The Sleeper and the Silverblood

He couldn’t do this.

Not with her. Not when she adopted such a blasé attitude over his mother’s condition.

What was he talking about?

What the fuck did she think he was talking about?

Storm seethed as he slipped back into the AIDO that night. So close. He’d come so close to charbroiling her where she stood. Kitara wreaked havoc on his sense of control—something he couldn’t afford.

“…you don’t know nearly as much as you think you do about me…”

Her mother couldn’t possibly be Moriah Orinokë: a Healer and a damn near-perfect Emissary—the immortals who had the closest contact with humans.

None of it added up.

Storm nearly folded then. Even drafted a message to his father telling him he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t look her in the eye and not wish with every fiber of his being she was someone else.

Anyone else.

Someone he could end without an iota of guilt.

Instead, he punched a pillow into submission and fell into a troubled sleep.

In the morning, Storm’s temper had cooled…somewhat. He picked up his phone from his bedside table and reviewed the draft message to his father. After a moment, with a groan, he deleted it without sending it.

Doubt was a powerful thing.

“...Do you really think she emerges from deep undercover for every reassignment?…Saoirse left the field specifically—at great risk to herself, might I add—to facilitate my transfer from Spokane…”

The High Sleeper was Kitara’s mentor. Even he couldn’t deny their apparent familiarity.

“...Kitara, how was your travel?”

“Uneventful. Thanks for arranging it.”

“No trouble at all. It’s the least I could do…”

One truth didn’t necessarily disprove a dozen suspected lies. But that one truth was a powerful one. Even Storm, the son of the High Councilor, hadn’t known of Saoirse’s existence before that debriefing in the Commander’s office.

“…My mother was Moriah Orinokë…the report on my mom was a cover-up. The High Council hid what really happened to preserve their reputation…”

It would certainly explain the High Council’s refusal to do away with Kitara after her family ambushed his mother.

But Moriah Orinokë…?

She wouldn’t have done that…right?

“…I’ve been asked to give a lecture about Moriah Orinokë at an upcoming seminar…”

Almost unconsciously, Storm initiated a phone call.

“Hey, Storm. What’s up?”

He sat up a little, clearing his throat. “Hey, Zayne. I have a…well, a sorta insane question for you.”

“Um, okay?” His friend sounded wary.

“You’ve been researching Moriah Orinokë lately, right? For the seminar?”

“Yeah, it’s in a few days. Why?”

“Okay, here’s the insane part. Have you found anything indicating she may have been…Felled?”

Zayne’s shock was palpable even through the phone. “What? No, of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“A rumor I heard,” Storm hedged.

“Moriah Orinokë died on a mission,” Zayne reminded him. “Everyone knows that. My mom was really upset when it happened.”

“Right,” Storm replied. “Can you at least tell me what she was doing on that mission that killed her?”

Zayne’s subsequent hesitation made Storm sit all the way up.

“You know,” the Ambassador said slowly, “I can’t, actually. I didn’t really find much about that at all.”

Storm frowned. “The Historian is helping you though, right?”

“Devika? Yeah, but…” Zayne hesitated again with a near-audible frown coming through the line. “We’ve never really talked about how she died. And I don’t exactly want to make Ma relive it.”

“No, of course not,” Storm said hastily.

“You could go to the library and ask; I’m sure she’s still got most of those materials handy, and she’s really good at digging for information.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

“I’ve got a meeting, so I’ve gotta run, but let me know what you find, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Zayne.”

“Yep.”

The call disconnected.

No way in hell was Storm going to ask Devika for help. He would have questioned Kitara about her, except she sent him over the edge first.

The memory made Storm scowl, and he placed a second call.

The other party wasn’t quite as receptive as Zayne.

“What, Storm?” Alasdair sounded annoyed.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” Storm said. “But…what information do you think you could get me about Moriah Orinokë?”

A brief pause followed on the other end. “You’re interrupting my workday for a…history lesson?”

“I mean, you’re the one who has all the access to everything or whatever. I asked Zayne, but he didn’t really know.”

The Engineer sighed. “Because that’s a Historian question. Go to the library. Ask for Devika. She might be able to help you.”

Storm stifled a groan. “What if I…can’t?”

Alasdair paused. “Can’t…talk to Dev? Did she say or do something to you?”

“No, not exactly, just—”

“Storm.” Alasdair’s exasperation was back. “If this is some silverblooded thing about mingling with plebeians, I’m unsympathetic.”

Storm frowned. “You know me better than that—why would you say that?”

“Because unless Devika has mortally offended you in some way, I don’t know why you’re bugging me instead.”

“So you can’t do it?”

“I could, but I won’t. Dev will know exactly what you need. Tell her I sent you; she might do it as a favor for me.”

Storm tried again. “’Dair—”

The Engineer’s patience ran out. “Storm, I don’t have time for this; I’m busy.”

“Why’d you pick up then?”

“In case it was about something actually important.”

“Okay, fine, sorry,” Storm grumbled. “I guess I’ll go to the library.”

Alasdair didn’t deign to reply and hung up.

Sighing, Storm swung his legs out of bed. He pulled on some clean clothes before lacing up his boots and slipping from his quarters in the direction of the library. Given his status, Storm resided in the Ambassadors’ wing on the opposite side of the AIDO’s central building, reserved for high-profile immortals like himself and his friends, and visiting Ambassadors or high-profile officials from other facilities and even other realms. His proximity made it unnecessary to traverse the underground compound via the train like many others who lived in the facility. He passed a statue of an angel holding a book aloft, denoting the library’s corridor, which lay just beyond. He hadn’t been to the library in a while; he had stopped searching for answers a long time ago.

“…You should know better than anyone, because whatever happened to your mom has been mysteriously covered up too!”

Something else Kitara was right about. How did she know?

With a frown, Storm entered the library through a pair of swinging glass doors, behind which the room towered as tall as the building with floor to ceiling mahogany shelves. It smelled of history, of lives lived. Rich, warm leather and a hint of something like sawdust from the millions of leaves of paper, cut only by the sharp, modern smell of technology emanating from the dozens of screens humming throughout the space. As large as it was, Storm’s footsteps still echoed heavily in the space.

A glass partition separated an office from the rest of the library. Through it, the Historian bent over a stack of books. Storm tapped twice on the glass as he peered through the doorway.

Devika’s eyes flickered up at him, and she sat back, lacing her fingers together as she observed the newcomer in her office. “Hello, Storm.”

“Devika.”

She waited a beat, but when he didn’t immediately volunteer his reason for visiting, she asked, “What can I do for you?”

Storm rubbed the back of his neck. “I…uh, I’m hoping you can help me with something.”

“What do you need? Research?” The Historian dutifully pulled out her tablet to take notes. “If you need me to dig into something for our…mutual friend, I’m here to help.”

Storm shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Zayne and Alasdair suggested I come by for…a project.”

Emotion flickered through Devika’s gaze but disappeared before Storm could identify it. “And what project is that?”

“I’m looking for information about, uh…recent Fallen,” Storm hedged, leaning against the doorframe. “Maybe the last…century or so?”

Devika scrutinized him with narrowed eyes, chewing the inside of her lip before replying. “I have to request special access to those archives. I won’t have it right away.”

“The Fallen are classified?” Storm couldn’t help asking.

She nodded. “No one is interested in them except to gossip, so they keep the archives locked away from the general populace.”

“That’s smart,” he admitted.

“It’s bad enough they were Felled—better they’re not a constant source of conversation for weeks after.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “So you can’t go running off to blab whatever you find to any immortal who crosses your path.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I just need to review some old records.”

“For your ‘project.’” Devika sounded dubious.

“Right.” He offered her a tentative smile.

She looked unimpressed, her expression flat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She gave him a sharp nod and he backed out of the office.