Disobedient (Rise of the Realms: Book Two)

by D. Fischer

  Kheelan chuckles like a chirping hyena. “Yaris,” he beckons.

  I wipe the spit from my mouth, a wave of exhaustion sagging my shoulders. With reluctance, I swivel around.

  Faster than my human eyes can register, a figure blurs into the room and halts on Kheelan’s left side, opposite of me. A gust of wind follows, tickling my hair. Yaris, Kheelan’s vampire assistant, folds his hands in front of him. His arms are veined with black ropes beneath skin so white, it’s almost translucent.

  “Sir,” he acknowledges, his deep red eyes lifting to mine. His gaze wanders my body and halts on my hammering pulse against my neck. I recall Kheelan’s earlier threat, and I gulp, worried that this summoning of his minion is deliverance.

  Swallowing with what I can only imagine is intense thirst, Yaris manages to lift his blood-red eyes to mine. A weird thought crosses my mind. Does it hurt to be forever hungry?

  I panic inside. Kheelan gave him no permission to touch me, to drink from me, yet I can feel how hungry he is, thick in the air of this stuffy, dusty dining room. It’s a predator stalking a cornered prey. My heart quickens with erratic beats, adrenaline releasing and coursing through my body, pinpricking my eyes with unshed tears.

  “Bring her in,” Kheelan mumbles, waving his free hand in the air.

  Yaris disappears the way he came, his speed ruffling the ends of Kheelan’s long, greasy, black hair. I blink hard, confusion temporarily lifting the curse of anxiety.

  “Bring who?”

  Spinning a falsely puzzled expression to me, he replies with innocence, “Didn’t I tell you? I found a companion for you. Humans need a support system I’ve learned. I’m sure you know her. You could use some friends since you refuse to visit the one in the dungeon.”

  “Dyson isn’t my friend,” I snarl, nostrils flared.

  “No?” Kheelan presses. “You wish him death?”

  “Well,” I whisper, fidgeting and twisting away. “No.”

  For several seconds, he’s quiet, watching me as my anxiety builds under his gaze. “Curious. Very curious.”

  I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache forming behind them. “What is?”

  He pauses for dramatic effect. “You oversee feeding poor Dyson. Of giving him sustenance. Yet you haven’t since he was placed there. You starve him.” He slopes his head. “Do you do so in punishment?”

  I don’t answer him.

  “Ah, I see.” He lifts himself from his stone dining chair. Coming to stand beside me, he rests his rump on the solid table. “How does this make you any different than me, sweet Eliza? To starve a man for revenge?” He tsks. “I believe you’re well on your way to becoming the very thing you despise.”

  “I will never be anything like you,” I force out between clenched teeth. How dare he suggest otherwise. “Dyson killed the man I love.”

  He slants his head back and releases a boisterous laugh, which reverberates throughout the room. “Eyesight matters not. You, Eliza, are a blind woman. Grudges are becoming on you.”

  Our conversation is interrupted when a throat hums behind us, a false cough.

  “Sir?”

  We turn. A woman stands beside Yaris, her fiddling with each of her fingers, pulling them at the knuckles. I gasp, my heart breaking once more.

  I knew she’d be here as well as all of those involved with death after being placed on my surgical table. But seeing her transparent and dead, yet here, right in front of me, seizes the breath in my lungs with painful pressure. It compliments my inner turmoil so well.

  I want to run. I want to apologize. I want to beg for forgiveness. I convinced her to undergo that surgery; I told her she needed it. I’m the reason she’s here.

  “Mrs. Tiller,” I breathe, and a wave of numbness crawls across my skin.

  Dressed in a hospital gown, like so many other shades in the death realm, she fidgets with the seam at the collar.

  “What…,” she begins in surprise. “What’s going on. Dr. Plaats? What are you doing here?”

  Kheelan claps his hands together like a delighted toddler. “How wonderful. You two do know each other. Do tell. How did you meet?”

  I eye Kheelan, wanting to throw curses his direction, but I know he won’t drop the subject until I answer verbally. He did this on purpose. He knew who she was, what her presence would do to me.

  “I killed her, but you already knew that.”

  His hand flies to his chest, hovering where his heart should be with false surprise. “The sweet Eliza, the Eliza who does no wrong, killed a human?”

  “Yes,” I answer, squaring my shoulders and directing my attention back to Mrs. Tiller. “I’m here because I’m being punished.”

  Mrs. Tiller, Wanda, stutters before her lips force the words from her mouth. “Punished for what?”

  My manners fly out the non-existent window, my emotions raw, exposed, and painful. I hurl them at Kheelan in the form of words before I fully consider the possible complications. “For knowing the wrong people. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For loving a man who was dead. You’ll have to ask King of Death over here.” I flick my thumb in his direction. “His majesty is all about torture for fun, emotional or otherwise.”

  A flash of light comes from the corner of my eye, and unimaginable pain overtakes my body. It hits me in my shoulder, spiderwebbing like a cracked windshield. At first, my brain doesn’t understand what’s happening. The intensity, the sensation, is controlling, rippling a surge of shocking heat to every extremity with no place to exit. I remain its slave, its unwilling victim, even as I drop to the floor.

  My eyes are forced to remain open. The ceiling is the only object I see, and I mentally grasp it, desperate to anchor myself, to keep me from descending into darkness.

  Electric bolts zap their way across my skin, seeping into my bones like a sponge soaking water, cracking my joints. My thoughts seize. The only thing controlling my mind is how to extinguish the pain, to make it go away. Grunts hoarse my throat and leave my lips of their own accord, foam forming at the corners of my mouth. I convulse, the back of my head repeatedly slamming against the floor.

  And then it stops, my skin prickling due to chills, to the freedom of blissful relief. I’m left in a puddle of my own sweat, and my heart is pounding in my ears like bunny’s feet stomping against a forest floor. I pant for air, blinking repeatedly to clear the tears clouding my vision. They spill from my lids, trailing cool paths along my heated cheeks before dripping in the hollows of my ears.

  Kheelan rests against the table, sipping his goblet of black. His face twists, his mouth pinching toward his nose. Such anger . . . such malice . . . such vengeance. His hand flares with another round of bolts, and he flicks his wrist.

  I scream, watching the blue lines head my direction once more, feeling the pain ripple all over again. It doesn’t last as long as it did the first time, and for that, I allow myself a small amount of relief when he finally releases me from his torture.

  Mrs. Tiller weeps beside the vampire, her plump, transparent hand covering her mouth. Her pinched eyes roam my face, her cheeks flushed. Genuine concern for my well-being has replaced her previous slight animosity and sense of betrayal.

  “Did you not hear me before, sweet Eliza?” Kheelan coos. He sets the goblet on the table behind him and grasps the front of his robe. Bending his knees, he lowers himself to the ground, looming over me. “When I told you I owned you?” He quiets his voice so only I may hear. “Disrespect me again – cross me again – and I’ll call your heart to me. It’ll rip from your chest so it hovers in front of you as it beats for the very last time. You’ll feel your life ending. You’ll feel the spirit fading from your body, leaving you nothing but a shell. You’ll be unable to control it, begging me to save you. But I won’t, sweet girl. I’ll watch as the light leaves your eyes. Your fear, your sense of betrayal, will be my reward. Then, and only then, can you truly join your lover in a place where nothing exists.”

  I man
age to narrow my eyes. A tingling sensation trailing along my skin is the lasting reminder of this threat, driving home his point.

  He stands and props himself back against the table. “Get up. Mrs. Tiller is your responsibility. Show her around, teach her what she needs to know. And feed the prisoner if you so choose.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DYSON COLEMAN

  DEATH REALM

  I shimmy my bare rear across the floor to get a better look at the newcomer. The skin snags on a few cracks etched in the stone, but the cold has numbed the skin.

  This is becoming a habit lately. They’ve been bringing in shades who were involved with the rebellion. I’m guessing Kheelan read who was involved when he probed my mind. I wonder what these new prisoners told them. Did they flake and tattle? Or did they keep quiet so the undiscovered shades could continue in their absence?

  I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can do anything about the rebellion or what happens to me while I’m stuck here. Chances are, I won’t live long enough to see what happens next.

  The vampires don’t dare allow them a cell next to mine. In fact, they pretend I don’t exist. It’s a good tactic – uprooting my norm and replacing it with total silence and darkness. Not to mention the babbling crazy shade next to me. I’m sure they believe I’ll turn out to be exactly like him. I suppose if the dripping water continues, I will be.

  I prepare myself for the vampires to lead them further into the tunnels where I’m sure they have Jane and Tanya stored like grandma’s little nick knacks inside a dusty glass cabinet, forever forgotten.

  My new home is the section of eternal punishment. Should that give me hope? That Gan and I are the only ones in here, the only ones meant to rot to the end of time? Jane and Tanya could be set free someday, along with the rest of the rebellion. They could continue our work, without me. Why doesn’t that give me hope?

  As I’m wallowing in self-pity, sure the new arrivers will turn left once their torches come into view, they don’t. Shocked, I scoot closer to the bars, my frozen cheeks almost pressed against their cold surface. I wipe my dribbling nose with the back of my hand.

  A tall man, transparent as the rest of the shades, enters between two vampires. He dwarfs them, and even with the flames dancing on the tips of the torches, his skin is so dark I can barely make him out. It’s as though he’s a shadow. If it weren’t for his clothes and strange white eyes, I’d never see him.

  They walk past me, and a vampire kicks out his foot, striking the bars next to my cheek. My head snaps back as a reflex as the bars crackle with energy from the assault, ringing my ears. I narrow my eyes, wanting to lash back, but know it won’t do any good. I still have fight left in me.

  Their footfalls halt at the cell directly next to mine. I lower my head back in their direction, holding my breath in case this is a mistake, in case they’re doing this to toy with me by dangling this man in front of me like a thanksgiving feast to a starving man.

  Conversation – any conversation – will do.

  KATRIANE DUPONT

  THE PAST

  My legs wobble like flexing rubber as I’m escorted from below the gallows and begin the march of death to the wooden stairs. A group circles me, crowds me, shouts in my ears until they ring.

  “No. No please. You don’t understand,” I plead with the man dragging me along by the elbow. He won’t listen to me. It’s as if I’m not even here. Like he’s running on autopilot and I’m a simple girl begging her daddy for candy one too many times. My pleas fall on deaf ears and a black heart.

  Spittle hits my neck, leaving the curled lips of an angry mob, their voices curdling my insides. So much hate in their words, so much disdain. They don’t even know me. I doubt they know my name, where I came from, that I’m somebody’s somebody.

  I pull against the ropes bound around my wrists. The strands cut into the skin, leaving painful slivers behind. A drop of blood falls and hits my bare foot mid-stride, chilling the skin as the cold breeze tickles it. They took my shoes from me, forcing me to walk in shame, to feel low. It’s working.

  A hot tear trails down my cheek, and I attempt to wipe it with my shoulder.

  My voice cracks as I shout at the group gathered for my death. “I’m not supposed to be here!”

  The man ahead of me spins on the balls of his feet, a blank look on his face. “You are exactly where the devil’s child is meant to be.” He swivels to a man beside him. “Where is Gandalf?”

  His friend shrugs, shouting over the voices. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

  My escort nods, his lips pursing as though he sucked on a lemon. “Find him.”

  Obeying, the dutiful friend twists, lifting his foot and picking up to a jog. He disappears into the crowd as they part for him.

  It’s not as though I expected anyone to put a stop to this. I can almost feel how much this is feeding them and their black souls.

  Hot blood drips from my wrists down to my pinky finger, the heat against my freezing skin stealing a moment of focus.

  My elbow is yanked once more. He drags me up the small flight of stairs, and I resist, veering back and using my weight to slow our advance. He tugs again, and I stumble, my knee hitting the edge of the last wooden step with a pop as the joint gives way. Adrenaline chases away the pain.

  The noose dangles in the slight breeze, it’s presence forces imagery of my body sagging from it, lifeless, a shell. It’d be almost pretty, the way it sways, conducted by the wind, if it weren’t the symbol of death.

  Torches are placed around the platform like a theatrical stage waiting for the show to begin. A spotlight, a beacon to my last performance.

  I swallow as I come to the realization that it’s their show – the crowd gathered around, waiting for the next death to unfold before their eyes. They can’t get enough of sick and twisted entertainment. It’s the beginning of the era – the era of death and destruction for all those who practice – or are believed to practice – witchcraft. They have no idea the damage they’re about to cause, the ripple they’ve placed in time.

  The man who spat his words in my face isn’t wrong – he’s only misinformed. I’m not the devil’s child. I’m the granddaughter of the King of the dead, the Fee of the Death Realm. And I’m so, so much more than that. I’m related to the very fee who turned vampire’s loose on their village. At this moment, I don’t feel guilty about it, wishing instead that I had my own hoard of blood-thirsty creatures to unleash.

  “Please,” I beg, my tone pitiful.

  My will to stay alive multiplies with each step across the cracking, wood planks. They creak under my feet, under the weight, like drums sounding for a climax in an epic film.

  Burning my insides, my internal fire swirls as the dragon half of me threatens to surface. I’m relieved to feel it still there, molded with me as one like Myla . . . But as I watch the dangling rope getting ever so close, metaphorical ice water douses my sense of relief. It doesn’t matter that the dragon is still within me – doesn’t matter that Myla left a part of herself behind so I may pick up the pieces. There will be no pieces left to pick up. I’ll be dead. The dead can’t do much, and I can’t change history.

  A chuckle rumbles inside the leader’s chest as he watches the color drain from my cheeks and pushes me toward the center of the platform. I trip on a nail poking from the board and stumble, losing my footing.

  Surrounded by all of these people, their voices screaming above the other sounds of the night, I feel like a mouse cornered in an alleyway by a starving, stray cat. There’s nowhere for me to go. There is no escape. If I tried, people would die, and the future would change. The damage that would cause is far worse than a single death.

  He places his hands on my shoulders, his nails digging into my skin, and swivels me to face the crowd. Behind me, someone slips a rope over my head, snagging his rough and cracked skin on a few strands of my short hair.

  The rope is thick and coarse, scratching along the skin of my ch
eekbones before it settles over my collar, heavy and foreboding. The knot resting against the nape of my neck is substantial, forcing me back and straining my muscles along my spine.

  The man before me turns, showing me his backside. I’m no threat to him – that’s how he sees me. Outrage coils in my stomach, his lack of respect as chafing as the rope.

  Oh, what I could do to him if only I choose to. I could make him beg for mercy, make him wish he was never born. I could light him on fire and watch the village burn while I stand on his ashes.

  He lifts his hands in the air, palms facing out, and announces to the crowd, “Let this be a message to all those dealing with the Devil. Witches are not welcome.”

  The crowd erupts in cheers and the wind along with it. It tickles the inside of my ear, every sense hyper-aware. Smells of burning oils, the spice of dead leaves, the stench of human body odor – all sharpened. The little things I’ve dismissed all my life, or simply overlooked, call my attention, begging for one last look - one last whiff. The blood pumps in my ears, dulling the sounds around me so that all I hear is the beat and my breath.

  “We will scrape through every home, every corner, every unholy citizen, and we will rid this town of those who wish to plague us.”

  He gazes at me from over his shoulder, a wicked smile crossing his lips and exposing teeth that have never seen a tooth brush.

  “Le diable n’est pas le bienvenu ici,” he growls.

  I snarl like a rabid dog for being called something I am not. Maybe I should show you who the devil is, buddy.

  TEMBER

  DREAM REALM

  The end of the tunnel is near, the archway to an open space is feet ahead. Corbin strides through first and continues, but the rest of us stop. It is clear that he has been here before, completely unaffected by the sight before us.