you okay to continue?" I nodded my affirmation.

She asked, "How do you feel about leaving this town, your friends and family, and this life behind?"

The response I got back internally was confusing to me. I slowly began to convey the feelings to Cynthia, "He feels remorseful. He knows we have to do that because of him. He knows I can't continue my current life with him, and he knows no one from it would accept us for how we are now. He feels guilty that this will cause me pain. But he knows it must be done, and to do it now would be better than to watch everything I loved grow old and die while we are still young and full of life. He's telling me this question wasn't hypothetical and that you are warning me of what we have to do. Probably a six again."

Cynthia sighed and then said, "It's almost certainly correct. Okay. Are you still relaxed? If you're agitated, I don't want to ask the next question -- that could incite problems."

"I'm not happy, but I feel more withdrawn and grief-struck than agitated. I think you're alright to ask."

I heard some shuffling around on the other side of the table, and then Cynthia spoke softly and calmly, "I need you to imagine you're coming home from classes one day. You get to your apartment building and see smoke coming from windows on your floor. The air smells like burning plastics. You rush inside, and the building is full of smoke -- it's hard to see and even harder to breathe. You eventually reach your apartment itself and force the door to open. The inside is on fire, and the heat is intense. Your kitchen is destroyed. The fire is spreading and growing."

I could feel the beast inside my mind growing uncomfortable. Why would we have gone inside at all? What value was there in my shitty apartment? My possessions were all replaceable. Cynthia had said this would be upsetting, but it was just irritating for the moment.

Cynthia continued, "Today, Beth and Sam were hanging out -- having a bit of a girl's day out. They would've been waiting for you to come home so that you could have a nice dinner out to cap off their day. They are both in the apartment still. You also have recently been investing in gold and other precious metals. You are no longer confident in fiat currency and find having a physical backup reassuring. In your closet, there is a duffel bag filled with your reserves. A large portion of your savings are in that bag. Beth and Sam are in your room as well. They're both passed out from smoke inhalation. The fire is spreading fast. You think you can only save one. You need to make a decision. What do you do?"

The beast inside my head SCREAMED in vitriol and rancor at the situation. Initially, it wanted to grab the duffel bag and get out. The girls, it reasoned, were already too incapacitated to be resuscitated. Take the money and get out of here.

I argued with it. It was exerting its will on me, trying to get me to say that we would take the gold and evacuate. I was so focused on arguing with him that I didn't realize when I spoke my side out loud.

"Absolutely not, you heartless bastard. The bag can burn. Most of it will be salvageable. If we leave the girls here, they will die. Even if it's not salvageable, it's insured and replaceable."

He argued with me. The girls were already dead; their bodies were just catching up. We couldn't heal their insides before they succumbed to the damage. Insurance wouldn't cover all of the destroyed valuables. We would need our hoard to rebuild, but another mate could always be found. Why did I care about Sam at all? She wasn't even bound to us.

"She's my friend, you absolute bastard. We aren't picking a chunk of metal over them. Pick one of them."

The being insisted that I made no sense and was acting irrationally. Mortal mates would die, anyway. The witch eventually would, too, so we needed to take the valuable option and replace them by keeping our hoard intact.

I was fed up with this. I forced out, "I take the girl closer to me and pray that there will be enough time to come back for the other." The effort of giving my response to Cynthia was absolute -- I simply had nothing remaining beyond what it had taken to eke out my assertion.

The beast roared again inside my head. It raged against the hand I was connected to it with. If I was going to throw away all that money on sentimentality and emotions, I needed to save Beth. She was our mate and bound to us, while Sam was an irrelevant distraction and a plant for the question. I needed to ignore her.

"No, I made my decision." It insisted I was fundamentally sabotaging ourselves, but acquiesced and withdrew further. It told me that was the last question and that it was done playing games. It was displeased with me and wanted to be in a stronger host with a more reasonable mentality. I was too feeble and suggestable and sentimental. I didn't deserve it. It released my hand to sulk in the depths of my mind, disconnected from my consciousness.

I opened my eyes and realized that the redheads were watching me in cautious fascination. Beth was still clinging to me. I was coated in a sheen of sweat, and my jaw ached from where I had been clenching it. The tablet was set up on a stand with the camera directed at me, and I figured she had recorded that question if not all of them. Cynthia took the tablet down and slipped out of the booth to make a phone call.

Sam hadn't blinked yet, and her fear permeated the room. She spoke, "Holy shit, J. I hope one day you understand what you just did, if my mom is right. That question is specifically designed to get you, the human, to accept something about the thing we think is sharing your head, like the previous one did. Get it upset a bit, sure, but it's really for you. I was so sure she was right, but now I'm fucking confused. We crossed everything else off the list, though." She sat back on the bench and sighed. "Either the stories are wrong, you're unique, we're completely wrong about what you are, or some combination. None of those are great looks. Honestly, I hope we're just wrong about what you are."

Cynthia returned to us, "I'm still confident. I have a hypothesis." She turned her focus to me. "We need to make a little road trip. How do you feel about visiting Philadelphia? I know it's on short notice."