Departures Read online

  “Equal parts page-turning and thought-provoking, Departures is fantastic. It’s grounded in the best kind of world-building—the kind that delights and disturbs and allows us to see our own world with brand new eyes.”

  Lance Rubin, New York Times Bestselling Author of Denton Little’s Deathdate and Crying Laughing

  “Departures is a beautifully written, well-paced novel of two sisters’ parallel paths of discovery of the tangle of lies woven by the Directorate, and the wonders and dangerous freedom of the world beyond its control. Evie and Gracelyn are delightfully nuanced characters--wrestling with the fears and insecurities that plague young adults amid a shifting world-view, yet their love for each other gives them courage to keep reaching for the other. Evie spices her perspective with wry humor, and is a heroine you’ll be rooting for the entire way.”

  Jade Kerrion, USA Today Bestselling Author

  “Wenstrom's masterful storytelling is on full display in Departures, with rising stakes, tense twists, and emotional resonance throughout.”

  Megan Lynch, Award-Winning Author

  “Unputdownable from the very first page.”

  Natalie Cammaratta, Author of Falling & Uprising

  Departures

  E. J. Wenstrom

  Copyright © 2021 by E. J. Wenstrom

  Artwork: Adobe Stock © Stockbym

  Design: Services for Authors

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Dark edition, darkstroke, Crooked Cat Books. 2021

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  For Rebecca and Sam

  Acknowledgements

  The journey this story has taken from concept to publication has been so winding that reflecting on it takes me back to different times and adventures. It dates back years and encompasses hundreds of drafts and correspondences. This book has truly taken a village.

  First and foremost, love and gratitude to my spouse Chris, who has always taking this writing thing I do in the dark of early morning as seriously as our other careers. You’ve been a sounding board, a co-conspirator, and even on occasion an incredible author’s assistant. I cannot express how grateful I am. I love scheming and dreaming with you.

  Many thanks also to my family, who has supported me with matter-of-fact assumption of success from day one. Mom and Dad, Rebecca and Sam, Cheryl, it means everything to have you in my corner.

  I have also been fortunate to have the support of many wise and talented authors, editors and beta readers, whose fingerprints are all over the text of this story. To my Athenas – Em, Femi and Megan – thank you for all the insights, perspectives and cheers. I’m in your corner for anything, forever.

  Thank you also to Heather, whose insights and encouragement have been crucial to making this book its best, keeping it alive, and getting me through this journey’s greatest plot twists. Thanks also to the City Owl flock who has kept rooting for me even as I set my sights in new directions. Thanks to Kristin for your thoughtful feedback, and the entire Alvarium Experiment for the support, sounding board and creativity. Thanks to Ralph for the feedback and cheers--and all of #5amwritersclub, the freaking best online writing community there is. And, thanks my critique partners at Capital Hill Writers Group for keeping me accountable and offering me new perspectives on these pages. Thanks to Florida Writers Association, who has built an incredible community and continued to offer me opportunities and support even after I left the region. Thanks to Bethesda Writers Center for the resources, friend and smarts.

  And of course, many, many thanks to the lovely folks at Darkstroke Books who believed in this book enough to put it in your hands. Laurence and Sue, I’m so grateful for your expertise, guidance and partnership in making this book its very best and sharing it with the world.

  About the Author

  E. J. Wenstrom believes in complicated heroes, horrifying monsters, purple hair dye and standing to the right on escalators so the left side can walk. She writes dark speculative fiction for adults and teens, including Departures and the Royal Palm Literary Awards’ Book of the Year, Mud, the first novel in her Chronicles of the Third Realm War series.

  When she isn’t writing fiction, E. J. Wenstrom is a regular contributor to DIY MFA and BookRiot, and co-hosts the Troped Out and FANTASY+GIRL podcasts.

  Get bonus content and sneak peeks when you join E.J.’s newsletter at EJWenstrom.com

  Departures

  Chapter One

  Evie

  This is how I hope they remember me. Bathed in rainbow-bright lights, dotted in glitter, the tulle of my favorite dress swooshing around me as I bound through the pounding music on the dance floor. My cheeks flushed. Heart thudding. Alive.

  That’s the point, after all.

  Tonight is my departure party.

  We’ve finally gotten past the terrible, emotional departure rituals – the look back at my life’s highlights, my speech of goodbyes. My final hours are passing too fast, but I’m relieved these rituals are behind me – I had to fill them out with fudged memories to draw out softened, saccharine sentiments, the edges sanded down. I had to stretch out my short life to fit the typical time frames. Most departure parties have to encompass a rich long life of a hundred years plus. Tonight, all I’ve got to cover is seventeen.

  It’s not enough.

  But what do you do?

  I know what you don’t do. You don’t sulk on your last night on this planet. Not when it won’t do you any good and only devastate the few people you really care about. No chance. You take your remaining fun where you can get it. Or at least, you try not to ruin it for everyone else.

  So I dance. I let the thudding bass roll over me and drown out my thoughts.

  The lights of the Quad’s event center are dimmed, transforming the great room and its arched white beams into splashes of moving colors. Rainbow-bright lights drift from floor to ceiling to windows, blocking out the Quad beyond, pink fading to purple, fading to blue, fading to green. The music turns up – never more than the maximum recommended volume, of course, careful to stay within Directorate recommendations for optimal health. My guests – neighbors, former teachers, my peers from across our Quad – stand from their tables on cue, and the dance floor begins to fill. Glitter drops over us like the night mist that keeps the plant life within the Quad dome green. Everyone smiles and bobs along to the beat. I mirror them, determined to keep my own smile in place, no matter what.

  My little sister Gracelyn – the one person I actually want here right now – weaves through the shuffling crowd until she finds me. She smiles too, though her eyes glisten with a hint of tears at their edges. No, don’t cry. That’s what kills me the most about all this. I can’t stand to see her hurting. I take her hand and squeeze it, pulling my smile even bigger, and twirl her around. When she turns back to me, the light is back in her eyes, even if a hint of tears still glistens in the corners. We jump and twist to the beat through the glitter raining from the ceiling, both of us determined to make the most of every minute I have left.

  Too soon, curfew nears. The music turns down. The people settle down in response, and the Quad’s mayor takes the mic.

  “Thank you, Evalee Henders, for the gift of your presence in this Quad,” she says, following the script of the ritu
al. As I take my place next to her on the stage, I look out at the event hall. Expressions have turned somber. “We have one last gift to you. May your passage be as peaceful and painless as your life.”

  She hands me a small white box. I open it and look at the translucent pill every citizen takes to trigger their departure, the serum sloshing inside it. A quake of fear washes over me, and I hope no one can tell. The whole point of departure is to avoid all that, the pain and struggle of whatever death would have waited for me around the next corner. Departure isn’t the thing to be afraid of, I remind myself. Not departing is.

  All the same, my heartbeat speeds up until everything starts to turn blurry. I blink hard, trying to push the panic down. Young as I am, this night will be talked about for years. The last thing I want is for something bad to be said about the way I went. I want to be remembered as strong. Brave.

  I force my fear deep into my gut, nod in acknowledgment of the gift, and push it into my mouth before I can think anymore. Even as its sweetness dissolves on my tongue and the serum releases, a calming buzz quells my anxiety – the first taste of its promise to slowly pull me into a deep, everlasting sleep over the course of the night.

  Hands raise in applause and everyone cheers, a final affirmation of my life. Then, the normal overhead lights switch on, and the magic of the color-bright dance floor dies. Like a spell has been lifted, my guests turn away, gathering their things and chitchatting politely as they file towards the exit.

  After all, everyone else – whose lives will go on tomorrow – must get their full night of sleep to maintain optimal health and happiness.

  Chapter Two

  Evie

  The guests filter out of the event hall and onto the waiting shuttlebuses, a line of rounded silver trolleys waiting in a line near the doors. They will deliver us to our assigned neighborhoods, which surround the Quad center in a carefully-designed ring for optimal flow. Already the Quad’s white dome sky has started its fade to darkness as curfew approaches, and the usual soothing notes of the bedtime wind-down cue pipe in from the dome and into the vehicle. Mother yawns in response.

  Gracelyn, Mother, Father and I get in line and step onto Shuttlebus Eleven, corresponding to our assigned neighborhood, find seats for the short ride home, and buckle in. A silence hangs heavy between us, leaving the usual stream of friendly announcements and warnings to fill the space in a warm, paternal voice: “This is where you belong: Stay in your seat when the bus is moving… A healthy citizen is a happy friend. Be diligent in your daily fitness… Mind the step as you exit the shuttlebus, and always hold the handrail for safety… Notice something out of place? Be a friend and notify the nearest Directorate official.”

  It is only minutes before the shuttlebus slows to a stop at the park of our neighborhood. Each neighborhood’s park is in the center, a short trek from the identical manicured homes that surround it, each neatly framed with a sidewalk and tree. As my parents, Gracelyn and I make the walk, the silence between us grows thicker. A watchlizard’s bulbous lens head tilts up at us as its electronic body whirs past our feet, its stubby tail waggling for balance, off to some new post. I stick out my tongue to whoever is watching the feed. An unnecessary act of reckless rebellion, but what does it matter, now?

  As we approach the paneled door labeled “Henders,” Father lifts his wrist to the laserscanner at its side to scan his digipad, and it slides open. It slides closed again behind us, and we all trudge up the stairs together. Tonight, the mellow beige of the walls, the auto-dim of the lights, and the calming low tones of bedtime music, reach me through a distorted filter of the serum in the pill from the ceremony, growing thicker in my veins.

  At the top of the stairs, I turn for my room, but am pulled back by Mother. She wraps her arms around me tight for a final embrace. I echo her gesture, and then start to let her go, but she holds me tighter, refusing to release me, her thin fingers like eight little pressure points across my shoulders, and it feels like the weight of her sadness is leaking into me. We’re not supposed to be sad. The Directorate handles everything to make sure of it. But her cheek presses against mine, and her breaths turn jagged and uneven, and she’s still clinging to me tightly, until it starts to scare me, and finally I look to Father.

  “Alright then, dear,” he says, putting a strong hand around her forearm. “That’s enough.”

  Father pulls her away and helps her to one of her small pills. Father echoes her movement, a rapid circle of his arms around me, and then he is gone, guiding Mother to their room at the far end of the hall. Her breaths are already starting to settle back into their normal, sedated rhythm. We go to our rooms without our usual “Good nights.”

  Caught up in the routine of life, I go into the bathroom. I unpin my hair from the fancy twists and curls Mother insisted on for tonight’s party and let it loose. But then, my hand halfway to my toothbrush, I freeze. What’s the point? The only ones who will see me tomorrow are the Departure Crew who’ll come for my body. My arm drops back to my side. Not knowing what else to do, I return to my room.

  The serum’s soothing buzz makes the crisp white comforter and two tidy pillows of my bed look even more inviting than usual, but I can’t give into it yet. Not until I’ve talked to Gracelyn. I hear her shuffling in the bathroom, washing her face and brushing her hair. For her, tomorrow will come.

  For several long moments, I stare at the calming blue walls, dazed. The serum is turning everything slightly blurry, even my thoughts. Idly, I wish I’d cleaned my room before the party. In the closet, a couple of shirts have fallen from their hangers and lie crumpled on the floor. The chair for my desk, the syncscreen mounted above it on the wall – everything is slightly out of place. Typical. Even though our standard-issue bedrooms are exactly the same, mine has never had the crisp, clean look Gracelyn’s always does. But there was so much happening today I didn’t think of it, and now I am sure that on the serum, I would only make it worse. The lamps on the desk and the nightstand, all the same rich brown of eco-friendly plastics modeled into faux wood grain, continue to dim, counting down to bedtime.

  The bathroom door opens, then closes again, and I am about to go to Gracelyn’s room when she taps lightly on my door. We’ve been doing this after our parents go to sleep for years. Basically our whole lives. I go to the door and let her in.

  A few tears drop down her cheeks. Guilt tangles through my chest and into my gut. I’ve done this to her with my own stupidity and selfishness. The Directorate advised keeping us apart, from the day my parents found out Gracelyn was coming. It was better for her – for all of us – they said, to avoid letting us get close. It was unlucky enough, having one daughter with such an early departure date. It didn't have to impact the other one, too.

  But when we were young, I didn't understand. And I was lonely. My life was pretty empty, with those numbers printed on my wrist for everyone to see. The other children weren’t allowed to play with me; they didn’t want that bond weighing them down later. My instructors didn’t put any effort into teaching me. I had to do it all myself.

  When I got older and began to understand, I tried to stop the bond growing between Gracelyn and me. I really did. But Gracelyn wouldn’t give up. She kept sitting outside my bedroom door for hours every single night, ruining her rest metrics. Her medical advisor started getting concerned about her sleep count. Finally, I let her in.

  She’s only a year younger than me, but if there was one thing I’ve been good at, it’s been protecting her. I’ve guarded her in dark nights when she used to get nightmares about the desolate world that lay beyond the Quad bubbles. I’ve helped her through the stress of her annual examinations. I’ve shielded her from Mother and Father when they got too intense about her future. But now, seeing the tears clouding her big brown eyes and making tracks down her pale cheeks, I can’t help but face what I’ve let happen. I’ve hurt her. She’s the one who will pay the price, for years and years after I’m gone.

  “Don’t do that.” I
whisper, wiping another tear away from her cheek. “Be happy. Always.”

  She shakes her head and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I will. I promise. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  When she pulls her hands away, her eyes are red from the rubbing, but dry.

  “Here.” I hand her a little box. Purple, her favorite color.

  She opens it and pulls out the golden chain, with my favorite daisy pendant dangling from it.

  “Oh,” she sighs.

  I’ve worn it every day since Mother and Father gave it to me – the day Gracelyn was born.

  The tip of her mouth pulls into the hint of a smile, and she puts it on. Then she takes off her own necklace, a rose pendant, and stretches it out to me.

  “Gracelyn?” I ask.

  “Take it,” she says.

  “No way. That's stupid,” I say, stepping back. “If you give it to me, it'll get…”

  Her lip starts trembling. “Just take it, okay? It’ll feel like you have a piece of me with you.”

  Anything to keep her from crying. I stretch my hand out and close it over hers. “Okay, okay. If that’s what you want. I love it. I’ll wear it. Always.”

  She nods and tips her palm open so the necklace falls into my hand. I put it on and pull at the collar of my dress to show her. “See?”

  She smiles.

  The serum’s sedative is growing heavier, wrapping around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket, and the last thing I want is for Gracelyn to see me collapse into my final sleep.