34
Her nails tapped on the window sill. Another mug of wine goes down with effort, its taste soured. There was nothing wrong with the wine. It is as it always was.
Most of Seret's candles have burned out. A mountain of papers, most unread, disorganized, were placed haphazardly stacked on her desk. Reports. All saying the same thing.
No one can find them.
As she begins filling another mug of wine, the door opens.
“Any word?”
He sounded exhausted. Then again, Seret was unable to tell if he was more tired than any other time.
He sat on the other side of her desk, taking off his tie that he never bothered to properly fasten. The rest of his clothes hung on their green-bronzed skin with the same lack of care and effort.
“Moros,” she was stiff, in no mood for courtesy, no matter how basic.
Acacias Moros, the manager of Nightmares, the bronze incubus, the ever sleepy. Seret slapped on a few names over the years, but right now, he was her bane.
“Any reports on Ruin?” Seret continued to ignore his first question.
Moros replied, leaning on her desk as sitting up took up too much energy. “None. He has vanished from my department,” ‘like always…’ ”But no one else has reported sightings of him. I think we should at least take that as a silver lining.”
Looking at him, Seret had to remind herself of the fact he was the youngest of the six Dream Weavers.
Long ago, she remembered taking note of his attitude; he had a prideful swagger and an optimistic confidence.
She remembered being annoyed by his young charisma and his relaxed attitude.
Even though she remembered nothing all that, she can't remember him ever being so.
That's the plague of continuous nightmares.
Again, Seret had to remind herself that he was young and ill-equipped to take on the role. Never having that proper training, a mentor of sorts, to deal with the horrific and macabre constantly.
She eased her tone and posture. “If he at least stays out of the picture for long enough, maybe we can minimize the damage.”
“What of the stars? Quark and Pulse?” That was one thing Seret admired about him; the unrelenting empathy in the face of the unspeakable.
“Quark will soon be going through the first stages of corruption. It should be any time now.”
“And Pulse?”
“Undetermined. They somehow found a loophole in the Pull that prevented the Curse from infecting them. But they still removed themselves from their constellation, and there is no telling the effects that will have.”
Moros yawned, resting his face in his hand. “Sounds like Alambee will have to be involved if we want to find that out.”
“I want to hold off on involving any other department as long as I can.” The sky was a perfect white; the light burned her eyes and stung her cheeks. “Do you want some wine?”
“No thank you, if I have any now, I'll collapse.”
“A cigarette then?”
“That I'll have. Thank you kindly.”
She had to remind herself he was still young. As he lit his cigarette and took a long drag, she had to keep reminding herself he was the youngest, in age and experience.
“You're extra stressed,” Moros noted. “I've never seen you like this.”
"They were in my care. Two stars—one being the choirs darling—and a dreamer are in jeopardy."
“Something else must be the matter, I don't remember you being this worked up over Ruin.”
Seret went silent, looking at her micro stack of reports she did read.
“Seret, it'll be okay.”
She responded with a long pull, nearly smoking her entire cigarette in one inhale.
"You know, your Father didn't even have a perfect record. Alambee would assure you as much. Even Frida would say so, as scatterbrained as she is."
The report on the top of the stack stood out to Seret.
“Your father would still be so proud of you, you know.”
“Thank you, I know that though. It's not that that is gnawing at me.”
Moros pondered through the possibilities. “It's the McCarthy girl, isn't it? You always had a small soft spot for her.”
“She is a cunning thing, I'll give her that. There are not many people like her that are so intuitive and knowledgeable about the Dream Realm anymore.”
“I doubt she's making it easy on you either.”
"No, she isn't. The woman is using every trick to hide them. Her domain has been wiped from our radar."
“Impressive.”
"Foolish." She dug her spent smoke into the ashtray. "She is in danger as well. She is a bright young woman, and it's all the more distressing the lengths she's going for those two star-crossed blockheads who are enabling it."
“You say she's in danger?” Moros doubted. “I know she's frustrating to manage, and we had incidents with her in the past. But Pulse and Quark, as imprudent as they are, are good kids. They mean well. I doubt they would hurt her.”
Seret slapped the paper in front of Moros. “Read that, and tell me otherwise.”
Beginning to skim, he caught a few keywords that made his eyes squint as though it was a spelling error. "Her Bedtime Report?"
“Correct.”
He knew Seret would never lie to him. She never has. Never will. But he didn't want to believe the words on the page. “Fuck.”
“Yes. And every second lollygagging is another precious moment she doesn't have left.”
“How much time does she have? Until it's too late?”
“Starting tonight: Two weeks.”
“Fuck...”
“Which means I need to get to work.” She ripped off her coat and unbuttoned her collar. In one swift motion, she cleaned her desk from all the unread papers into a bin on the side. “There isn't a moment to lose. Not for Quark. Not For Pulse. Less so, for Leonora.”