by D. Fischer
Everyone has a dark side, a scale that has the potential to tip from good to evil. I can feel it lurking, waiting for me to be desperate enough to press my finger and tip the scales in favor of the dark. All it takes is desperation, and once you taste the dark, there is no return. It’s too easy to give in, especially when it’s so tempting.
Sometimes, that is what I fear most – what I’d be capable of if I were to slip. I don’t think I’d make it back from that, and the call to glide from good to evil is more tempting now than it has ever been. I would never be the same. I would never be me again. But if that’s what it takes to survive...
Kheelan continues, “And what of my brother Corbin?”
“I’ve sent a message to our contact within the demon realm,” Yaris begins. “Corbin is unavailable but will return to his realm shortly. He has one matter to attend to, and then he will arrive with a guest.”
Kheelan doesn’t speak for several seconds, and my mind conjures images of disappointment etched on his face. Kheelan doesn’t like secrets, surprises, or to be kept waiting.
“A guest?” he rumbles. “Did he say whom?”
“No. He did not.”
Kheelan’s robes rustle, a sound I’m all too familiar with. “Very well. And what of the Colosseum?”
Footsteps echo through the dining hall, my heart skipping beats as I debate whether I should move or stay and listen.
“We have rehoused the shades as you instructed,” Yaris reveals, his voice fading. “All that must be done is removal of the buildings and the structure built by you, sir.”
“Excellent.” Kheelan claps and Mrs. Tiller and I jump. “Excellent. It’s about time we liven this place up, don’t you think?” Their voices trail off as they head away from the dining hall.
For several breaths, we stand with our backs to the wall, staring at one another. I wait for my heartbeat to return to normal, push back my hair, and wipe the few drops of sweat beaded on my forehead.
“Did I hear him correctly?” Mrs. Tiller whispers.
Placing my sweaty hand over my heart, I match her tone. “I believe you did.”
“A Colosseum for what?”
I scan the counters, the display of broken stone bricks which make the wall, but I don’t see them. I don’t search the crawling expanse of crumbling bricks or the candles that are propped along it. Instead, my imagination replays history lessons I learned as a child.
“For fun,” I spit with disgust.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KATRIANE DUPONT
MYLA’S PAST
My breaths are slow, exaggerated, and loud to my ears. He continues talking to the crowd, but I don’t hear it. I’m abundantly aware of my fate, of what this rope chafing my neck means. Soon, my spine will snap, my heart will stop, and I’ll move on. To where, I don’t know.
To the left of my theatre, spittle flies from a man’s mouth, his cheeks flushed a heated maroon. Shadows dance across his face like the dark intentions blackening his soul. His wife dangles from his arm, her face frightened as she props a toddler on her hip, and her gaze is cemented to mine. The top of her head is the same height as the gallows’ platform. I hold her eyes for a moment, but I’m too frightened of my own fate and the developing distress of the crowd to care what plagues her mind right now. Maybe she feels for me – that she’s developing some sort of maternal comparison. I could be someone’s daughter whom she knows, and she can’t help but allow her heart to ache for my demise, or my figurative mother receiving words of childless news. Or maybe she’s frightened I’ll sprout horns like the demons from hell, bringing about the end of times.
The toddler propped in her arms tucks his head into the crook of her shoulder. His blonde ringlets are in disarray as though he was pulled from his bed to attend my death. He’s in distress, the emotions wafting from the others too much for his tiny mind to comprehend. He should be sleeping, far, far away from the terrors of his time’s reality. This event – my death – will age him beyond the years of his short life.
A gusty breeze, smelling of fresh earth and horse manure, disrupts the man’s flow of words, picking up pace in a dramatic effect. The speaker turns, refusing to acknowledge I stand before him, and nods his head to someone behind me. I attempt to twist my upper torso, to get a glimpse of my killer, but with a groan of rusted metal and cracking wood, the lever is pulled.
The floor gives way below my bare feet. The rope tightens, gathering skin and pinching what it grabs inside each groove of twisted twine.
Gravity’s laws take effect, and my body begins to helplessly lower. The rope supports what the wood planks refuse while under the command of a heartless man. The muscles roping my calves - my thighs - quiver, fearful, begging for one more chance.
I lift myself to my toes, splinters burrowing under the nails. My chest heaves as I suck in a large gulp of chilled air. This is it. This is the last time I’ll fill my lungs. This is the last beat of my heart, the last pump of blood. I count the beats as my world slows, knowing they’re limited . . . I’m limited.
My mind fights it, refusing to acknowledge I’ll be nothing more than a carcass swaying in remembrance of my ceased struggle.
Goosebumps light my skin ablaze. In seconds, I’ll hear the snap of my spine, then feel the shot of pain to my legs, and my world will cascade in an everlasting darkness like a curtain to the finale of a dramatic show. My heart forces life, pounding with competition – a contest between life and death. My potential future flashes before my eyes – a house, a husband, a flock of children. I’ll never get that. It’s taken from me.
I know it will do no good, in a few moments, to dream of a life I’ll never have. My conscience rips them from me, consuming them with metaphorical bellowing flames. My face twists in horror - eyebrows pinched, eyes wide, mouth contorted.
Bound within their ropes, my hands tighten behind my back, nails digging into palms. A scream bubbles up my chest, blocked from leaving my mouth. It’s a bubble of anxiety, a screech of terror, a cry for the choices taken from me.
The rope tightens further, embedding my esophagus inside the muscles of my neck, digging into my spine with painful pressure. Blood soaks the rope, coating my jawline, my life fleeing though my heart fights for it.
And then time stops.
The quivering blaze, devouring the oil-soaked torches, freezes. My body halts in mid-air, and my face swells with the pressure of trapped blood, the rope tight around my neck.
Slipping and sliding, my splintered feet try to gain purchase on the boards. They’re half open beneath them, my torso whipping in the absence of wind as I try to maneuver my weight. It feels like the boards are wet, slimy. It takes me a moment to realize they are – they’re wet with blood from wounds along the soles of my feet.
I search my surroundings with wild vigor, confused, scared, driven by self-preservation. The rope holds me hostage, constricting me from seeing more than what’s in front of me.
In mid-blink, the man’s malevolent grin is solidified, just as his body. His cheeks are puffed, his glee black, bleak, the beam of an unstable man. The crowd’s fists are raised, lips snarled, eyes unseeing. Their clothes that were whipping in the wind are cemented like a statue, carved by an artist with an eye for detail.
An eerie silence fills the village. Time has stopped, but I have not. I don’t understand. The gurgles passing my lips are the only sound filling this void, the only thing that makes sense.
“Poor, poor Katriane Dupont,” a voice blurts beside me, shrill and high-pitched. “You would think, for such a powerful being as yourself, you’d be long gone from the current predicament you find yourself in.”
The owner of the voice saunters into my peripheral vision, her gait slow and silent, her feet bare. My body sways like a pendulum as I try to turn myself to no avail.
“I do not understand what they see in you. You’re frail. Weak. An insignificant bug. You’re unworthy of the oxygen held captive within your lungs, of that heart beating in your ch
est.” She tilts her head, eyeing my chest. “I can hear it, you know. It pleads.”
Her dark skin matches the night shadows cast by frozen, glowing flames against the houses, shining with a dewy residue reflected by the bright moon.
Dressed in a stiff burlap dress, one strap fastened over her slender shoulder and the length purposely frayed at the tops of her knees, confidence rolls off her in waves. Black hair weaves thick braids against her scalp, the ends reaching her hips and swaying with each graceful sashay she takes. Dark, dusky eyes take me in; her head slopes the other direction as she watches me struggle for air. She finds it fascinating, the twinkle in her black eyes, obvious.
Twitching her firm lips, they barely move as she whispers, “I don’t know why they are infatuated with you.”
Hot tears, filled with physical and emotional pain, trickle down the slopes of my cheeks, mixing with the strands of bloody twined rope. They leave behind a salty, burning trail. I fight for oxygen, my lungs filling to capacity to keep my soul flowing within me. Black and green dots form in my sight, smothering my blurry vision with a speckled fog.
She rolls her eyes as my lids close, in slow exaggeration, against their will. My heart, the blood pumping in my neck, decelerates, and I know this is the end for me. My speculations concerning her timely visit coinciding with the frozen citizens are moot. My only concern is my despair. I’m young, my life unfinished, but my fate is sealed. I have so much left to do with my life and many things I’m meant to accomplish with many wrongs to right . . .
My knees hit the wood first when the rope around my neck and hands disappears. One minute it’s there, squeezing the life from me, and the next, it’s gone.
Painfully gulping for air, I cough and splutter. Deep bruising lingers along my neck, the skin tender as I lower my head, while my lungs fill with fire. My fingernails dig into the wood planks, slivers embedding under them. The pain from each wooden needle is nothing compared to my other concerns and injuries. In fact, I relish it.
I glance up. The crowd is still frozen, mid-rant, the little blonde boy tucked into his mother’s nape, his cheeks wet with tears.
The mysterious woman in burlap leans her back against the post behind her, watching me like a bug, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. She hates me, but for what reason, I can’t fathom. I don’t know her. The black of her eyes tells me she’s a Fee, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. There needs to be an encyclopedia for this subject. I briefly consider creating one before I shove away the irrational concern and force my disorientation to focus.
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice hoarse and quiet.
Her bare feet begin to sparkle, a swirling white tornado across the surface of her skin, fading from their rooted spot. Transparency is all that’s left behind. “Someone who is upholding her end of a deal.”
I double blink, clearing my vision from watery, tear-filled eyes. Each speck erases her, traveling up her legs and fading each section of her body it comes across. My eyes snap to hers, looking for any fear within them that may match the sliver of dread tumbling in the pit of my stomach. Her smile is wide, though. Vengeful, almost. It’s tilted at the corners in a sly sort of way. It takes me a moment to realize she’s doing this – she’s causing herself to fade.
In less than a few seconds, all that’s left is her head and the braids dangling in the air. I gasp when her head stretches and expands, her smile wickedly detailed. Her black eyes become the size of basketballs; almond-shaped pools sparkling menace and silent threats.
On shaky, deprived legs and sore, bleeding feet, I push myself from the wood and stand. That smile and confidence, her magic, it tells me she’s no friend of mine. She may have taken away my ropes, she may have saved my life, but evil is hard to dismiss or rationalize. Especially when the prickle of skin and the trepidation within my heart beg to run the other direction.
Holding my hand out, palm up, a small ball of fire forms, advancing to the size I beckon it. The fire flashes and pops against my frayed and bleeding skin, heating the chill within. The familiarity, the protection, settles and anchors me with renowned purpose.
My throat constricts, and I attempt to swallow past a sore throat. A scream rips from the fee woman’s expanded mouth, catching me off guard. I take two steps back, almost dropping the ball of flames.
“What the hell,” I mutter.
Dumbstruck and frozen in place, I feel powerless as her head flies toward me, traveling at an alarming speed. I duck, and she continues, her path jagged, swirling around the scene and weaving over the citizens’ heads. Her head gathers speed, the same sparkles that made her disappear flake through the scene, accelerating in number like a blizzard at the tail of winter.
The flakes cloud my vision, infect my eyes, and I cover them with my free hand to stave off the burn. Like a sandstorm, it bites into my skin, the pain of flames I should be able to bear.
The high-pitch scream that deafens my ears fades yet resounds through the village, traveling through the trees beyond, and the bite of the sparkling sand along with it.
AIDEN VANDER
DEMON REALM
I don’t know how I know it. The information settles in my mind, a pocket of knowledge as if it belonged there since the beginning of time. It’s etched like the carving of rough stone, a picture of scripture chiseled by the hand from an ancient era.
The black lavafalls, riddled with veins of fire, is a portal. Many portals, actually. Only the strong may shimmer away at will, feeding on the unsuspecting, consuming fear from the purest of souls.
I feel the power build within me, reconstructing everything I once was. I know without a doubt I will never have to lumber through a lavafall to reach the Earth Realm - to gain the terror I’d need to survive, to feed. Even now I can feel it beg to find my first meal. I’m a starving demon. However, something wants me to meet my master, the fee who made my third life transpire. One topic drives me: Why me? What does he want from me? What purpose do I hold in his agenda?
As we leave my place of birth in this realm farther behind, parading along the lava as if it were paved, rocks begin to poke through, small at first, until they seat closer together and grow to the size of three men. They create a path of sorts, guiding us to a destination I know nothing of. I can feel him as we near. His power is great, almost smothering yet charming. It’s thick like humidity on a warm day after a heavy rain. Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s a call for a demon to find his way home. Only time will tell.
My guide struggles to maintain an even speed. His dangling skin and disjointed limbs bob and sway with each wobble though he seems accustomed to it. Contradictory to nature’s laws, it’s not handicapping him.
I falter when I glance beyond the demon hobbling in front of me, taking in the scene and structure before him.
Ahead, the ocean of lava flows upward at a sluggish speed, creating the structure of a castle from fairy tales. Though, I’m not sure a castle in a child’s tale would be built within the realm of demons, constructed by the black lava with bolts of fire riddled throughout. That would frighten any child. The idea of this untainted fear tickles me and begs me to explore it. That may be what my master was going for when he envisioned his home: a house built upon fear.
The demon before me turns, his arms swinging, limp due to his lack of joints and connecting skin. “What is it?” he grumbles like a testy old man. “What halts you?”
My eyes jerk to him in annoyance. He may not know it, or maybe he does and is choosing to ignore it, but I know I’m a greater demon than him. I relish the feeling of superiority while nodding to the castle. “What is it?”
He spins, his arms flapping against his torso. “Domus Timore.”
I recognize the language as Latin, even understand the words, though I’ve never learned it. Odd how demons naturally come to this language even when freshly made.
“House of Terror?” I ask.
“It be said Corbin built it from a thousand sins. He feeds from
that, ya know – terror and sin. It be where he draws his power - what makes him so mighty.”
I keep my face impassive. “And what’s his weakness?”
Slow and considering, he turns his head, his eyebrows speculating. “Why do you wish to know?”
I shrug; memories and strategies of my first life as a boxer come to the forefront. “Everyone has one. Knowledge is power.”
He sighs, mumbling his next words. “It is said that only the tear of a dragon can bring the King of Demons to his knees.”
“There are no dragons,” I mumble, continuing our walk and lumbering past him.
He wobbles, desperate to maintain my pace. “Not anymore.”
I stop, twisting on my heel. He bumps into me with a snarl, his skin flaps hitting my skin, coating it in a slime. I resist the urge to push him away. “Not anymore? What happened?”
“The Dragon was slain by her village.”
CHAPTER NINE
ELIZA PLAATS
DEATH REALM
The dark is intense, even with the torch lit within my hand. It’s like the dark swallows the light, consuming it, desperate for it. The torch within my hand cannot keep up with its appetite.
We travel down the tunnel to the cells, my footsteps echoing, bouncing off the crumbling stone walls. The soles of my shoes gritting against dust. Mrs. Tiller follows close behind, fearful that something will pop out at any moment and eat her. I don’t know why she’s so worried. She’s already dead. It frustrates me a little. I’m more vulnerable than she is.
Reaper’s Breath follows us down, hovering between us, the darkness threatening to consume it, too.
Dripping water guides our path. The farther in we travel, the louder it is; a drumroll to our demise. My foot catches on a loose, stray stone, and I stumble, almost dropping the bone tray held by my other hand.