by Cory Barclay
The frightened blackguard held his head in one hand and tried to recover his dignity. “The leaders of the Vagrant Kinship, my lord. Er, former leaders? The leader’s wife and murderer . . .”
“Geddon and Selestria?”
“Yes! Them!”
Malachite’s eyebrows jumped high on his forehead. His fury subsided in an instant, replaced with a cheeriness Lig had never seen before.
“We have them bound inside your carriage, my lord,” the blackguard said, bowing low. He was utterly pleased with himself to break the news to his Overseer. Lig wondered how many blackguards had fought over that privilege.
The Overseer clapped his hands once. “Excellent. Maybe this day can be salvaged after all.” He marched past the blackguard, past Lig and Fueda, and reached the stairs. Then he paused.
Everyone stared at his back, waiting to see what he’d do.
Finally, from over his shoulder, the Overseer spoke. “You’ll retrieve your respective children and bring them to the altar to be married. When that is done, we’ll see what those rebels have to say for themselves. Who knows, maybe with a little coaxing we can learn something about my son.”
He faced Constantin and Mariana Lee. Anger simmered on their faces. Malachite said, “And your son, too.”
ANNABEL COULDN’T BELIEVE it. She sat in Tiberius Reynolds’ bathroom, on the toilet, crying into her hands.
She’d seen Steve and Aiden disappear through that mirror, and she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t change it now. Her love was gone from her, again.
Why hadn’t she been able to travel through the Parallel Reflector? Was she cursed? She definitely felt damned. Or maybe it was because she was a Mythic and Steve was a human? No . . . Aiden had gone through also, and he was a freaking leprechaun.
She knew her life was out of her hands, out of her control. She should have never come back to this damned place. If only hindsight could change things.
She should have stayed on Terrus with Steve, tried to start a life there. Maybe she could have been happy. Happy like she’d been a century and a half ago, with Edgar. She rarely thought of Edgar these days, but for whatever reason, the dark poet came to her mind now.
Probably because this was the kind of thing he would write about. Girl escapes her undead parents, finds a man, and falls in love in another world. Then she’s forced to come back, gets trapped again, and can’t escape.
She felt imprisoned behind a wall. In the past, she’d been able to reach through, sometimes getting a glimpse of the light—of a better future. But now it was being paved over with cement, trapping her forever.
What was the name of that story Edgar told her about? It was so long ago. The Cask of an Armadillo? She couldn’t remember. Either way, the sentiment was the same: she was trapped for eternity.
She used to think Steve could somehow fix her—that he would come to her rescue like Prince Charming and whisk her away.
And he’d almost done it, too! He’d been so close to talking his way out of it!
What happened?
It was that weasel . . .
Not Overseer Malachite. No, it was Geddon. The person Steve trusted the most out of his friends! Annabel remembered when Aiden O’Shaunessy had backstabbed them, and how heartbreaking that had been.
What the hell was Steve doing showing up with that treacherous leprechaun, anyway?
She frowned. She figured she’d never get the chance to ask. Not now that her life was over.
But, no, Geddon had caused all the chaos. He’d turned the whole wedding upside down, just when it seemed Steve’s words would ring true and get through.
Annabel sniffled.
“Charles!” she cried to no one.
Had Steve been telling the truth about her brother? Or had it been a ruse to try to get the Reynoldses and her parents to fight against each other?
Annabel figured she’d never get a chance to find that out, either.
Someone knocked on the door.
Annabel said nothing. She looked up from her hands, tears drying on her cheeks, trying to will the door closed forever.
“It’s time,” said the voice of Tiberius Reynolds from the other side.
Oh, yeah. There was that, too.
She still had to get married.
But that wasn’t why she was crying.
That wasn’t why she was trapped, or why she was dejected and empty inside. That was an inconvenience, sure, but it wasn’t what changed everything.
No, what changed everything was the simple fact that, within the last few minutes, she’d felt her body change. Mythics like Annabel were attuned to nature more closely than humans were.
And less than five minutes ago, she realized she was pregnant.
CHAPTER TWO
ON TERRUS
The redheaded man at the bar was getting louder and more animated. He stood from his stool and pushed it out the way. He wasn’t very tall—barely at eye level with the brown-haired man next to him, who was sitting.
The two men were in a heated debate. They’d drawn the eyes of almost everyone in the bar. This was not by accident, which became apparent when the redheaded man glanced around to see who was watching. It was clear he wanted to make a scene, and in that he was doing well.
“Tell me again, boy-o, how you think we should give this planet away to slavers and tyrants?” the redheaded man said in a thick Irish accent.
The brown-haired man bristled. Though he was younger than his freckled adversary, it was clear he didn’t appreciate being talked down to.
“I never said that. I said—”
“That the Brethren of Soreltris want to commingle with humans,” the redheaded man interjected. He scanned the room again. “Can y’believe this kid? He’s consorting with the enemy!”
That drew a few agreeing grumbles from the bar. It was a small place, little more than a hole in the wall, with a long bar that ran lengthwise from end to end. On one side of the bar was the befuddled bartender. He was an older, bearded gentleman who cleaned the same glass over and over, but kept his eyes on the two arguers. On the other side of the bar sat a row of patrons, from all walks of life, and six round tables occupied by other drinkers. Everyone had stopped his or her respective conversation to see how this would play out. They were especially interested in what the redheaded man had to say. They all seemed familiar with the Brethren of Soreltris.
“I count them as allies, yes,” the brown-haired, younger man said. He was maybe thirty, with patchy stubble along his chin and jawline. He was calmer than the Irishman, but it was clear his temper was beginning to boil over. It wouldn’t be long before he snapped.
Which is what the Irishman was counting on. “Have you ever been to Mythicus, boy?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then you should know what goes on there!”
The Irishman chugged the rest of his beer and slammed the glass on the wooden bar. He wiped droplets of liquid from his orange beard with his green-sleeved forearm.
“When’s the last time you’ve been there, old man?” the younger one asked, taunting his opponent. He creased his brow and watched as the Irishman’s face reddened even more.
“Mythicus is my homeland, you tit,” the Irishman said in a low voice. “I know enough to know the Brethren are tearing it apart.”
A couple mugs hit tabletops in appreciation of his words.
It almost seemed like the Irishman’s eyes were getting misty from emotion—reminiscing better times.
“How? How are they tearing Mythicus apart? You really think they have that kind of power?”
The short Irishman stepped forward. With spittle flying from his mouth, he said, “They control all three regions of Soreltris with an iron fist! They enslave anyone who doesn’t conform to their hard ways. They did it to my brother, for fuck’s sake!”
“And mine!” a man from another table called out.
Both the Irishman and his brown-haired combatant turned to the voice. He was a skin
ny man with ragged clothes and a homeless vibe. This dive bar looked like the only place where he belonged.
“You see?” the Irishman said, turning back to his younger foe. “There are people in this very bar who agree the Brethren are terrible for Mythic kind. Now multiply that by tenfold—no, a hundredfold—and you’ll see our true numbers. We can’t allow them to come here and ‘commingle’ with humankind. It would be disastrous.”
A few more cheers rose from the crowd of patrons, now deeply involved in the Irishman’s speech. His dilemma had become their calling card, their voice. The brown-haired man wondered how he’d been put in this position.
“You’re saying they’ve never done anything good? Not ever?”
The Irishman began, “Not—”
But the raggedy ally interrupted. “Not since the men have taken over! It was different when the women ruled Soreltris. Back when it was a matriarchy. But that time has passed. Overseeress Garnet was the last good thing to happen to that place.”
“Here here!” the Irishman called, raising his newly arrived beer into the air. Four or five other patrons did the same.
It occurred to the brown-haired man that he was significantly outnumbered here. He had a big friend who sat near him, at the end of the bar, but his friend wasn’t willing to defend him in this scenario. He didn’t want any trouble.
“How do you know all that?”
The homeless man stood a little straighter and cleared his throat. “I was a blackguard, years ago. My brother and I fought for the Brethren, so I can tell you about the terrible things I’ve seen . . . and done.”
A few eyes centered on the homeless man with laser focus, anger brooding in them. Here was one of the enemy, right before them.
“I’m not proud of it,” the man said, trying to defend himself from the ire of the drunk patrons. “And when my brother was killed, I fled. I came to Terrus to start anew.”
“And look how well that’s done for you,” the brown-haired man quipped. He immediately regretted his outburst.
The homeless man pushed past two tables and halved the distance between them in a breath. The brown-haired man stood from his stool, realizing he’d put himself in danger.
“Hey, now,” the bartender said, putting down his pristinely cleaned glass. “No roughhousing in here, boys. Let’s keep this civil.” He picked up the glass and a rag, as if they gave him some measure of comfort in this tense situation.
The homeless man clenched his jaw and wavered in place.
“Who was it your brother fought when he perished, mate?” the Irishman asked his new comrade.
“The Vagrant Kinship,” the man said in a low voice. Then he brightened a bit. “I don’t despise them, though. I knew what we were doing, as blackguards. We didn’t know when we signed up, but it became clear to us. Before Leckon died, we both promised we’d get out.”
The Irishman put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Well, you’re here now, mate. You’ve done good.”
The brown-haired man snorted. “And you think the Vagrant Kinship is so much better than the Brethren? They seek to take power so they can have it for themselves!”
The Irishman had had enough. He grabbed the brown-haired man by the collar and sneered into his face. Before he could say anything, his homeless friend stood in. “Tetsuo and the Vagrant Kinship are the only things keeping the people safe in Mythicus! Without them, the Brethren would have completed their rule a long time ago.”
“Tetsuo is dead!” the brown-haired man yelled, trying to extricate himself from the Irishman’s tight grip.
Gasps fluttered through the room like a wave, then everything fell silent. Even the bartender stopped the squeaky cleaning of his glass.
The homeless man stepped forward and slugged the man across the jaw. The brown-haired man would have fallen into the bar, but the Irishman kept a hold of his collar. With wide eyes, the Irishman let him fall to the floor, where he curled into a ball and held his chin.
“Hey!” the bartender cried out. “I said none of that.”
“You lie!” the homeless man shouted, ignoring the bartender. He lowered his stance, ready to kick the brown-haired man on the ground.
The Irishman put his arm out horizontally and held him back. “Don’t let him get under your skin, mate. He’s trying to rile you up. That’s your former training talking. You’re a different man now!”
They could have been friends for years.
A blank look came over the homeless man’s face. He nodded. “You’re right . . .”
“He’s not worth your time,” the Irishman finished, turning away from the man on the ground, who had stopped writhing and lay with his hands covering his face.
“Let me buy you a beer,” the Irishman said.
With a guilty look, the homeless man took a seat beside the Irishman. “That would be all right . . .”
The brown-haired man struggled to his feet, using the stool for balance. All around, the bar had resumed its regularly stationed programming. Patrons turned away to talk among themselves, now that the situation had ended with a single punch.
Before the brown-haired man could say anything more—to apologize, defend himself, or continue arguing—the Irishman put a hand on his shoulder. “Get out of here, boy. And don’t come back until you’ve learned some sense. Got it?”
The brown-haired man seethed.
“Maybe once you’ve learned a thing or two, we can talk again. You know where to find me. Until then, let the grownups talk.”
The brown-haired man clenched his fists at his sides, then thought better of it. He no longer had the attention of the bar. His moment was gone. He turned around and left through the front door, his big friend following in his shadow.
When he was gone, the Irishman chuckled to himself. “That was a good crack you gave the kid,” he said, patting the man on the back.
“He deserved it for what he said about Tetsuo. That is the one man who still gives our kind hope.”
“He sure is . . .” the Irishman muttered, trailing off. He stared off into space, then cleared his throat. After motioning for the bartender to bring two fresh beers, he turned to his new friend. “Say, what’s your name, mate?”
“Shepherd.”
The Irishman stuck his hand out. “Pleasure, Shep. My name’s Aiden. Aiden O’Shaunessy. Now, how ‘bout you tell me more of your time as a blackguard? That sort of thing fascinates me . . .”
OUTSIDE, STEVE MOVED his jaw back and forth. Other than a dull ache, it didn’t seem so bad.
“Let me take a look at it, Steve-o,” Dale said, his hands moving toward Steve’s face.
Steve shooed him away. “Stop it, Fats. It’s fine. It’s not broken.”
Dale chuckled.
“Why didn’t you do anything?” Steve asked testily. But his anger was futile against Dale, who simply grinned.
“What, and get punched myself? No thanks. This was your game Steve-o. Your idea.”
Steve frowned. “I think I’ve lost.”
“Sure, you lost the battle. But the war has yet to begun, if I understand correctly.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m getting an Uber for us,” Dale replied.
“Yeah, you’d better,” Steve said. “Shannon’s probably worried sick about you being gone for so long.”
“Pfft, we’ve been gone an hour!”
“Exactly.”
Dale narrowed his eyes. Then they both smiled and walked away from the bar.
“You’re too whipped, Fats.”
Dale scoffed. “Says the guy willing to go across different planets to find his girl.”
Shaking his head, Steve said, “How many times do I have to tell you? Mythicus isn’t another planet. It’s a different plane.”
“Tomayto tomahto,” Dale said, shrugging. “Sounds to me like you’re just missing a T.” He smiled wider.
Steve sighed. “You’re a hopeless dork, man.”
They got an Uber and left Clairemont and the bar behind. They traveled down Morena Boulevard, practically passing Aiden’s house on the way. They headed toward La Jolla, where Shannon lived.
Crammed in the backseats of the Uber, they spoke as if their driver didn’t exist.
“Do you think it’ll work, what Aiden’s doing?” Dale asked.
Steve shrugged. “I’m not too sure what we’re hoping to achieve. I mean, the note we got was pretty ominous. ‘Alliances at the Low Dive.’ What the hell was I supposed to do with that?”
“Isn’t it obvious, man? Make friends. Someone’s trying to help.”
“Yeah, I get that, but who? And how? How could all those people help us?”
“You mean all eight of them?” Dale asked with a wry smile.
Steve looked out the window. “There were at least fifteen people in there, Fats.”
Dale opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. He’d forgotten what Steve-o had told him about Mythics on Earth. “You mean . . .”
Steve nodded. “Half of them probably weren’t Seared here yet, so you couldn’t see them. It’s strange they all still congregated at the same place . . .”
They both went silent for a moment.
Dale broke the quiet. “That kind of makes the Low Dive a halfway house for Mythical beings, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” Steve said. He put a finger to his chin, massaging his aching jaw once more. Staring at the ceiling, he said, “Maybe that place could be more helpful than I thought.”
He closed his eyes to ponder.
Who would want to show us that place, full of Mythics? Who’s trying to help me? The homeless guy didn’t seem like such a bad guy, but how long has he been removed from Mythicus? He didn’t even know Tetsuo was dead. Shouldn’t everyone know that?
Well, I guess they don’t have newspapers there . . . or TVs . . . or cell-phones. Shit, is dream-leaping the only way to communicate with these people?
“Hey!”
Steve’s eyes shot open. “Huh?” He stared forward. The reflection of the Uber driver’s eyes gazed at him from the rearview mirror.