by Kristie Cook
A growl rumbled in my chest, underscoring his revelation. I didn’t know if he meant I was killing Sheree or she was killing me. It didn’t matter. He was right. If we continued, we would end up killing each other.
Tristan pried Sheree’s fingers back from mine, forcing her to loosen her grip. He yanked my hand away from hers and in one swift motion, had me in his lap in the far corner of the balcony, too far for her to reach. Owen tried to calm her, but her body still seized.
“I can take it, Alexis,” Tristan said, and I felt another energy pull on my body. My blood frosted over, and I shivered in his arms. I realized what he was doing.
“No, Tristan,” I whispered. “You’re not stable enough.”
“I can handle it.”
He continued pulling, and his power was too strong for me to fight it. I fell limp in his arms as I felt the dark energy leaving my body. I no longer felt cold. I no longer felt anything. Numbness encircled my heart. I didn't even know if it continued beating. The feeling began to spread throughout my body, and all I felt was overwhelming despair. Loss. Hopelessness.
“This is almost as good,” the evil voice hissed.
My mind clouded over, and the balcony disappeared. I found myself standing in a meadow, mountains on each side of me, a lake reflecting more peaks lining its far shores. The waist-high grass made a muted whispering sound as it waved in a breeze I didn’t feel. I thought this place might have been beautiful, if there had been any color. Instead, everything was in different shades of steel-blue and gray, even the sunless sky and the wild flowers in the field. I noticed the flowers changing—wilting and shriveling. I smelled nothing but stale air, even with the breeze still stirring.
I realized the mountains were the same ones I’d sat on while watching the slideshow of images in my dreams. And I now stood in the same meadow I’d run through in my dream the other night, after Tristan saved me. But this world had been bright and warm then. It had made me happy. Now I felt nothing, no concern for where I was or how I got here.
Not even curiosity for the four bodies in front of me, lying under a gray tree whose leaves fell all around them. They were our bodies. They lay completely still with their eyes closed, but I could hear their heartbeats, very faint, very weak. I noticed how Tristan’s hand held mine. I stared at our hands clasped together, waiting for something to stir within me. But it never did. The scene meant nothing. I felt nothing for any of them. I just watched them, for lack of anything better to do.
I couldn’t tell if any time passed. The light didn’t change. Nothing at all changed. The clouds in the gray sky didn’t transform or even move, though the breeze continued. The scene remained constant, making me think of a computer screen-saver, with the waving grass and falling leaves the only action.
“Oh, dear God! Are they dying?” The voice came from all around me, yet from nowhere. It should have echoed off the mountains, but it just fell flat. The voice was a familiar one, and I thought I should know it, but I didn’t look around for it. I didn’t feel a need or a desire to.
Dying? It seemed as though that word should mean something to me. But still I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I was completely numb.
“No, not dying, but they are not well,” said another familiar voice with a heavy accent. “They need us, Sophia. Quick!”
Sophia . . . another word that seemed like it should mean something. I still couldn’t grasp at what.
I stared at the bodies in front of me, the tree’s leaves still falling, though it appeared to be losing none. I didn’t know what this all meant. And I realized I didn’t care if it meant anything at all. I. Didn’t. Care.
But I did wonder . . .
What happens to a soul when all the goodness and badness are removed? Is anything left behind? Or does the soul die or disappear, leaving just a body with no humanity at all? No emotions. No feeling. Just . . . some kind of soulless existence. Even evil and hatred means you feel something. That you have passion within you. That you still have a soul. I didn’t even feel that. I felt absolutely nothing. Just an existence in this strange world that never changed.
The scene suddenly flashed yellow, as if the sun had decided to make an appearance in the gray world, colorizing everything for a split second, then vanishing again. I even felt its momentary warmth.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw something changing. Color slowly started bleeding into the grayness. A warm yellow seeped into the sky, as it does when a storm cloud moves away, revealing the sun a little at a time. The tall grass started turning green. The flowers reversed their earlier actions and bloomed across the field. I felt the breeze now, whispering across my cheek. I sucked the air in, as if I hadn’t taken a breath since finding myself here. Perhaps I hadn’t.
“Alexis, darling,” said the accented voice. I could hear the relief in it. And I knew what relief was! An emotion. A feeling. It all meant something to me again.
A powerful wave of warmth entered through my heart and washed over me, like a splash of warm water. Something inside me instinctively pulled at the warmth, drank it in with large, thirsty gulps. My body reacted immediately. Goodness and strength began to refill every cell. I could feel my heart again. My limbs tingled as the numbness lifted away.
But I felt cold. So cold.
I blinked several times, grateful to leave the gray, meaningless world and to find a gorgeous face hovering over me.
“Rina?” I whispered as she pushed another wave of warmth into me.
“Do not worry. You are okay now.”
“D-did . . . did I . . . ?” I swallowed what felt like a dagger wedged in my throat, its edges slicing all the way down with the thought. “Did I k-kill her?”
“No. She is very weak, but I think she will survive.”
“Tristan?”
Her eyes flitted behind me, then back to my face. The corners of her mouth turned down as her eyebrows pushed together and lifted. “I am afraid he is not doing well.”
Oh, no. I twisted around, and his arms fell off me, to the balcony floor. His head lolled against his shoulder. Rina kept one hand on his arm, pushing more Amadis power into him, but we saw no signs of it doing him any good. I threw my arms around his chest.
Another onslaught of images filled my mind. Landing a blow to a stranger’s head with a powerful fist, looking and feeling as if it were mine. But it was too big. Then an eighteenth-century village blazed with fire, people running amok, screaming with terror, and a hand held palm out in front of me. I knew then Tristan’s memories swarmed through my head like another slideshow. Our blood-covered hands and a body slumped on the ground below us. Then faces, their hair or hats or bonnets indicating various eras and cultures, from traditional Japanese and Chinese to American hippies. Face after face after face. All of them twisted in agony or horror. And the screams. The bloodcurdling screams of men, women, and children as they lost their lives to us.
My stomach rolled with nausea, and my heart squeezed with sorrow.
“Tristan, stop it!” I was surprised at how forceful the command came out because I really wanted to curl into a ball and hide from the depravity and suffering.
A low growl rumbled in his chest as the images kept coming. So I fought them with my own.
I remembered our early days, trying to push each of my own images into his head without knowing for sure if I even did it right or if I could do it at all. Or if it would do any good. But I had to try to replace his old, bad memories—the ones he would never talk about, never deliberately share with me—with our good ones. I pictured us sitting on the beach for sunsets, our first kiss, riding on the motorcycle, our wedding . . . the joy of waking up in his arms yesterday morning. I felt my own good energy rising with the thoughts.
“Think of us, Tristan, our love,” I said. I tried to help Rina by pushing Amadis power into him, but I was still too weak. I had too little to give. So I kissed him all over his face, thinking if I couldn’t give him Amadis power, I could at least give him love. It had t
o be at least as good.
Then I couldn’t see his memories anymore or even read his thoughts. My mind went blank.
“If I’m going to have this stupid gift, it could at least be reliable,” I muttered.
“You have done well, Alexis,” Rina said. “He is coming around.”
I looked up at Tristan’s face. His lips twitched into a small smile. His eyes opened. The gold sparked, but at least there were no flames. He seemed to drink me in with his eyes, and the sparks died into gold flecks.
“I told you it was a bad idea,” he said.
Chapter 17
“I had no choice,” I said. “I had to try. But you shouldn’t have . . .”
“I shouldn’t have helped you?” Tristan murmured. “I should have let you fight that by yourself and watch the depravity consume everything I love about you? I had no choice either, my love.”
He swept a thumb across each of my cheeks, wiping away the wetness. I hadn’t even noticed the tears. Then he folded me into his arms, and I collapsed against his chest, his heart pounding a steady rhythm in my ear.
“You should have waited for us,” Rina said, “or at least for someone with more experience and power.”
I looked up. Her face puckered with concern.
“She needed us, Rina. Owen said—”
“Owen needs to focus on his responsibilities.” She shook her head. “He never could resist a damsel in distress, though.”
A quiet noise rumbled in Tristan’s chest—so quiet, probably only I heard the I-told-you-so tone to it.
“He just has a big heart,” I countered.
“Yes, he does,” Rina agreed, “but he also has big curiosity. He has a desire to test the boundaries, to see how far they can be pushed. He is often just a little late when you have needed him, no? He has always wanted to know how much you could withstand on your own. What any of us can withstand. He enjoys testing our abilities. He would never purposely put you in grave danger, but sometimes he overestimates our powers . . . or underestimates the enemy.” She shook her head slowly and let out a soft sigh. “I will need to speak with him if he is going to continue as your protector. Our world is changing, and he cannot be so reckless. He must be more judicious, or he will put you in serious danger.”
The weight of her tone quelled any more protest from me. We sat in silence as Rina gave another dose of power to Tristan and me, and then she rose to join Mom at the other end of the balcony.
Mom hovered over Sheree and Owen, probably pushing her own power into them. Sheree lay on the concrete balcony floor, her body convulsing in a seizure. A mix of sobs and groans sounded like they escaped from her every pore. Mom and Rina held their hands tightly against her writhing body. Rina’s face took on that expression it does when she assesses me—her eyes still bright and alert to her surroundings, but her mouth pursed in concentration.
“She suffers greatly. She needs us,” Rina finally said to Mom.
“Owen get them inside,” Mom said, tossing her head toward Tristan and me without removing her hands from Sheree.
Owen stood, strong and sturdy on his own legs, his full strength already restored. He helped Tristan and me up as if we were one body and ushered us inside. Tristan sat with me on the couch. I still trembled against his side.
“We are going to help you. You want to convert, no?” Rina’s voice sounded in my head, but I knew she “spoke” to Sheree.
I closed my eyes, needing a moment of quiet, really wanting to sleep. But trying to block out Rina seemed to take more energy than I possessed at the moment. The image of Sheree on the balcony, as seen through Rina’s eyes, simply appeared without my trying. Sheree had stopped convulsing. She stared at Rina and Mom, her eyes like a wild animal’s. Her answer to Rina’s silent question came in a weak nod.
“You have to voice it,” Mom said in a hushed tone.
“I want to convert,” Sheree whispered.
“Why?” Mom asked. “You must convince us.”
“I-I-I d-don’t want be like them,” Sheree whispered. “I hate them. They’re horrible. Evil. They did this to me. M-m-made me a . . . a monster.”
“You do not have to be a monster. We can show you how to live with what you are but without harming people. Is this what you want?” Rina asked.
Sheree nodded emphatically. “Yes, oh, yes. That or to die.”
“We won’t let you die,” Mom said. “But this will not be easy. What is your name?”
“Sheree.”
“How did this happen to you, Sheree?”
The young woman gulped, and her face screwed up as she forced herself to remember.
“I went to Africa, for a mission trip. We built a school and taught some of the orphans in this little village. On the last night we were there, I snuck out for a walk. It was stupid, being out by myself in the dark, but I couldn’t sleep. I felt bad leaving those kids, you know? They had no one to love them and take care of them, and here I was, going back to my comfy life. With a real bed, hot food . . . a shower. All those things that are there for us, but not for them. You know what I mean?” She sighed softly and then shook her head. “I’m not sure what happened. I remember hearing a growl, kinda like a cat but . . . different. Lower, like it was bigger than just any ol’ mouser. Then there was this awful pain down my back, like my skin was ripping apart. I passed out, and when I woke up, it was morning and time to go. I had scratches all over me, but they weren’t deep, so I didn’t worry about them. By the time we got back home, they were almost gone. I thought I’d been jumped by one of the smaller, feral cats out there. There are all kinds they warned us about. I blew it off as a stupid mistake. And it seemed like no big deal, once I was home and getting back to my normal life. Until the first full moon . . .”
Sheree continued with her story of a Daemoni watching her transform the first time, seizing the opportunity to loop a collar around her neck while terror and confusion immobilized her. He told her he knew what was happening to her and he could make her better. He filled her with other broken promises and lies of hope. Then he took her away. She hadn’t seen her family since.
They kept her captive in the same place in Siberia where they’d held Tristan. They told her they would release her when she accepted what she had become. After that first time—killing the couple by the lake—her senses returned, and she vowed to never do that again. She refused to shift for the Daemoni except when the full moon forced her, and then she wouldn’t eat until the moon waned and she returned to human form. Because, for the three days of each month’s full moon, they only provided human flesh.
She figured they’d been holding her there for about nine months before Tristan unknowingly helped her escape.
“They told me stories about Seth,” she said.
“Tristan,” Mom corrected.
Through Rina’s eyes, I saw Sheree’s brows furrow with confusion.
“We call him Tristan,” Rina said. “You will call him Tristan now.”
“Um, okay, stories about Tristan, the traitor who they got back and were torturing to death. ‘That’s what we do to those who try to leave,’ they said. They were trying to scare me, but it just gave me hope that there must be another way for this . . . life, if that’s what you call it. I heard him fighting them, trying to get out, and I snuck behind him, nobody noticing me in all the ruckus. I found my way to the States, but I knew I couldn’t go home. I was—am—an awful, horrible beast. What would I do to my family if I lost control? I thought Seth, I mean, Tristan, might help me, if he knew what I wanted, so I came to where I knew he’d come first—Florida. But I couldn’t bring myself to get close to him. He’s, um, kinda terrifying, you know?”
She explained how she followed him, from Atlanta to Key West, always maintaining a safe distance. Then Vanessa and her friends found her. They were supposed to scare her into submission. I interrupted them the first time. Owen found her next to the Ferrari the second time, after they’d beaten her to near death. She described the pain and
fear they inflicted on her, her words seeming to hang in the thick air, followed by a long silence.
“You are very new to this. Do you still remember what love is?” Mom finally asked.
An image of the African orphans flashed in Rina’s and my minds. Wide, white smiles against dark-skinned faces, emaciated with hunger. Their heads looked too large for their skin-and-bone frames. But they grinned at us nonetheless. And then other images of an older couple who must have been her parents and faces who were no doubt her siblings—the resemblance showed clear in her memory.
“She remembers,” Rina said.
Mom nodded. “Remember that love, Sheree. Hold on to the memory tightly. Remember how love feels in your heart—warm, big, all-consuming.”
Sheree stiffened as Mom and Rina pushed stronger Amadis power into her. At least she didn’t seize this time.
“You can love again.” Mom nodded her head and stroked Sheree’s arm with one hand while holding her other hand around the Were’s wrist.
“Remember how it feels to hold them next to you, to comfort them, to provide for them in need,” Rina added silently.
“You can do this,” Mom encouraged.
She and Rina continued a sort of mantra, reminding Sheree of what love felt like. Eventually Sheree’s body relaxed, and she seemed to succumb to their power.
I pulled my focus from them and back inside and looked up at Tristan. His head leaned back on the top of the couch cushions, his eyes closed. He opened them slightly, apparently feeling me looking at him. He frowned. My own brows knitted together, and my bottom lip pushed out.
“What?” I asked, uncomfortable with his expression.
His eyes opened wider as he examined my face for a long moment. Then he sighed and closed his eyes again.
“You saw my thoughts, my memories, didn’t you?” His voice came quiet as a whisper, but I could still hear the pain and the shame in his question.
I dropped my head and leaned closer against him. I took his hand in both of mine.