Infinite (Incarnate) by Meadows, Jodi
DEDICATION
For Jeff.
My husband. My best friend.
See title for how much I love you more.
1
ENDINGS
MY DEATH WOULD not be another beginning.
For millennia in Range, death meant another rebirth. Another life. Then someone died the night the temple went dark, and I was born in their place.
A nosoul. A newsoul. A soul asunder.
I was a mystery others sought to control, a frightening creature that made the world reconsider what it knew of life and death and what happened after. But I was only one. I could be desperately ignored as a mystery, a mistake that would never be repeated.
Then my father devised another Templedark, and for dozens of oldsouls, it was their final death. Violent. Terrifying. Inescapable.
Within the year, newsouls were born and the world mourned darksouls even more fiercely, never realizing the sinister truth about reincarnation. They had thought rebirth was natural, but the opposite was true: while oldsouls lived and died and lived again, millions of newsouls were consumed by the very entity that provided reincarnation.
Janan. The Devourer. The once-human who had reached too high and who would soon burn the world.
And then, there would be nothing left but endings.
Midnight struck.
The Year of Souls began with a thunderous crash and rumble from deep within the earth.
“What is that?” My voice sounded hollow in the parlor, the floor still littered with the remnants of destroyed instruments and tattered rose petals. Light from the kitchen bathed a square of the dusty hardwood floor, but otherwise, the room was dim with night. We’d awakened only a few minutes ago, having dozed on the sofa after friends left last evening.
Across the parlor, Sam tilted his head and listened. Black hair shadowed his eyes as he searched his memory for the strange crash and rumble.
The floor swayed under our feet. I yelped and braced myself against the wall. Janan’s heartbeat thudded under my fingertips.
I dropped to my hands and knees, spreading out my weight for balance. “What’s happening?” Panic pitched my voice high and thin.
Sam staggered toward me, unsteady on the shifting floor. “It’s an earthquake. Don’t worry. It will pass.”
Decorations rattled on the honeycomb shelves that divided the parlor and kitchen. Obsidian figurines danced and dove off the edges of their shelves. Wood and stone and glass thudded to the floor, crashed or rolled or shattered as they struck. Even the shredded rose petals swirled.
The shaking slowed, but it wasn’t over. The world jerked again and hurled everything sideways. Furniture crashed upstairs. Trees snapped outside. The whole earth roared. I screamed as the hand-carved shelves cracked and splintered all around the room.
Sam stumbled and dropped, just out of my reach. Surprise and pain flared across his face as he clutched his hand to his chest, keeping his fist closed. His gray nightshirt darkened with seeping blood.
“Sam!” I crawled toward him, fighting the moving floor. “What happened to your hand?” Even as the question left my mouth, I spotted the glass near him, stained with crimson and glistening blood.
“Nothing. It’s fine.” The world steadied and he sat back on his heels, trapping his injured hand in his good one. “That wasn’t so bad.”
His idea of bad must have been the whole world rattling apart. And now the earth’s silence stretched through the house, heavy and alive. Waiting.
Not trusting the floor to stay put, I sat up and scooted toward Sam, giving the glass a wide berth.
A couple of weeks ago, Councilor Deborl and his friends had come through and smashed all the instruments in Sam’s parlor. The piano, harpsichord, cello, and even the smaller instruments locked inside protective cases. Only the instruments upstairs had been spared, including my flute. It had been in the workroom, waiting on a small repair. Only chance had saved it.
I’d cleaned up most of that destruction right away. What remained on the floor had been pieces that might one day be useful again, as well as dried rose petals left over from a party with our friends.
But now, the parlor was more of a wreck than Deborl ever could have left it.
Shelves hung at odd angles, leaving books and boxes and bits of decorations scattered everywhere. The shelves looked like teeth, ready to bite down.
A lamp had fallen, leaving a glittering river of glass. We were lucky the light hadn’t caught fire. Who knew what the kitchen looked like, or the upstairs, or the outbuildings. There’d been so much crashing and thumping; anything could have happened.
“Is your hand okay?” I crouched next to Sam and pried his fist away from his chest.
“It’s fine.” A lie. His hand trembled in mine, and his skin was slick with blood. It was hard to see under the red smears, but it looked as if the glass had shredded his palm and fingers.