by D. Fischer
“Careful,” Mrs. Tiller whispers.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue from lashing out in distress. “How far is this tunnel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eliza?” A male voice calls.
I stop in my tracks. The owner of the voice isn’t one I immediately recognize.
“Hello?” I call back in a tentative whisper.
“Over here.” A throat clears. “It’s Dyson.”
“Dyson?”
I pick up my pace, feeling the wall with my shoulder until it points to a corner, opening to a larger room. My breaths are freer here, but they don’t come easier. I feel more exposed, placed in danger by being out in the open.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, panic in his voice.
With brief contemplation, I wonder how he can see me, but then again, he’s been living in the dark. His vision has probably grown accustomed to it.
“Which cell are you?” I ask, swaying my arm out in front of me, taking tentative baby steps. My voice echoes, parallel with a constant drip of water.
“Down here. Look for my hand.”
Gritting my teeth against my own doubts and short-comings, Mrs. Tiller and I shimmy down the small alley between two rows of cells while I use my shoulders to guide us like a cat with whiskers. It’s not an easy feat, my heart thudding in my chest, worried what monster I’ll come across.
The temperature is freezing, and with the light from my torch, I can see the breath mist out in front of me before it’s swallowed by the dark.
I stumble once more, my shoulder banging into a bar of a cell. I scream as I’m jolted with a bite of electricity, the bar’s defense mechanism. A screech matching my own, coming from within that cell, causes me to jump and the tray teeters in my hand.
“Don’t touch, don’t touch!” the hysterical high-pitched voice screams within.
“GAN!” Dyson yells overtop the noise. “Be quiet Gan! Do you want every vampire down here?”
I take a few calming breaths, Mrs. Tiller shocked still behind me. I wait until her eyes meet mine once more, and we continue, slinking through the walkway. Dyson’s hand comes into view, his dirty fingers wiggling to get my attention. A relieved breath escapes Mrs. Tiller’s nose. She still hasn’t learned that shades have no reason for oxygen. I suppose it’s an uncontrollable habit when startled.
We stand before the cage, my lit torch casting shadows over Dyson’s naked frame. He’s dirty, black smudges along his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. I force my eyes to remain on his face, on his eyes and blue, quivering lips which shiver.
Desperate to let him maintain some sort of modesty, I square my jaw, refusing to drop my gaze. My nose stings with the sour smell of urine, like taking a whiff of a freshly sliced onion, and my eyes prick with tears. I breathe through my mouth instead, a pang of sympathy stabbing my heart. I have it much better than he does.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I swallow, gulping down a lump in my throat. I didn’t mentally prepare myself for a conversation with Dyson, and I’m not ready to answer questions yet. It’s difficult to shove my grudge aside even if I am aware it wasn’t his fault.
Holding up the tray, my tone is weak. “I came with food.”
As if he hadn’t noticed the tray wobbling in one of my nervous hands – maybe he didn’t – his expression widens, and his chin tucks, looking down. He swallows, and I envision his mouth pooling with saliva at the thought of whatever food is placed on this tray.
“Here,” I mumble, angling the tray and sliding it through the hole in the bars meant for de-cuffing a prisoner. “It isn’t much, but at least it’s food.”
He unwraps his arms from his body and reaches for the tray. I watch as he picks up a spoon with trembling fingers, shoveling the contents in his mouth so fast I barely see it enter.
“Slow down, Dyson. You’ll make yourself ill.” Startled by a new voice, my mouth snaps shut, capturing another scream. The words came from next to Dyson’s cell, from an unknown voice so low and deep it rumbles like a lion’s roar.
Eyes wide, I look to my left at the cell that I assumed was empty next to Dyson’s. A figure floats forward, or at least it looks that way, his eyes the only thing I can see. Mrs. Tiller and I gasp, the sparkling orbs of white breathtakingly beautiful yet frightening at the same time.
“What are you?” I whisper, retreating.
Around a mouth full of food, Dyson answers, “Sandman. Sandy, this is Eliza. Eliza, Sandy.”
“A real sandman?” Mrs. Tiller asks, shuffling closer and squinting her eyes. She’s hard to see. The light plays with her transparency, making her look like wisps of mist.
“Yes,” he answers, now fully flush to the gate. I almost warn him not to touch it, but I figure he’s already tested the bars. I assume a man that size wouldn’t sit here in peace, absent of curiosity.
Dyson slows, eating in a more civilized manner. Satisfied, I glance around, bringing my torch with me in hopes of attaining a better view of the dungeon. There’s nothing to see. Nothing except empty cells, stone, and endless dust.
“My mother? And Jane?” I ask.
“Further in,” Dyson answers, pointing with his bent elbow. “Down quite a ways with the others they’ve captured from the attempted rebellion.” He slurps his mushed food from the provided silver spoon.
I scowl, confused, and spin on my heel to face him once more. My red hair whips my face, a strand sticking to my lips. “Why? Why are they capturing and detaining them?”
“What do you mean?” Dyson asks.
“What’s the point to it?” I shrug, and it wiggles my hand. The flames bounce atop the torch. “They’ll never die. In fact, they’re probably receiving better treatment down here than up there. What’s the point of keeping them here?”
Dyson sets down his spoon, the metal clanking against the bones that construct the tray. The dip of his eyebrows matches my own. “That’s a good point,” he mumbles. “I don’t know.”
We’re silent, our minds working to unravel Kheelan’s plan. The dripping water is our only evidence of the passing of time.
“The Colosseum,” Mrs. Tiller whispers.
My face muscles wilt, and my heart skips a beat. “Oh my . . .”
“The what?” Sandy asks.
Cursing, I lift my hand and rake my nails against my forehead. The words I heard earlier, from the dining room, replay in my head. “Corbin – the Fee guy from the Demon Realm – he’s coming to visit. Kheelan said something about needing entertainment and a Colosseum.”
The group is quiet as the prisoner, Gan, cackles and hoots within his cell.
I swivel on the balls of my feet, directing my frown at Gan. “What’s wrong with him?”
“That’s a long story,” Dyson murmurs, pauses, and goes back to the subject. “It would make sense . . . to keep them, us, down here. Do you think he’d use shades for his new sick and twisted game?”
“Yes,” the sandman rumbles.
Reaper’s Breath chooses this moment to swoop in, from wherever it was hiding, and twirls around Dyson’s shoulders. Dyson gapes, flabbergasted. “I thought this little guy was dead.”
“No, but he’s been laying low.” I smirk, watching the creature caress Dyson like a welcoming pet.
Dyson squints, stress hardening the edges of his eyes. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
I sigh and look away. “No, we don’t. You don’t need to explain yourself. What happened the other day –“
He cuts me off. “Look Eliza, I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry you had to go through what you went through, to witness that, to be a part of it. It’s my fault. But we don’t have a lot of time.” He turns his head, looking back to the tunnel from which we came. “Vampires patrol down here, and if they catch us talking, if they catch the Reaper’s Breath . . .” he glances at his shoulder where the white fog sits, firming his lips in determination. “There’s a witch. Sandy and I are working
on his skill to cross over and contact her, but she may be our only hope.”
“Our only hope for what?”
He glances up while stumbling closer to the bars. His foot knocks against the tray and it slides an inch. “To our freedom.”
KATRIANE DUPONT
DREAM REALM
Pressure lines my back, and jagged edges dig into the skin along my spine, poking the spaces in my ribcage. It’s uncomfortable, and I shift my shoulders against it, hoping to relieve the discomfort. The wood planks are old but not uneven, like rock. Where am I? Did I fall from the platform? This foreign sensation piques a temporary curiosity, replacing it with a river of fear flowing straight to my heart. My skin pricks with tiny needles of dread.
A portal . . . I was taken through a portal.
I inhale a deep breath. The scent of musky moss and a tang of sage tickle over my tongue as I try to get a grasp on where I’m at. It’s frightening to not have a drop of knowledge concerning your surroundings – on where an insane fee took you within her sparkling sandstorm. I don’t want to know where I am. I know I’m not home, tucked in my bed. I know I’m not back in the past.
Is this a punishment? I could be in a dungeon somewhere. I seem to be a magnet for fee chastisement lately. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am taken prisoner, waiting for a creature of the night to eat me as soon as I stand. Clenching my teeth, I force my fear to subside, swiping it away like it’s an unwanted closed curtain, and open my eyes.
As upon waking from a full night’s rest, my vision is fuzzy, and my muscles and joints feel weak and fallow. A rock ceiling, too bright, drifts high in the air, taking most of my peripheral vision. Specks of black and sparkling dust float aimlessly between me and the ceiling, the bright light reflecting off them, creating an illusion of a disco ball. There’s no wind to blow them, so they drift like noiseless snow. All at once, I take in the ceiling pulsing an even rhythm – it’s almost too much, a shock to my system.
Averting my gaze, I look at the floor. My back rests along black rock, each shift of muscle explaining the bite as the uneven, rigid edges dig deeper. It smells unfamiliar here – stale and unlike the natural air I was breathing back in the village.
I run my hands along my torso, feeling the familiarity of the fleece that weaves my pajamas. The raw flesh on my wrists snag against the soft cloth, and I wince, my lips grimacing.
My palms feel like they’re on fire, spiked with splinters from the wood planks on the gallows. For a moment, my mind conjures the image of my almost death, taking me to a place I no longer wish to hold as a memory.
I marvel at the fact that I’m in my future body, but my injuries are from the past. It must be a loophole of some sort – a side effect or consequence.
Sitting up, I stand, and spin in a full circle, temporarily ignoring the people observing me. It’s a large room, a dome-like structure. The cave’s rock floor contains thin, tiny rivers. They look like strings weaving between each rise and fall of the protruding edges and uneven surfaces. The strings pulse at the same rhythm as the dome.
Tucking my chin, I look at my feet, my eyebrows raising to my forehead. The space around my bare feet is lit with a brilliant white light. I bend a knee and lift the opposite foot a few inches from the ground, seeing a perfect print. Huffing, I place it back down, forcing myself to remain calm.
Tember, Erline, Corbin, and a woman with short red curls, Erma I’m guessing, stand to the left, their expressions concerned, except for Corbin. He looks . . . oddly delighted. Is this why he didn’t save me from my almost death? Was his future-self planning a rescue?
The woman who released me from certain death sits upon a throne, not far from us. She’s smug, her elbows resting against the arms of the chair, and her black eyes twinkle in certain victory.
The throne looks like it’s weaved the same way a dreamcatcher is. Vines with crystal leaves flow over the back and reach the floor like a peacock’s tail. It’s beautiful… a masterpiece of art. In the light of the dome, the crystals sparkle a gold hue.
Piles of satchels are stacked behind the throne. It’s like a stash of treasure, and she protects it. For a moment, I wonder what’s in those satchels before my mind shoves it aside, deeming it unnecessary to know. Sometimes, it suits me to remain oblivious. I don’t need, or want, my hand in every cookie jar. I have enough to deal with as it is.
The victorious throne-sitter shimmies her rump further back in her chair, watching the scene unfold with hooded eyes filled with triumph. I wonder what she thinks I’m going to do. Back in the past, she was sure I was nothing more than a bug. That judgmental intolerance heats my insides, the beginnings of a trembling fire of barely contained emotions.
I look to Corbin, his movements distracting as he rocks on the back of his heels. “Where am I?” I bark, directing my question at him.
With all eyes on me, I feel open and exposed, placed in a territory that isn’t my own. The unfamiliarity brands me hostile. Rationality and inquisition are out the window. No one in this room deserves the benefit of my doubt. Self-preservation kicks in, my earlier fear receding while confidence soars to the lead.
Lifting my right hand, I allow a ball of fire to shimmer within my palm, covering and surrounding the skin as I manipulate its evolution. It licks up my wrist to my elbow, a sleeve afire. It’s a small comfort to root me, grounding me and filling me with a safety that only I can provide myself. After all, it’s all for one, right?
The orange, smoldering flames lick my wounds like a loving pet, and a single tear spills from my eye, leaving a hot trail as it slumps from my cheek. It drops into the flame, landing directly on the ripped and bleeding skin of my wrist. A tugging sensation initiates there, the wound knitting the skin back together.
Without glancing at it, I marvel at my self-healing. I can do it without being a dragon, something that had never occurred when the dragon morphed with me. The dragon and I are one, though two. This last gift, which Myla granted me, is more than I could ask for, or deserve, upon her demise.
Fear and exasperated resentment override the guilt placed on my shoulders. I could have saved her. I could have changed the future and preserved her from a fate she didn’t deserve. I don’t merit this last gift. She died for me – for her daughters, in hopes the sacrifice would end with her.
Tember slinks forward, and Corbin folds his arms across his lean chest, a smile lighting his face in some sort of pride or silent joke.
“You’re back, Kat,” Tember coos, her voice calm and even. She holds out her hands, desperate to reassure me. Does she think I don’t know that already? Does she think I’m afraid? Is this fire, crawling up my arms, ready to launch, because I’m a rabid and unpredictable caged animal? At first, it was. Now . . .
Gulping, Tember licks her bottom lip. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her nervous. “This is the dream realm.”
I flick my attention to the woman, remembering my lessons as a young witch regarding the most significant realms and those who rule them. Her black braids shimmer, momentarily distracting me. “Sureen?”
“Is any other like me?” Sureen quips.
A man in burlap pants, but no shirt, walks through a tunnel connecting to the dome and softly pads to the throne. He’s tall and slender with eyes that glitter brighter than diamonds. Sureen glances his direction as he eyes me, no expression or curiosity on his face.
Nervous, my attention divides, causing panic and the heat along my arms to increase.
“He’s a sandman,” Tember mumbles to me, hoping for reassurance. “Not a threat.”
The sandman bends, whispering words into her ear. She styles no expression to what she’s being told, keeping her cold, black eyes settled on me. They’re soulless, life-sucking, and unsympathetic. Fire curls thick in my belly with the need to be seen more than the weak girl she thinks I am. I know I was smart to not change history. It was the right thing to do for the safety and security of the future. However, in her mind, I was the damsel who needed to be
saved.
Rage. That’s what this is. Rage. Secrets built on secrets, lies stacked on lies, judgement overlapping judgement.
I look to Tember. “You did this,” I threaten and blame between clenched teeth.
She holds up her hands, her jaw ticking in the side of her cheeks. Is that guilt I see? “Some of it, yes.”
“Why?” I roar. I expect the cave to echo from the volume of my voice, but it doesn’t. The eerie silence sends goosebumps over my skin, the fire crackling along my arms filling the void.
Tember looks over her shoulder to Erma. Erma gives no indication to help Tember in any way, crossing her arms instead, and raises her sculpted red eyebrows. She looks back to me and tucks a brown curl behind her ear. “Because I needed answers.”
“Answers?” I murmur distractedly.
My eyes travel over the rest of the entourage. The sandman scurries from the cave as he feels me succumb to an unstable level. For such a large man, he terrifies easily, choosing not to stick around to protect his queen, his maker. I find that curious in the midst of my tantrum.
With a look of satisfaction dimpling Sureen’s cheeks, I already know the answer to the question crossing my lips. I tuck my chin, inclining my head toward her and pinning her with a stare. “It was you, wasn’t it? You put me in that place.”
She moves her elbows to the armrests along her chair, steeples her fingers in front of her, and rests them on her abdomen. Her fingers are long and pointed, a skeletal structure covered by dark, mahogany skin. “Whatever do you mean, child?”
“You put me there!” I scream, the fire reaching my shoulders. “You put me there!” I repeat to Tember. “All of you did!”
My chest heaves, smoke curling from my nostrils, clouding the space in front of me. It’s a release to the fire burning within. The group shuffles simultaneously in an attempt to stand before me, and their lips move, passing words I can’t hear while blood roars in my ears.
I withdraw, frightened for my lack of control but unwilling to stop it. My skin quivers, scales slicing through like a knife to soft butter as the fire continues to creep across. My bones pop and expand, elongating, transforming to my better, more equipped half.