the empty pews. Amber and Clive walked in front of their parents down the aisle toward the priest waiting at the pulpit. They were no longer in their wedding clothes.
Clive reached Father Dravin first and knelt briefly in front of him. “Father Dravin, I present my half, Amber,” he said.
Dravin turned his large, golden eyes on Amber and waited. She did nothing.
He straightened his glasses. “Genuflect on the left knee, sweetheart.”
Amber was mystified as to what this meant until she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, forcing her to kneel.
“Dravin, are you sure this is the best place?” said Amber’s father. “If anything happens to her—”
“Then it would be best you waited outside,” said Dravin. “The potentate specifically requested my services. That should put your worries to rest.” With that, he spun and signaled for Amber and Clive to follow him behind the altar, where two tables stood side by side in a circle of light.
“Shirts off,” he said, moving to an open leather bag on a third table. He slid on latex gloves, then extracted three glinting scalpels. As he arranged his tools on a folded towel, Amber felt her throat tighten. She heard Clive’s shirt fall to the floor then felt the heat of his gaze, but she refused to look at him.
Amber swallowed and pulled her own shirt over her head. Her loose hair swished across her back, prickling her bare skin.
Dravin glanced up at her and straightened his glasses. “The brassiere too, sweetheart.”
Amber glared at him and climbed onto the table, and only when she was lying on her stomach did she unclip her bra.
Clive lay down on the other table.
Father Dravin walked between them, and Amber felt his fingers brush her back, trace her shoulder blades, and run down her spine. She tensed, hardly breathing. He leaned over Clive next and touched the scars on his back.
“Curious,” he said, finally. “I understand now why this was to be conducted in private.”
“Can you duplicate it?” said Amber’s mother.
“Hers will be cleaner,” said Dravin.
Amber felt something cold dab her back, and she squeezed her eyes shut, helpless against the shivers that followed.
“It’s just alcohol, sweetheart.”
The priest grabbed something off the towel and leaned over her, blocking the light, and she gripped the front of the table. He pressed a sharp object against her spine. She winced, but it was just the tip of a pencil.
Dravin’s hand curved up the side of her torso, where the pencil jerked over her ribs. He lifted the pencil, referred to Clive’s tattoo, and made another arc below the first. By nightfall, the outline was done.
He picked up the scalpel.
Once again, his shadow swallowed her. He pressed the scalpel to her skin, moved it slightly—and then the blade sank in. Prickles surged through Amber’s body, and her throat squeezed shut. As he sliced her skin, everything inside her screamed. She felt spasms of pain, electric shocks. Her body twitched.
Dravin dabbed at her back, and his rag came away spotted with blood. He went over the line twice, then started a second cut. Droplets of blood cooled on her skin and dribbled down the side of her waist. As the pain blurred into a prickly fog, she whimpered, and her tears pooled under her cheeks.
Her parents watched proudly as the priest carved the mirror image of Clive’s tattoo into her back. Clive’s clairvoyance was in her blood. He would prevent the cuts from healing, and they would form white scars forever branding her as his half.
When the incisions were done, Dravin reached for another tool—and Amber felt him peel away the strips of skin, exposing what was underneath to the cold, cold air.
***
“In the woods, you say?” said the deputy.
“I can show you where,” said Aaron.
“A body?”
“Justin Gorski’s, there’s a hole drilled through his head. They’re going to hurt Amber next,” said Aaron, fearing what they might have already done to her.
The deputy scrunched up his eyebrows. “How old are you again?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Are you jealous or something? Where’s your half?”
“There's a body,” Aaron repeated slowly. “Casler murdered Justin Gorski, and he’s going to hurt Amber next.”
The police officer regarded him for a moment then rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes. “You're going to have to give me more than that,” he said. “Our community values the contributions of Dr. Selavio. I can’t start a criminal investigation based off a crack-pot story from a jealous seventeen-year old.”
“Eighteen,” said Aaron.
“Maybe you should spend some time with your half,” said the deputy, and his eyes flicked to