Karsten Knight - Afterglow

Outside the bar she took the lead, but she only made it three steps before she felt Colt resist. With a masculine but graceful confidence, he spun her back to face him. Before she knew it, she was in his arms, sandwiched between his chest and the brick wall of the bar.

Still, he paused just shy of kissing her. “What about your boyfriend?” he whispered, like it mattered to him at all.

Johanna let her lips trace a line along his jaw before whispering back: “What boyfriend?”

Colt tried to lead her back in the direction of the motel room where he was staying, but Johanna laughed mischievously and dragged him toward the freight ship, Renaissance , that was docked nearby.

For the next ten minutes Colt lost himself in a cloud of desire and excitement, barely aware of his surroundings as Johanna led him onto the Renaissance , then through a labyrinth of shipping crates. They seemed to be moving away from the crew’s quarters, which made sense if she bunked with her supposed boyfriend. Instead she stopped at a blue shipping crate on the port side of the ship, looking off to the western horizon, where the dusk sun was just finally plunging into the ocean. He didn’t have time to enjoy the view, however, as Johanna heaved open the rusty, squeaky door of the shipping crate.

“It’s my little oasis,” she explained, then stepped into the dark interior. “My quiet haven on the ship to escape the rest of the crew.” Her face slowly slipped beneath the cover of shadows as she backed inside with a playful smile. “Follow if you dare.”

Colt did join her, closing the door behind them so there was just a crack of dusk light casting a line against the steel walls. In the corner, a new, fiery light blossomed, revealing Johanna standing in front of an old-fashioned lantern. He didn’t see any matches, and he realized with a thrill what this meant:

She’s come into her powers.

The rest of the shipping crate was sparsely decorated for an “oasis”—just a small nightstand in the corner with three books on it, and a quilt and some lumpy pillows spread out on the floor.

He wasn’t here to critique her interior decorating though. “Lie down,” she told him, nodding to the quilt.

He did as she said, feeling the hard metal floor of the crate press unforgivingly through the thin quilt. But pain, especially for him, was nothing in pursuit of a dream that had been postponed for the better part of a century now.

Johanna kneeled over him seductively. Her fingers slipped inside his button-down shirt, and with a harsh rip the buttons popped free, exposing his chest. She ran one hand over his bare skin, and he closed his eyes in ecstasy, taking in the smell of her. “How hot do you like it?” she whispered to him, her breath warm against his hear.

“Very,” he groaned back, his eyes still closed.

Then he felt the heat. His eyes shot open. Her hand, now pressing hard against his chest, had ignited in a wreath of fire, searing a deep, red burn into his flesh. He screamed, despite himself, and jerked back, trying to get out from under her.

She knelt down on him hard though, locking him in place. She pulled her hand away, and even as he struggled to conceal his chest with his shirt, she watched as the molten handprint began to fill in, then lighten, then disappear altogether, as skin fused back over it.

When the healing was done, she nodded, pensively staring at the scar-less flesh, not looking surprised at all. “I just needed to be sure,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Something snapped around his ankle. Johanna’s other hand, which had disappeared behind her, had fastened a metal shackle just above his foot. She backed off to admire her handiwork, while he reached down for the restraint. The shackle—which had been concealed beneath the quilt—was snug around his ankle, like it had been molded just for him. The other end of the thick chain was bolted to the shipping crate floor.

He sprang to his feet and lunged toward Johanna, but the metal leash stopped him, his fingernails swiping just inches from her unconcerned face.

“Why are you doing this?” he said, trying to muster innocent confusion as best he could, but he was starting to panic. “Johanna, is this some sort of game?”

Johanna rolled her eyes and leaned against the inside of the crate. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “I’m going to stand here and say absolutely nothing until you drop the ignorance act.”

“Johanna, I don’t understand!” he cried out. For minutes he pleaded with her, begged her to let him go, saying he’d do anything, pay her anything.

Johanna just yawned into her hand. Her eyes never left him. They were cold and bored.

Eventually, he saw that his ruse was going nowhere. So he conceded defeat the only way he knew how. “So,” he said. “How much do you remember? All of it? Some of it? Has it bled in through your dreams?”

Johanna shook her head. “I remember none of it,” she said, with complete honesty.

“Then how—”

She waved for him to be silent, then pulled up a small stool, still out of his reach. “To answer that,” she said as she sat down, “we have to go back seventy years . . . to when Ashline Wilde was still a teenager.”

He flinched when he heard the name. Another nail driving into his coffin.

“Put yourself in her shoes,” Johanna said, then corrected herself. “In my shoes, I suppose. You, Colt Halliday, are finally dead, and I want to start living my life like you never existed. But in the back of my mind I know the awful future that’s in store for my next lifetime: I’ll return remembering nothing, and you, who remember everything, will seek me out. The dance begins again, and sooner or later, you’ll win. Maybe not this lifetime. Maybe not the next. But eventually you’ll get to me.

“Now,” Johanna went on, and this part seemed to excite her. “If I know I won’t remember anything when I’m reborn, then my next best bet is to reach out to her—to me—to warn me. But that won’t work either. The old me, Ashline, has to die before the new me, Johanna, is born. I don’t know who the future me will be adopted by, or where, or what her name will be, so there’s really no way to leave a message for her, is there?” Johanna left a pregnant pause. “Unless . . . unless I leave that warning someplace public. Someplace very public.”

Colt’s eyes widened as he realized what she was getting at, but she’d waited too long to let him finish the story for her.

“What if,” Johanna continued, “I wrote down my whole story—starting from when I first discovered my volcanic abilities, my identity as Pele, through your fateful arrival in my life . . . and documented all of your treachery, and eventually, your death? And what if, rather than filing that story as nonfiction—because who would ever believe that, really?—I published it as fiction. And what if”—Johanna accented the final “if” triumphantly—“a girl named Johanna, raised in a culture that’s not her own, one day decides to start reading stories about her heritage, about someone just like her. She finds the book that Ashline wrote and realizes that the girl described in the books has all the same fiery powers that she’s just discovered herself. It could be coincidence, it could be fiction, but then again . . . maybe it’s not.”

“Johanna—” Colt tried to interject, but as much as Johanna was curious to hear whatever bullshit he’d try to manipulate her with, she was too proud to let him interrupt her story.

“Sure enough, when I did some research, I found Eve and Rose—the new Eve and Rose, that is, living under new names, with new families. I found others from the stories too.” Johanna pointed through the open slit in the crate doors. “That’s why I took a job that allowed me to travel so much. I’ve been slowly finding all the people from the last story. Enlightening them. Letting them know that they’re not alone. But there was still one person, one god, I needed to meet to know with absolute certainty that everything Ash had written down was real, a person that in all my travels, I’d never met. . . .” She smiled grimly at him. “Until tonight.”