Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “It’s better we are damned than the world,” Marcas said quietly, stopping only inches away from his brother. “I could stop you.”

  The second man reached forward, patting his brother affectionately on the cheek before shoving forth his right fist. Marcas slumped forward, clutching his side as a wet stain spread slowly onto the other man’s hand. Oh, my God! Was that blood? Nausea swamped me.

  The man laughed, producing a container before filling it with the crimson fluid. I dry heaved. Oh, my God!

  “No, you won’t stop me,” the man said. He pulled the dagger out of his brother’s side. Marcas crumpled. “You’ll heal.” He cleaned the dagger on his pants. “Some things are worth more than family.”

  He turned to walk toward me. He drew closer, closer still, and I screamed.

  “No!” I cried, shoving at something hard, my fists clenching desperately at fabric and skin. I wouldn’t let him get me!

  A hand caught my wrist.

  I fought harder, my legs kicking. I tried opening my eyes but the lights were too bright, images too blurry.

  “Dayton!” a voice cried. “Dayton, calm down! It’s Conor!"

  His words penetrated the fog, and I loosened my grip.

  “Dayton?” another voice cut in,

  My grip tightened again, my nails digging in unmercifully. I didn’t recognize this voice.

  Hands came down on me harder. “Give her a moment, dammit!” Conor’s strained voice cried as I kicked him again. His voice made me pause. “Just give her a moment,” he repeated, his voice relaxing as I loosened my grip.

  My eyes adjusted.

  “Day?” yet another voice questioned.

  I sobbed in relief. Monroe.

  “She’s coming around,” Conor said.

  I tried turning my head. Pain engulfed me.

  “Slowly. You hit your head, sweetheart,” Conor soothed.

  A small hand slipped into mine, and I knew from the manicured nails that it was Monroe’s. I gripped it.

  “What happened?” I managed. My throat was dry, my voice raspy.

  “You had a seizure,” the strange voice supplied.

  I tried again to focus. A lined but blurry face came into view. The man leaned closer, his uniform near my face, and I realized he was a paramedic.

  He smiled. “Any head pain?”

  “Some.”

  “I’m going to remove a collar I put around your neck, and I want you to tell me if you can move your head."

  I stared distantly as he moved closer. Air rushed against my skin. I tested my neck.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Can you touch your chin to your chest?”

  I leaned up. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to try and sit you up. Is that okay, Dayton?”

  Hands began pushing against my back. Blood rushed down into my body, and I glanced around carefully. The walls surrounding me were white and filled with books. The library.

  “It was the closest room to the field,” Monroe whispered.

  I smiled. “Books are healing.”

  Frowning, she placed a cool hand against my forehead. “What happened, Day?”

  The paramedic checked my vital signs. It was obvious he was irritated at the group of teenagers surrounding him, but none of them seemed prepared to leave.

  Monroe hovered over me while Lita and Jacin lingered in the background.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered.

  The vision crashed down on me all over again. My breath caught, and I turned toward Conor. He was watching us quietly, one of his hands still resting on the small of my back.

  My gaze fell to his chest. “Oh, my God!” I cried.

  Conor grabbed at his shirt but not fast enough to hide the damage I’d done. The fabric was ripped and there was a gash along one bicep.

  “Jesus!” I exclaimed.

  Conor laughed. “Enough cries to heaven, and I may be miraculously healed.”

  I didn’t laugh. The paramedic motioned for him to back off, but he didn’t move.

  “Look, Red, I’m fine. Let’s just figure out what happened to you,” Conor whispered.

  My mouth hung open. Had I really done that?

  “I’m going to take you in and have you checked,” the paramedic said suddenly.

  What? My mind was having trouble keeping up. Too many things were going on at once. Take me in? I gave the man my full attention. He was small and elderly. It made sense that Conor had helped him hold me down.

  “Wait a moment, Bobby,” a female voice called out.

  Another paramedic stood a few feet away, her hand lifted to show her partner he needed to hold off. She was average height with brown hair, and deep in conversation with a black robed figure. Nausea engulfed me.

  “I don’t think the hospital will be necessary,” the robed figure said, turning around to face us. Aunt Kyra.

  Bobby looked at her, startled, his gaze searching as he glanced between us. An open book, Conor had said. There was no doubt my face was reading like an open page in a horror novel.

  “It’s protocol that I have her checked,” Bobby insisted.

  My aunt’s intense gaze pierced him, causing him to step backward. She may be a small lady, but she had presence.

  “I’ll take her to our family doctor,” Aunt Kyra said firmly.

  I stared at her. Family doctor?

  Bobby started to speak, but his partner shook her head.

  He glanced between us again. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, then. There’s some papers I’ll need signed.”

  My aunt nodded.

  I cringed as she moved toward me, her robes slapping softly against her legs. I felt tempted to hum the Darth Vader theme music from Star Wars. It was a silly thought, but my weird seizure-like vision had cast a sinister shadow over everything. I was losing my mind.

  Kyra paused near the stretcher. “I think I have it from here Mr. Reinhardt, Ms. Jacobs.”

  Conor and Monroe exchanged a brief look and stood their ground.

  Aunt Kyra grew eerily silent. In the background, I heard the female paramedic whisper something about "the girl’s history of faking illnesses." I looked up at my aunt. Had she told them that? I’d never been sick a day in my life.

  “Maybe I could assist you?” Conor asked. “I could carry her to your car.”

  My aunt glanced at Conor’s exposed chest and lifted a brow. “I think you’ve been helpful enough, Mr. Reinhardt. I’m fairly certain Dayton can walk."

  “I’m fine,” I murmured, my gaze finding their worried expressions. It wouldn’t do to continue this show here. I’d have to go with her sometime. Monroe pressed her lips together.

  Conor ignored my aunt and leaned in close. “Who’s Marcas, Red?”

  My head snapped up, my eyes locked on his. His expression was inscrutable.

  “Be careful,” he warned.

  My aunt held out her hand, her eyes full of disdain. “Let’s go, Dayton.”

  Ignoring her proffered palm, I used every ounce of energy I had left to climb off the makeshift bed, stumbling only once as Kyra signed a medical release form. Unsteadily, I followed her out of the library, out of the school, and into the car.

  Gazing out the window as she pulled away, my eyes locked on four figures lounging on the walk just a few feet away from the curb—Monroe, Conor, Lita, and Jacin.

  Conor leaned against a light pole, his arms crossed and a frown marring his features. A few girls giggled as they walked by and caught sight of his shirt. He ignored them. Monroe looked sick with worry, her eyes darker than usual, her stance restless. Lita said something to Jacin before pulling a cigarette out of her blue jean pocket and twirling it between her fingers. Jacin’s hand fell to her shoulder.

  I waved at them all.

  Chapter 7

  If there is war, there will be many mortal deaths. War will not end until the world has been damaged beyond repair. The ranks will be divided, the losses heavy. The burd
en seems unfair. Whether there is war will depend on one thing: Her strength.

  ~Bezalial~

  We’d barely pulled away from the school when my aunt asked, “What did you see?”

  I looked up, startled. Her eyes watched me in the rearview mirror.

  “See?” I asked. She knew about my vision?

  Aunt Kyra continued to stare, her eyes moving occasionally to the road as she drove. Her mouth was tight, lines around them revealing her increasing age.

  I looked away, watching the scenery change outside the car window. “What’s happening to me, Aunt Kyra? What do you know that I don’t?” My voice was pleading. I hated that it sounded that way.

  Aunt Kyra ran over a small curb, and I realized I’d unsettled her.

  The car straightened. “What did you see, Dayton?” she repeated. “It’s important you talk to me. This is a lot bigger than you."

  What was? The answer seemed important to her, urgent even.

  The question made me furious. “You want me to talk to you? Me talk to you? That’s funny. I won’t talk. Not until I find out the truth. What’s bigger than me? What’s happening to me?”

  Aunt Kyra pulled into the lane leading to Blackstone Abbey, her cheeks flushed in the mirror. Maybe it was anger, maybe frustration. At this point, I didn’t care.

  “Nothing is happening to you, Dayton."

  My eyes narrowed. “That’s a bunch of bullshit!”

  The car lurched as Aunt Kyra hit the brake, the force throwing me into the back of her seat. Pain shot down my arm. What the hell?

  Jerking the car into park, she pointed at the Abbey. “You can walk from here, Dayton.”

  I didn’t move. “What’s going on?”

  My voice was calm despite my thumping heart, my determination far outweighing my fear.

  Kyra’s eyes flashed. I’d crossed the line with the language. She’d crossed the line with her secrecy. It was my life that was changing.

  “You are a small part of something so much bigger, Dayton. The time has come for you to understand that. And you will. Until then, you respect me and you respect the Abbey. Understood?” she said.

  I nodded.

  She pointed at the door. “I suggest you walk up the lane and think about what I said."

  Unbuckling my seat belt, I opened the car door. “You can’t avoid my questions forever, Aunt Kyra.” I stepped from the car.

  Her eyes met mine. “I don’t intend to.”

  I shut the door. She pulled away and sped down the lane, leaving me alone coughing up dirt and kicking pebbles with my tennis shoes. Dammit! Think about what she said? This was ridiculous! To hell with it all!

  “Damn, damn, damn!”

  My voice rose as I approached the Abbey. It was hot and humid! I hated September weather in the South. Southern weather was as temperamental as its people. Hot one moment, chilly the next, but rarely ever cold. Forty degrees was freezing, and on the rarer occasion it snowed, the whole town shut down.

  Sweat trickled slowly down the side of my face. I swiped at it. “Damn!”

  It was childish and foolish to challenge this sacred place with words of condemnation, but I was well beyond frustrated and it made me feel better.

  The door of the Abbey grew larger, and I was panting by the time I put my hand on the knob. Pausing, I looked up at the building, the dark stone walls hovering over me ominously.

  Something moved in my peripheral vision, and I backed up. What was that?

  Leaves rustled in a nearby magnolia tree, and I huddled against the door as a cloud rolled in front of the sun. The day went dim.

  Spooked, I pushed at the door again, cursing the old hinges when it didn’t open. The vision from the school consumed me, and I shivered, my sweaty palms twisting the knob.

  Voices moved down the hall from the refectory as I finally forced the door open, but instead of moving toward the dining hall, I turned to the stairwell.

  My foot hit the stairs.

  “Dayton?”

  I paused, my gaze finding my sister’s worried face.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  I was enjoying a moment of self-pity, not because I’m the type to wallow in despair but because I was tired of having to accept these strange new changes in my life without knowing why. Keeping my back to her, I began to climb. I was withdrawing again. Why did I find it so hard to ask for help?

  Amber didn’t call after me, and I was glad she didn’t. I was not okay. I was tired of pretending I wasn’t angry, confused, or scared.

  Storming into my room, I slammed the door as hard as I could before tearing through my desk for a dumdum.

  I shoved my desk chair into the wood. Damn!

  My imagination turned my room into a gym full of punching bags. Damn!

  Something cracked as I hit my cheap plywood dresser.

  “To hell with this crap!” I cried, hoping the whole Abbey heard.

  The screaming came next, the frustrated cries so fierce it wasn’t until exhaustion hit me that I realized I was crying. My cheeks were soaked with tears. I swiped at them angrily. I hated them for making me cry. I hated them all!

  Moving to close my curtains, I murmured, “I won’t let you do this.” I was determined to shut out the world.

  One week. That’s all it had taken for my life to change. I was tempted to rip the fabric I held fisted in my hands into shreds. My fingers tightened on the violet material. What would it help?

  The twilight outside beckoned, and I stopped to stare. How long had I been fuming?

  I leaned closer to the window.

  Eyes met mine from the semi-darkness outside.

  My need for solitude was forgotten. The eyes that stared back at me blinked. Real eyes, not a reflection. I fell back against my dresser, the wood cracking again. Something fell apart and hit the floor. Pain blossomed along my back. Oh, my God!

  I shoved away from the wall, my mouth opening in a scream as the window behind me lifted. Metal squealed against metal. I backed toward my bedroom door, the scream weaving its way up into my mouth.

  “Dayton, no! It’s okay! It’s Con,” a voice cried.

  The scream stuck in my throat, and I choked on it. Conor? Jesus! A hand materialized from around the curtains, and I swore under my breath.

  “A little help here,” he grunted.

  I swore again. My adrenaline levels dropped as fast as they had risen, leaving me drained and faint.

  “Are you kidding me?” I whispered loudly.

  Conor pulled himself over the ledge.

  Moving to the side of the window, I glanced outside to find a ladder propped against the building.

  Conor joined me. “It was already in the garden.”

  I turned around and, without a second thought, punched him as hard as I could in the stomach. He didn’t flinch. It was like hitting rock, and I cradled my fist.

  “You asshole!”

  If humans had nine lives, I’d just lost most of them. Conor shrugged sheepishly. At least his shirt was in one piece this time. I didn’t need a distraction.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed.

  He moved to sit on my bed, folding his six-foot frame as best he could into the small space, his disgusted gaze sweeping the room. “What? They make you sleep in a closet?”

  I ignored him. The living quarters were meant for contemplation, not for comfort.

  “What is this? How did you find my room?” I asked.

  He peered up at me, didn’t seem to like having to do so, and stood so that I was the one left glaring up.

  “Monroe," he answered

  I froze.

  Conor fidgeted, toying with papers hanging off my desk before picking up the dumdum lollipop I’d dropped when I backed into the dresser.

  His brow rose. “Sugar is a sin, you know.”

  The innuendo wasn’t lost on me. Snatching the sucker out of his hand, I threw it back into my desk drawer.

  “What are you doing here?” I repeat
ed.

  He stepped toward me. “Checking on you."

  The same look I’d seen in philosophy class filled his gaze. It was something I hadn’t noticed in them before this week. It unnerved me.

  “You worried us, Dayton.”

  He moved closer, and my heart jumped. My neck hurt from looking up. Did he have to be so dead-blasted tall? I was used to Conor’s presence, even his familiarity outside of the Abbey, but in my room …

  “You could have just called,” I said, my hand moving to the cell phone I had stuffed in my blue jean pocket.

  Conor’s gaze moved from my pocket to my face, his usual grin lighting up his features, his dark blue eyes flashing with humor.

  “What fun is there in that?”

  He wagged his brows. It was such a Conor kind of move. I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. It was like having someone look you in the face and asking you not to smile. It was impossible not to.

  “Whatever.” I pointed at the window. “I’m fine. You can go back the way you came now.”

  Conor’s gaze passed between my face and the ledge, but he didn’t move. “After all that work? I think not.”

  Sitting on my bed, he patted the empty space next to him. The stubborn bastard.

  I stared at his hand.

  “I don’t bite,” he promised.

  I swore under my breath. “Said the spider to the fly.”

  I finally sat. He laughed, his arm resting lightly along the back of my shoulders. It didn’t feel like it should with us being alone. He seemed to realize this, and he dropped his hand subtly, his palm coming to rest on the comforter a few inches away from my tailbone. I stared hard at my knees and fought not to squirm.

  “What happened to you today?” Conor asked suddenly, his tone serious.

  There was a small stain on my jeans and I picked at it, the vision falling over me. Fear gripped me, and I shivered.

  “Is it smart for you to be here?” I asked, changing the subject. “I mean, what is this really?”

  The question was rowing us into uncharted, dangerous waters, but I asked it anyway. I didn’t want to discuss the vision.

  Conor grinned. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  I glared at him. “Honestly?”

  Conor’s smile slipped. He leaned close. “I wanted to see you."