Disobedient (Rise of the Realms: Book Two)

by D. Fischer

  Sandmen and dwarves roam, weaving through a large expanding forest of . . .

  “Willow trees?” I murmur, tilting my head. It’s a whole forest of them, but they’re different than what I’ve grown to expect from them.

  Corbin turns his head over his shoulder, the stubble of hair scratching against the cloth of his shirt. “Incubators,” he corrects.

  The cave reaches up, a night sky captured in another realm, and deep yellow clouds like northern lights twist and spiral around each spike. The butterfly machines zip through the trees, some even hovering in the air, as though they’re real creatures with physical minds.

  The incubator trees and the path crawling between them pulse with a white light. In the center of the open cave, a large, glowing dome sustains these veins, acting as the heart of their life. Occasionally, and at random, the yellow auroras dip and caress the dome before the walls absorb them.

  “Sureen has been busy,” Erma mumbles.

  Erline turns her body, reaching out and touching a vine of the willow incubator with a careful stroke. Her fingers travel down, running the length of a glowing, pulsing, crystal leaf. “It would seem so,” she replies.

  “This is life,” I mumble. “She’s creating life.”

  “Not yet,” Erline whispers, releasing the crystal leaf and crossing her arms. The smallest of smiles raises at the corner of her lips, and she raises her voice. “The dome is the only thing feeding it. These creatures do not hold hearts. If the dome was destroyed, the same would happen to everything it built.” She unfolds one arm and points to the yellow auroras. “Those are dreams, absorbed from my realm, waiting to feed that dome.”

  I study the dome. It looks oddly like a half moon, holding the attention of everything else in the large expanse of a cave. Gears turn, running it, the grind audible but not echoing like it should. I don’t see the gears, but I can hear them. Perhaps they’re underground?

  “Where do we find her?” I ask.

  Ahead, Corbin waits, adjusting Kat inside his arms, and a look of frustration crosses his face.

  Erma points. “Inside the dome.”

  I sidestep as a dwarf hobbles past me, leather satchels gathered in his arms. Erma starts walking first, and the rest of us follow, distracted by the objects and creatures milling about.

  Passing a handful of willows, a moan causes me to pause. I twist to the noise, curious, coming face to face with the vines of the willow. Using both hands to separate the curtain of branches, I walk through. The tinkling of crystal leaves clink together as it closes behind me.

  The trunk of the tree is made of roughly sculptured Inferaze, exactly as the ground below me. The pulsing veins crawl up, weaving between the protruding rocks. In the middle of the trunk, a jagged, oval opening is carved, and a face rests inside it. I gasp and slowly shuffle closer.

  Erline enters and stops beside me. She reaches and strokes the black skin of the creature encased inside.

  “That’s a sandman,” I whisper.

  Erline ignores me, caressing the man’s cheek one more time. Her movements are slow and deliberate, such passion behind a touch. He sags against her touch, his eyes closed and pinched with pain.

  “So that’s how she does it,” Erline mumbles to herself.

  “Does what?” I growl, furious that this man, this sandman, is imprisoned inside.

  “That is what Corbin meant by incubator. This is how she creates the sandmen.” She shimmies back, looking the tree up and down. “She plants them inside the willows.”

  “Plants them?” I ask, a chuckle to my tone. “Where would she get the seed for each new growth?”

  Erline looks around, her eyes landing on the crystal leaves. “Those,” she points. “The trees are her womb, the crystal the seed. The veins and dome are what feed it, and the aurora of dreams are what feed them. It’s a cycle.” She lowers her voice. “A beautiful cycle.”

  I turn to face her. Her arms are crossed as she watches the tree.

  “He’s in pain –“

  She rolls her eyes, the action against her normal composure. “He’ll be fine, Tember. He’s not being tortured inside there. His body is being built and constructed to that of his make.”

  “Yes,” I grumble with dripping sarcasm. My fingers tightening into fists at my side. “He sure looks fine to me.”

  “If you women are done with the circle of absent life, I’d like to continue,” Corbin exclaims on the other side of the vines. His tone is utterly bored, his patience dampening. “I have other concerns to attend to today, aside from saving a damsel in distress.”

  I open the curtain of vines and crystals, holding it for Erline before I follow her through.

  Erline spins to him. “You should have never come.”

  “And yet, here I stand. Kat’s knight in shining armor.” A smirk plays at his lips.

  He huffs when she doesn’t play along. “Reason, Erline. You need me, or you would have never beckoned me. I’m the only one who knows which time period Kat is held in. I’m the only one who’s the keeper of the beasts Sureen is afraid of.” He leans toward her. “And let’s not forget the contract still holds. Kat is bound to me as is Myla.”

  I turn to Erma. “Sureen is afraid of demons?”

  Erma’s eyes narrow at Corbin. “Yes. Aside from Sureen and the sandmen, demons are the only ones who can conquer a dream.” Her arms tighten over her chest. “How did you accomplish that one, Corbin?”

  He simply shrugs. “I’m a fee of many talents.”

  Erline steps forward. “You don’t get to act like the hero here, Corbin. We know exactly what you are. We know you’re not here for Kat. You’re here for yourself. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

  His face morphs to a cold and heartless expression, the features relaxing as he stares at her with soulless eyes. “Be cautious what you request, Erline.”

  She glides toward him once more, toe to toe. “You may be the fee of terror, Corbin,” she begins, dropping her voice to a deadly whisper. “But let’s not forget who can successfully create life. Those who can create life are strong enough to deliver your death.”

  He slants his head to the side, biting his bottom lip with a grin. “Is that a threat?”

  “Always,” she snarls through gritted teeth.

  I clear my throat, glancing around. A few dwarves have halted, watching the heated exchange. “Let’s keep moving.”

  I push past them, purposefully marching right between them, and continue down the path, ignoring the groans from the willow wombs. The pulsing veins mess with my eyes as the tree forest thickens, forcing me to see things that aren’t there; shadows which play tricks on my mind.

  As we go farther in, I notice satchels gathered in groups outside the willow vines, piled hip high. Perhaps that’s where they’re left so the freshly born sandmen can grab them as they leave.

  “Dream dust collections?” I ask my group, their strides matching mine.

  “So observant,” Corbin retorts with sarcasm.

  “Stop with the questions,” Erline barks.

  I grind my teeth, flexing my jaw, but remain silent the rest of the way. Corbin walks with confidence, leading the group as if we aren’t on enemy territory. I try not to notice his cocky demeanor, but focusing on my surroundings doesn’t help the conflicting emotions settled in the pit of my gut. Again, dread overcomes me.

  I don’t have a good feeling about this.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ELIZA PLAATS

  DEATH REALM

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Tiller mumbles, her transparent body standing in the middle of the kitchen. “How are you here? How are you . . . alive? And here?” Her arm sweeps out.

  Busying myself, pacing across the floor, I rub my arms up and down my sides, desperate to bring normal feeling back to my tingling limbs.

  It’s a small kitchen. A large fireplace is on the far end with a stone-like cave on the other, holding cold, perishable items. The cave is a refrigerator of sorts, somehow r
etaining a cool temperature and keeping the blood and food from spoiling within.

  The kitchen counters are made of the same stone we walk on. I’m so sick of seeing the color grey. Everything is stone. A dull shade of lifeless color.

  Placing a hand on my forehead, I rub the tension from between my eyebrows and lean against the counter. The rock digs into my hip, and I relish the pain. At least I feel something. The distraction is freeing and welcome.

  “I wasn’t alive when I came here,” I murmur.

  “How – But – You’re – I don’t understand Dr. Plaats.” Her tone is on the edge of hysterics.

  I drop my hand and close my eyes. “Call me Eliza. I’m not a doctor anymore.”

  Patience wearing thin, Mrs. Tiller slams her fists at her sides. “Tell me what’s going on, Eliza.”

  Sighing, I cross my arms, keeping my eyes on the floor. “I died not long after you. It was a car crash.” I incline my head, reliving the memory. The noises were ear-splitting, the smells robust. My heart skips a beat, remembering the fear I endured during my last moments. “It’s sort of poetic justice.” I shake my head, clearing my dark memories, and continue my story. “I didn’t survive and crossed over before an ambulance could get there. Not that they could have done anything for me. There’s no way I would have lived through it.”

  I bring my gaze to hers. Confusion etches her once motherly features, right around the eyes. “When I crossed over,” I whisper, “a group of shades led me back. This group was a part of a rebellion, one I knew nothing about.”

  Her eyebrows pinch tighter together. “I was guided by a reaper,” she shudders. “Terrifying creatures, they are.”

  I nod my head. “It’s against the rules for shades to guide shades. Something had shifted the realms to make it possible. When we arrived here, that’s when I learned of the rebellion. I knew nothing about it before. Kheelan killed the man I loved after bringing three of us back to life.”

  Biting her bottom lip, she quiets, processing the information I’ve told. “So, if you’re here . . . where are the other two?”

  I sigh, the breath fanning a stray red hair from my cheek. “One is dead – I don’t know exactly what happens to the twice dead, but I know there’s no realm for them.” She gasps, but I ignore it. “The other is below our feet, imprisoned in the dungeon until the day he dies.”

  Her throat constricts as she swallows her bubbling emotions. “I see. Is this the man Kheelan was talking about?”

  I tuck my chin. “It is.”

  “And it’s your job to keep him alive?”

  “It is.”

  She crosses her plump arms, frowning. “And why aren’t you?”

  Hanging my head, I stretch my neck in shame. Voicing it aloud to someone so caring sends a jolt of regret through me. I blow out a breath, choosing to communicate instead of burying. “Because he was forced to kill the man I loved.”

  “I see.” She slinks closer to me, mulling over her next words in silence. “I loathe you at this moment, Eliza. You pushed me to have a surgery that was supposed to save my life, and it ended instead. You took everything from me,” she snarls. “You took my husband, my family, and who knows how many years.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble, cutting her off.

  She shushes me, a rude passing of wind between clenched teeth. “I wasn’t finished. I’ve heard the rumors, Eliza. I witnessed it. I’ve seen what Kheelan is made of. If the living man in the dungeon was forced to kill the man you loved, it wasn’t his fault. You shouldn’t make him suffer.” She slips closer to me, lowering her voice to a more intimate, personal tone. “You’re all he has left. Chances are, you’ll kill him by trying so hard to hate him.”

  Lifting my head, I chew the inside of my lip as her words bounce around my thoughts, categorizing them, shuffling so they fit just so. It wasn’t too long ago I believed all lives under my care deserved a chance. I was a fighter – the only fighter – for the broken lives under my capable hands. That’s who I want to be. I want to be the one who saves the helpless, not this insignificant human roaming a realm I don’t belong in.

  “Will you go with me?” I mumble, my eyes tipping to the box that holds food and blood.

  She nods. “Yes.”

  DYSON COLEMAN

  DEATH REALM

  The tall shade dressed in burlap is completely cooperative. The way he holds himself, his build – straight, narrow, and stocky – You’d think he’d put up more of a fight. Maybe he has too much pride. Or maybe he’s accepted his fate. If I could do it over again, I would have fought harder. I would have gone down swinging. This man doesn’t understand his new reality.

  He enters the cell and turns as the vampire snaps the door closed behind him. The sound of metal scraping against metal vibrates within my ears. One vampire hisses though I can’t see who.

  A shiver runs down my spine. I’ve never liked vampires. They give me the creeps. And being as I now have blood and a fully functioning heart, with zero self-defense and naked as the day I was born, it stands to reason they should do more than give me the creeps. I should fear for my life. Somehow, the cold and starvation sound like a far worse fate than a couple vampire fangs.

  This mysteriously calm man places his hands between the bars, and they unshackle his transparent cuffs from his wrists. As soon as the metal leaves the shade’s skin, it returns to solidity, clinking together in the clawed palms of the vampire’s hand.

  It’s one of Kheelan’s spells or magic, or whatever he possesses. For having an enemy, I don’t know enough about him to seek my revenge to the fullest extent. That’s what I plan to do I realize. My purpose: I will make him pay.

  It’s hard to learn his weaknesses though, stuck here with no insider information. And it’s not like I’d ever get the chance.

  The fire atop their torches glitters and roars like a deep baritone of authority. The vampires whip around, taking their leave in a blur. A gust of cold wind blasts my skin.

  The dark man watches where they once stood before swiveling white, radiant eyes to mine. He juts his chin to the side, curious, as I hold back a wheeze. The floating, disturbed dust tickles my parched throat.

  I sniff. “What are you?”

  His movements are slow and deliberate. I don’t know if it’s due to his size, an attempt at intimidation, or if he’s still in shock for being imprisoned in the armpit of the death realm. His voice is so low, hollow, that I cock my ear closer in his direction, catching his next word. “Sandman.”

  My head jolts back in surprise. I wasn’t expecting that answer. “A sandman?” I question, the words difficult to form around numb and quivering lips. “They’re – you’re real? What are you doing in this realm?”

  “A human,” he throws back at me, placing a hand on the bar closest to my head. His large fingers wrap around it before a shock wave lights his skin. Without a twinge of pain crossing his features, he drops his hand with ease back to his side. “What are you doing in this realm?”

  I blow out a breath and look away. “Ah, I see. Deflection. That won’t help you down here.” I sigh and wrap my arms tighter around my torso, rubbing the skin with hopes of creating my own warmth. “I live here.”

  “How does a human live with the dead?”

  “Well.” I sniff again. “I heard there was a rave, so I broke in to check it out. Turns out, breaking and entering is frowned upon.” He doesn’t respond, not even a twitch along his lips. Narrowing my eyes, I bark the truth. “Because this human was once dead.”

  He blinks, slow and exaggerated, his mind working to connect the dots. Shuffling closer, he gets a better look at me. It may be dark here, but his eyes act as a flashlight, transparent though they may be. “That can’t be,” he mumbles.

  “But, so it is,” I mumble with sarcasm, trying to mimic his tone but failing and embarrassing myself instead. I clear my throat. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  I watch his lips move, the light from his eyes highlighting their ou
tline. “You do not understand. Kheelan holds no power to create life.”

  “And yet, here I stand!” I shout, flinging out my arms. I regret it, the cold pricking the skin I’ve managed to keep somewhat warm.

  For a moment, I see the reflection of my eyes glowing green in the white of the Sandman’s eyes, the color of my wolf’s as his annoyance matches my own. It’s the first time I’ve felt something other than sorrow. I try to grasp it in an emotional tug-o-war, but as a slippery fish, he burrows down inside me once more, taking the glow with him.

  The sandman watches my eyes, speculating.

  I lower my voice. “Why are you here?”

  He retreats deeper inside his cell until I can barely make out his eyes. Sighing, I hobble to the wall on numb feet and sit in the corner.

  As I resign myself to the fact he won’t answer, he speaks, his voice quiet enough that only my shifter hearing can pick it up. “You are a shifter.”

  Sarcasm drips from my tone. “And you’re a fictional character.”

  To my surprise, he answers my pressing question. “I disobeyed my maker, Sureen. I assisted an angel with her charge. The angel and I have – had – the same charge. A witch.”

  I puff out my lips and sigh, leaning my head against the wall. “The plot thickens. Witches. Witches seem to be the theme song lately.” I scratch my chin. “Sounds interesting, dude,” I mumble.

  “Not interesting. Miraculous.”

  “A mythical creature of dreams isn’t enough to be miraculous?” I click my tongue. “Come on Sandy, we’ve got nothing but time. You’ll have to give me a few more details than tiny sentences.”

  “I gained emotions,” he whispers right away, shame filling his tone.

  “Whoa, don’t shout, man.” I blink slowly and bark out a laugh. “How does that work? Gained emotions?”

  He shuffles in his seated position, uncomfortable. “Sandmen aren’t built with them. Sureen and I were close . . . too close, perhaps. I was unable to hide my emotions while bedding my creator.”