Soulseer ✔️ *COMPLETE*

Chapter Eighteen

I'd like to say that my first thoughts are that I can't abandon these people in the hour of their need. And that flutters in hot on the heels like the shadow of a runner. It's a One-Two punch combination.

But the first jab is the realization that I literally can't leave. As in I don't know how. The only exit from the Gathering that I'm aware of (aside from convincing Maia to fly me out and I know that ain't happening) is the one through Sahar and Asad's shop and even if I managed to a) make my way through the Bazaar without being recognized and detained and b) sneak past whoever was working at the shop, I would still c) find myself in rural Pakistan. What the fuck am I gonna do in rural Pakistan? Without the benefit of the Gathering's strange Babel fish abilities, how will I speak with anyone?

I stumble backwards and sit on the bed. My brains starts spinning possible scenarios around - ways to get out of here with the least possible collateral damage to myself and everyone else.

The knock on my door jolts me back to the room. Fuck.

Well, escape is not an option now. Before I can get off the bed, the door starts to slowly swing open. I have several moments to wonder which Seer has been sent to collect me. It could be Ximena with or without Mohsin. I can totally imagine her wanting to come mock me for fainting in front of the entire Gathering. I mean other than Victorian-era ladies in too-tight corsets, who faints? I could also see Maia wanting to check in on me, to ensure her Weaver is safe, like the manager of a prize fighter making sure her investment is in fine form. A fresh wave of panic hits me at that thought. Of course, now that Sahar and I have shared a near death experience and given her being an instructor, I think it's probably her. Time to train the Weaver in... whatever the heck Weavers do.

But when the door finally opens, it's none of those faces I see.

Sorren. It's Sorren. But everything about them looks different now. What's stayed the same is that bone deep attraction. I barely manage to pull my soul into order when they pause in the doorway. But there's nothing I can do about the blush that heats my cheeks.

They don't say anything. With a soft-eyed glance, they take in my wet hair and the packed bag on my back, the empty closet, the lack of any personal objects in the room.

I soak up everything about them: the tight sadness in their mouth, the haunted eyes, the disheveled hair. Even Sorren's long hooded coat hangs limply as though the fabric itself is exhausted. But their soul is still radiant.

Our eyes stop wandering around each other and finally connect. A quick breath, a gasp like a sped up sigh escapes me. A flicker of the familiar lop-sided smirk tugs at their mouth and then disappears. Part of me wants to stand up and collapse into their arms. But that's just not my style. Also it looks like in the state Sorren's in, we'd both fall down anyway. Instead, I slide over on the edge of the bed making room for another weary soul.

Sorren drops down beside me, soul still held closely behind them.

It seems like someone should say something or do something but Sorren is quiet and still and I have no idea what words to say and opening my mouth feels hazardous. Who knows what will spill out given that Sorren's thigh now runs parallel to mine close enough for the heat to radiate through my jeans and my soul keeps trying to slide closer to them. I slip my arms out of the straps of the backpack for something to do and set the bag down at my feet.

"I can help you," they say.

Help me? Help me what? The Weaver thing. That must be it. I turn to face them.

"If you really want to leave," Sorren continues, "I'll take you out myself."

Holy shit. A tiny seed of hope blooms in my chest.