The Elementalist

2. The Social Worker Who Was Not-1

The Social Worker Who Was NotVoi continued eying the stranger from head to toe… and then some. Perhaps more than she should. Regardless, her startled, dilated eyes became squinting, suspicious slits.

The man casually threw the flap of his black trench coat behind him, planting a hand on his hip; he used his other to support himself against the doorframe. Voi spied a flash of his blue eyes before he looked down, his black fedora obscuring her view. Black leather gloves, black suit, black tie and dress shoes… This man meant serious business.

Appropriate, considering Voi suspected this could very well be the figurative funeral of life as she knew it.

The stranger just shook his head. “What are we going to do with you, Miss Román?” He looked up.

There was stark intelligence in those deep blues, Voi noticed—lively and clever and suspecting. His square, close-shaven jaw gave his face a strength that matched his aura. Perhaps he wouldn’t be as easily bamboozled as she hoped. She shifted uneasily behind the door then froze as the fumes of a strong aftershave assaulted her nose, making her wince. Yet there was something else… something fainter. Something familiar. Voi felt compelled to close her eyes as the scent carried her to a nostalgic place…

Sensing she was being watched, Voi opened her eyes.

The man was staring at her—not with suspicion, but with curiosity.

Voi bit her lip, uncertain how to begin their conversation until the origins of the scent came to her. Momentarily forgetting her predicament, she said quietly, “Citrus and sandalwood.”

The man lifted his eyebrows. “Come again?”

She spoke with more confidence this time. “Your cologne—isn’t that Marlborough?”

His mouth quirked wryly. “Funny, I’m not actually wearing any cologne right now.”

“But you were recently, just a day or two ago, I assume.” She smiled. “Take a nice girl out to dinner?”

He chuckled, amused. “Emelesiacs tend to have sharper senses than most folk, so the fact that you can still smell that on me doesn’t surprise.” He peered at her. “How did you know what brand I was wearing?”

“Well, you see, my father used to wear that scent. Before the war…” Truth was Voi didn’t want to remember her father’s disappearance, so she stopped talking.

“Ah.” The agent stuffed his hands into his pockets and swallowed uncomfortably. “Look, I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memo—”

“It’s fine.” She shook her head. “It was ten years ago.” When neither of them said anything, she cleared her throat.

“Right,” he said, “I haven’t introduced myself.” He extended his hand. “Callahan, Ron Callahan. Social Services.”

Callahan—isn’t that a Kesh name? Hmm… he doesn’t really have an accent. Voi considered his hand momentarily then shut the door in his face, only to undo the chain. Still, she suppressed a smile before opening the door then put on a serious look as she leaned against the frame. She folded her arms as she studied the man’s subtly foreign features. He dropped his hand in disappointment. His eyelashes were thick and dark, which was common amongst the Kesh, though the bridge of his nose was straight instead of hooked. In any case, his name was familiar—he seemed familiar—though she couldn’t place why.

“Have we met before?” she asked.

Mr. Callahan squinted at her. “What makes you think we’ve met before?”

“It’s just… well, never mind.” Voi shook her head, clearing her thoughts. “Anyway, Mr. Jones usually does the visits.”

“Usually, but he’s not the one standing on your doorstep now, is he?”

Voi frowned. Was that the call she’d missed earlier? No, Mr. Jones would have given her more notice. Unless…

Well, Mr. Jones was a soft man, by Voi’s standards. Despite the fact that he was also a painstaking, perfectionistic Follower of Orden—virtuous worshipers of the saints of old—she’d been pulling the wool over his eyes for years! He’d been much too kind to Voi, more of a doting caretaker looking after a wounded cub than a law-abiding hunter of feral emelesiacs. Mr. Jones’ fondness for Voi only came to be because she’d showed the side of herself that she wanted him to see: the compliant, innocent one.

However, seeing as there was a new agent here now, perhaps she’d underestimated Mr. Jones’ resolve. Perhaps he’d suspected Voi all along and simply lacked the heart to commit her to the asylum. Perhaps he’d dispatched a new agent to do his bidding.

Voi considered this new agent—this so-called ‘Ron Callahan’—as well as the smug, uncanny look in his eye… No, she was not fond of this man.

She squinted. “Why have you come here, Mr. Callahan?”

“Well…” His voice was a playful song, which would have been attractive if it wasn’t for the circumstances. “I’d hoped you’d extend some hospitality first. It’s chilly out, and besides, I think we both know there are things to discuss.”

“Oh? Like what?”

All mirth drained from Mr. Callahan’s expression as he leaned in, resting his hand on the doorframe near Voi’s head. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why I’m here, Miss Román. This day’s been twenty-five years in the making.”

Voi swallowed, holding his stern gaze. Eventually, she opened the door then stepped aside, grudgingly granting the social worker admission while peering at him with distaste.

He smiled and shuffled by, filling her nostrils with unsolicited delight.

Any plans to distract this man with her feminine wiles were lost to Voi as she closed her eyes to enjoy her father’s fragrance… Remembering herself, she snapped out of her reverie then swiftly closed the door, securing the locks. She whirled around to address the social worker, only to find he was already in the living room. She balled her hands into fists and stormed after him, not liking the freedom with which he roamed through her home.

However, she slowed when he paused by a console table, picking up a framed photograph of Voi next to a Belareaux IX. The ‘Beautiful Way’ was a Borellian model, a small two-seater monoplane of varnished wood and doped linen—treatments which allowed some of the natural tones of the materials to show through with protection from the elements. Even with its flimsy appearance, the Belareaux had a certain grace which Voi admired.

“You really like flying, don’t you?” said Mr. Callahan.

She yanked the frame from his hand. “Flying’s no crime.” She set the thing on the table with a loud thunk.

This didn’t seem to bother him. “Dropped university to pursue it, despite being top in your class. Went on and became the biggest thing since flight itself.”

Well, it had seemed more exciting than finishing a degree she would hardly get to use, being doomed for the asylum. Still, Voi c****d her head. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

He smiled, turning to resume his perusal of the living room. “Well, you were a hit, as far as the aeronautical community was concerned.” He snapped his fingers. “Remind me, what was it they called you?”

She folded her arms. Here we go…

“That’s right, ‘Aeronetti: The Flying Masked Wonder!’” He laughed.

Voi cringed at the memory of her leather flying suit and the matching knee-high boots and masquerade mask she’d donned under the pseudonym. All black, all business.

It had all been a front, an attempt to hide her true nature. Perhaps this man was also hiding something.

“Set a few records in your career, didn’t you?” he asked. “Some that still stand to this day, and you did it all in a little ol’ flimsy.”

Voi didn’t care for the derogatory connotations of that term. However, it wasn’t exactly an inaccurate description, considering what the planes were made of: linen, wood, suspiciously thin rigging wire… Unfortunately, the term had caught on as an accepted colloquialism in Chandra City before Voi’s brief rise to fame, spreading across the country like an epidemic.

Damn journalists.

“But you don’t set records anymore, do you, Miss Román?”

Voi marched over, planting herself in front of him. “Who do you think you are, coming into my home like this as if you were some kind of—” She stopped when he reached for her wrist, though she yanked it back.

“Relax,” he said, noting the crazed look on her face. “I just wanna take your pulse.”

Voi rolled her eyes then looked away as he resumed the procedure. It wasn’t fair, getting her worked up like this. Over time, her breathing slowed as a foreign calmness washed over her. Voi looked down at his hand—tan and veiny as it was—and wondered at this phenomenon. Then she looked up, attempting to read his face.

He stood there coolly. Too coolly. In fact, he seemed to be deliberately ignoring Voi, his gaze fixated on her wrist.

She squinted at him.

Finally, he let her go.

The sudden absence of his warmth startled Voi, and she gasped, rubbing her wrist; her post-urche senses were still hypersensitive. Mr. Callahan ran his hand over his mouth then faced the window with his hands on his hips.

Voi awaited his conviction with breathless restraint.

“I can excuse the pulse,” he said. “After all, I did get you upset. But the pupils…”

This will all be over soon, she told herself. Just pretend you don’t know any better.

He faced her now. “Miss Román, how long has this been going on?”

“What do you mean?” Her eyes widened. “I only just took my urche before you arrived.”

“Uh-huh.” He redirected his attention elsewhere. His expression was somber at first, though it quickly became riddled with an unusual amount of complexity that was difficult for Voi to interpret. Just when she thought there was a chance of him sparing a bad report to Social Services, he set off for the stairs, asking over his shoulder, “Where do you keep your pills?”

She forced down a swell of emotion with a difficult swallow then dried off her face, following him upstairs. She found him searching the bedroom aimlessly. Feeling less confident, she hugged herself. “They’re in the medicine cabinet.”

“Meds in the medicine cabinet. Makes sense.” He went to the bathroom.

Voi quirked an eyebrow. Maybe not as intelligent as I thought. Eventually, she heard the cabinet door clink open, followed by the shuffling of bottles and other paraphernalia. More silence…

She hugged herself tighter.

Mr. Callahan returned with the capsules in hand, concentrating on the hand-written notes marking the small bottle. “Let’s see here… ‘One pill twice a day.’” He arched his eyebrows. “Says here that Dr. Moore originally prescribed you with twenty-eight pills. Seeing this is dated thirteen days ago… that means you should only have, what, one or two left?”

“You’re assuming I took both doses on the day they were given to me.”

“I’m assuming you took any at all, smart aleck.”

She was quiet.

Mr. Callahan twisted the cap off the bottle then poured the contents into his hand. He counted them aloud. “… Seven, eight, nine… ten.” He gave her an incredulous look before pouring the pills back into the bottle which he then placed on a nearby side table. He moved slowly, deliberately even, as if every motion required careful consideration.

Shrewd and perceptive, this man was. Another wrong note and Voi’s false innocence would be shattered for good.

“Miss Román, how long did you think you could keep this up?”

“Mr. Callahan,” she said. “I really think there must be some kind of mistake here.”

“Yeah.” He pointed at her. “You made the mistake. Did you seriously think that by skipping a few doses of your meds you could just—” he made a gliding motion with his hand, “eeeeease your way off of ‘em. Was that it?”

“What?” She stared at him in mock-shock. “How dare you insinuate that I’ve been trying to—”

“Drop the act, Miss Román. I’m not buying it.”

Her eyes enlarged.

“You know what?” He shook his finger at her. “I think you might actually be onto something.”

“I—” Voi angled her head. “I beg your pardon?”

“See, thing is, dropping the meds isn’t a simple task, is it?” He moved closer.

She took a few steps back.

“Urche’s not something the emelesiac can just walk away from. You’ve been bred to depend on it for so long that your mind and body don’t know how to function without it. Yet deep down, you know something’s off about the way it makes you feel… don’t you?”

She laughed, retreating from his advancing form. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. C—oh!” She bumped into a chair though quickly slid around it.

Still, he kept following her. “Don’t get coy with me, Voi. You know exactly what I’m talking about: that little high you get when you’ve been off your meds longer than you should be…”

Voi gulped and continued backtracking.

“And when you do pop another dose through those pretty pink puckers, and that d**g starts to settle back in…”

“Mr. Callahan, please. This isn’t—” Voi’s back met the wall, giving her a start. She bit her lip as she realized the agent was staring at her mouth.

He paused then leaned in, placing his hands against the wall on either side of her. “Tell me, Voi… how does it make you feel?”

His smooth voice lulled her eyelids into a state of heaviness, and she grew weak, pressing herself against the wall. Dizzy from his influence, she took him in—from his carelessly loose tie to his penetrating gaze. It was strange the way the warmth of his aura seemed to reach out to hers, like a subtle brush of the hand along the cheek then down her neck… It gave her chills.