The Echoed Realm

by A. J. Vrana

  Miya could part the curtain on her own.

  Her heart soared with wonder. Like a child at home in her favourite playground, she relished her newfound mastery over the ethereal domain. Miya waved her hand, and the pall lifted on command. Sensing her footsteps, the plump, healthy roots snaked away from the blackened veins hiding amongst them. They recoiled, unravelling from one another to reveal their diseased sibling—a path leading Miya directly to her target: the truth demon.

  A shadow huddled at the end of the winding streak of decay. The impish figure was crouched, its elbows tucked into its sides as it fiddled with something in the sand. Thick, pointy ears that curved like cupped hands bowed with the weight of boundless revelations. Miya heard scraping, like teeth against hardened clay. She resisted squinching and kept her approach steady.

  The creature swivelled its head and peered over its shoulder. Wide, deep-set eyes bore into Miya, plumbing the depths of her soul. Their colour morphed—at first an overcast sky, then a vibrant teal lake, and finally, a still ocean at midnight. They were like planets, dwarfing a tiny nose lying flush against the creature’s bile-coloured face. Two dime-sized nostrils flared in time with Miya’s every step. It had no mouth, and where she expected to see lips, dark, grainy scar tissue weaved from jawbone to jawbone like a gristly braid.

  The demon reached out, and four clawed digits with a joint too many grasped at the putrid root and yanked it from beneath the sand. The cord rose like a shark breaking water, then retracted into the creature.

  It was too late to hide the trail; Miya had already found the source of the pollution.

  “Truth demon.” Her voice sounded muffled like it’d been swallowed by the fog.

  The creature canted its head. The shining globes consuming its face flashed black and blue. “You are back,” he intoned, the declaration one of neither surprise nor expectation. “Have you forgotten the price for my death, Dreamwalker?”

  “My memory’s not that bad.”

  “Anyone who wishes to slay truth must first destroy the truth in themselves,” he cautioned.

  Miya recalled the whispers—the revelation of what she’d have to sacrifice to save Mason.

  “I heard you the first time.” Fear clotted in her throat as the warning came back to her. She tugged her necklace and banished the thought. Mason was here because of her—because of the questions she’d left in her wake. She wouldn’t let him die for a couple of loose ends.

  As Miya advanced, strands of purple and black shadow penetrated the milky haze. They swirled around her, cloaking her body in smoke and feathers. The mercurial vapour glided up her neck and contoured over her skull, then glissaded down her face in the shape of a V. The point of the bone-beak mask curved over her chin, and inky black spiralled with violet, melding into the ivory grooves.

  Your connection to the Dreamwalker will be severed, the whispers invaded her, as that is your greatest truth. You are the Dreamwalker.

  The demon’s curse upon death was simple. It found some essential truth about its slayer and distorted it. Now, Miya had to make a choice: her identity, or Mason’s life. If she followed through, she’d be lost. Would she forget the person she was saving?

  Would she at least remember Kai?

  Raw dread needled her heart. Even if she never saw him again, she couldn’t bear forgetting the wolf under the willow. Her heart pummelled against her ribs, begging to be released from the truth demon’s portent.

  Then, the recently departed call of her predecessor echoed inside her:

  The witch and the wolf will always find each other.

  The assertion tugged on Miya’s lips, pulling them apart until she broke the silence. Her declaration rang out in unison with Kali’s, their voices like thunder piercing the earth. “The witch and the wolf are bound, as the sky and sea are bound by the horizon.”

  Ama was right; Miya could be whatever kind of weapon she wanted. She wasn’t a fragile swallow, and she wouldn’t be at the mercy of the storm any longer.

  She would become the storm.

  Whipping her arms back, Miya catapulted through the fog like a raven slicing through the sky, her feathery cloak billowing behind her. Her hand shot out, nails elongated like talons, and she snatched the creature’s throat. Now inches away, he seemed so unimposing—not unlike a grand claim to truth.

  “The most painful truths are never grand,” he hissed, something viscous warbling in his throat. “It’s the little things that kill.”

  Miya sneered, defiant. He was seeing into her mind, but that no longer frightened her. Lifting him with ease, she spun him around like a ragdoll and thrust him into the silvery sand. He thrashed to break free, but the roots below eagerly ensnared him, pulling him towards the boundary between the dreamscape and the waking world—to the borderland in between.

  Miya’s grip never left his jugular. They plummeted into the alleyway, a thin, murky veil separating them from the physical realm. The red brick wall was muted to a dull copper, and the cracks in the cobblestone wobbled beneath the seam. Ama was statue-still, her eyes trained on Miya’s body some feet away. Next to her, Mason was covered in a thick, shadowy film—the truth demon’s oppression made manifest. From Miya’s side, the doctor’s arms looked bone-thin, his torso emaciated. A yellow, fleshy cord, blotchy with mould, wound tightly around him. She heard his ragged breaths, but he made no attempt to break free. His head hung low, chin to his chest as he struggled for air.

  Driving a knee into the imp’s torso, Miya pinned him to the ground. Her touch was poison; black veins spidered out from where her fingers dug into his sickly flesh.

  The scar tissue on the demon’s face unbraided, and he released a mind-shattering screech from his toothless, blood-tinged mouth. Wincing, Miya turned her face away as an odour like sour meat washed over her.

  Then, Mason’s head jittered up, and his distant eyes caught hers. His lips moved, barely forming words.

  I…need to…tell you…the truth.

  He tugged weakly at his bonds, then toppled over with a wet smack. The cord around him roiled with life, tightening as he tried to drag himself towards Miya.

  “Mason!” She whirled from the stench and grasped the vising tendon with one hand. It squealed in protest, lashing out and striking Miya across her face. Scorching hot welts rose on her skin, but she wouldn’t let go. With a vicious jerk, she ripped a piece of it away.

  Mason’s withering arm—tainted by the truth demon’s mark—came loose from the restraints. He scrabbled for Miya’s hand, his cold fingers closing around her wrist as she held fast to the vampiric tether. The unexpected contact summoned a surge of harrowing visions.

  Miya found herself transported to pine-clad hills. She could smell the rain on the blustering wind and the moss dappling the trees. She’d known it all her life—the smell of Black Hollow.

  A woman floated along the river face down, her body bloated and pale. When she hit the bank, her fingers tensed and dug into the leafy earth. Elbows snapped to grotesque angles, and her face rose from the brown water. Mouth agape, her pupils darted around jaundiced eyes. Her decaying flesh sloughed off, and as she inhaled to force a scream from her lungs, she choked, the cry catching and dying in her mouth.

  Pressure filled Miya’s lungs. She lurched forward and coughed up musty green liquid. The truth demon blurred before her eyes, and she dropped the cord.

  “I understand,” Miya heaved, then squeezed Mason’s hand. “Thank you for showing me this.”

  Rusalka’s dark history would have to wait.

  Miya shook away the visions, and the truth demon came back into focus. She tore the pendant from her neck. Purple wisps percolated from her fist, then coalesced into the silhouette of a weapon. When Miya opened her hand, the fang-shaped dream stone had morphed into a dagger, the blade a wide, curved animal claw. It shimmered like volcanic glass, streaks of gold, amethyst, and emerald splashed along the iridescent edge. The haft was made of bone and carved into a raven, wings flush against its tors
o. With the raven’s head at the butt of the blade, the beak doubled as a slim hawkbill.

  “Is this truly…what you want…?” the imp questioned.

  Miya closed her fingers around the hilt of her dagger and plunged it into the truth demon’s heart. His body juddered and convulsed. Life bled out of him, leaving only a shrivelled carcass.

  “All my life, the truth’s been distorted.” She pushed the bone-beak mask up over her hair and peered into his fading planetoid eyes. “Go on, then. Do your worst.”

  27

  MASON

  Mason awoke with a keening gasp. He shot up from the wall, and, unable to keep himself upright, careened and fell over.

  He tried to fill his lungs with air and barely managed, so he pounded a fist against his chest. He retched, gagged, and when the bile came up, he rolled onto his knees and vomited. Nearby, Ama knelt beside Miya’s still form, not offering so much as a peep of concern for the doctor. He wiped his mouth and spat out the remaining sick.

  Ama rose to her feet, then strode over and shot Mason a strident stare. “Anything else lurking in your gut?”

  Mason yelped and scrambled back, disoriented. He pulled up his sleeve and groped around his arm. Only a faint scar remained in place of the mark—a reminder of his brush with insanity. He thumped back against the wall and sighed.

  A groan drew Ama back. Miya was stirring, her body quaking with feverish chills.

  Ama rushed to her side and placed a hand on her cheek. “She’s burning up.” She lifted Miya’s arms, searching her skin. “No sign the demon’s taken up residence in a new host. This sickness—whatever it is—it’s infected Miya after the creature’s death.”

  Mason stumbled over and dropped to his knees, then gently pulled Miya’s eyelid open. “She’s out cold.” He pressed his fingers to her neck and checked his watch. “Pulse is slightly elevated, but nothing too concerning. Fever is likely the cause.” He turned to Ama. “We should get her to a hosp—” He stopped, realizing the absurdity of what he was about to say.

  “You can’t help her, doctor.” Ama slunk her arms under Miya’s shoulders and knees, picking her up with ease. “I’ll take her to someone who can.”

  “And who’s that?” Mason asked, his urgency mounting.

  “To Gavran.” Ama peered at the dream stone resting against Miya’s collarbone. Only then did Mason notice it was a lustreless grey, and no matter how the light caught the glassy surface, it remained as leaden as quarry rock. Its power was gone.

  “Can I come?” he asked.

  Ama frowned but didn’t protest. “I’m not sure there’s much you can do.”

  He shrugged. “Monitor her physical health? Even if your work is spiritual, I’ve seen how it can take a toll on the body.”

  “Very well.” Ama turned on her heels.

  “Is this my fault?” he asked meekly.

  “Don’t be so piddly,” Ama dismissed him, yet beneath her facile response, he detected a sliver of discomfort. Who was to blame? Was Mason’s insatiable curiosity culpable? He didn’t get the impression that Ama held him accountable—at least not entirely. Did she blame herself, then?

  Mason staggered after her, alarmed by how frail he felt. The world tilted on its axis, and when he tried to correct for the sudden sloping of the walls, everything teetered the other way. He faltered and caught himself on a nearby bicycle stand. Only then did Mason realize his breathing was laboured and his pulse was erratic.

  He was dehydrated and hungry, sapped of strength by the thing that’d attached itself to him. Now that it was gone, his mind no longer suppressed what his body had been trying to tell him: he’d been wasting away.

  “I can’t carry you too,” Ama called from a few paces ahead. “Think you’ll manage?”

  He glanced up, amazed she could parade Miya bridal-style like the girl weighed less than a handbag. Miya had a few inches over the white-haired woman, her limbs dangling like tinsel.

  You did this to her, his conscience chided.

  “Would you like me to carry—” His offer was silenced by Ama’s raised brow and a downward quirk of her pink lips. “Never mind,” he went on. “You must be stronger than me, anyway.”

  “Damn right I am.” She turned to leave when a nearby door swung open and almost socked Miya across the head.

  “What the ever-loving fuck…” It was Crowbar. Her cigarette popped out of her mouth as she held open the back door of The Spade, fisting a sulking bag of garbage.

  “Hello,” said Ama, smiling pleasantly at a perplexed Crowbar.

  The bartender arched a brow as her attention shifted to Miya. “Do you need a hospital or something?”

  “No,” Ama strained after a short pause.

  Crowbar lobbed the garbage bag into the dumpster. Arms akimbo, she leaned back against the brown-painted doorframe. “Look, I get it, healthcare’s a bitch here. I don’t know how many times I skirted going to the doctor because I couldn’t afford it. But you’ll never forgive yourself if something bad happens to someone else, you know?”

  Ama loosed a breathy chuckle. “I promise she doesn’t need a doc—”

  “I’m a doctor,” Mason volunteered, raising his hand sheepishly.

  Crowbar’s face scrunched as she bent over and picked up her stray cigarette. “Well, then what the fuck are you doing? Shouldn’t you be helping?” She bounced down the steps and looked him up and down. “Why are you making a girl half your size carry that Amazonian string-bean, huh?”

  Mason’s jaw dropped as he scrambled for a response. How was he always the bad guy? “I-I offered, but—”

  Crowbar waved him off like he was a nat. “Come inside,” she instructed. “Whatever your girl’s been smoking, she can ride it out behind the bar.”

  “What if you have customers?” Ama hesitated, no doubt wanting to get Miya to Gavran sooner rather than later.

  “We’re closed. Besides,” she looked over her shoulder as she headed back, “you weirdos have some explaining to do.”

  “What are we going to do?” Mason hissed when Crowbar was out of earshot.

  Ama sighed and shook her head. “It’s fine. I’ll have Gavran come to us.”

  “With the bartender around?” he asked incredulously.

  Ama cut him with a glare. “Really? That’s what you’re worried about? Tell me, what did you think when you first saw Gavran?”

  “That he didn’t make any damn sense?”

  “Exactly.” She slid past the door. “No one thinks twice about a kooky old man muttering nonsense and lighting sage. We’ll say he’s a spiritual healer. It’s not even a lie, really.”

  Mason mumbled and followed close behind. “Still feels dishonest.”

  “I know,” said Ama, “but we can only afford partial truths for the time being. She’s already suspicious, and if we blow her off now, she might get herself into trouble digging around the minefield we’ve created.”

  She had a point. Wasn’t that what Mason had done—not just in Black Hollow, but during his search for Miya too? Wasn’t that the reason he’d attracted a parasite? He was weak. Even the Servant knew this; the invader had peeled the scabs off Mason’s festering traumas, then gibed him with his own failings. The Servant was only as strong as the host, and the host was quite feeble.

  But what did it mean to be strong? Mason had always believed that knowledge was power, so he sought it out at any cost. It’d nearly killed him, and it’d possibly done worse to Miya, yet he couldn’t force himself to deny his need for answers. He’d tried to suppress his impulse towards cold, clinical understanding, but it was a lie that only made him vulnerable. How could he teach himself to accept the unknown? If his quest to save Miya had been misguided, how was he to know the right way to help someone in need?

  Perhaps Miya wasn’t in need of Mason Evans at all.

  The painful reversal—that she always wound up saving him—gnawed at his conscience like a rat gnawing through a cage.

  Mason’s gaze trained on the uncons
cious girl in Ama’s arms. She’d taken the fall for him. After losing himself to the Servant, he’d felt her somewhere beyond the endless threads of knowledge puncturing his sanity. For those few minutes of total, mind-shattering comprehension, he was privy to everything. Miya had taken the dream stone and made it whole, only to fracture herself to slay the spectre that’d claimed Mason.

  How could he have been so ignorant? Had Black Hollow taught him nothing? Why did he continue to tug on loose ends regardless of what they’d unravel?

  “All right,” he conceded. “We’ll give her something, I guess. Whatever she needs to make sense of this.”

  Ama nodded, and they entered the dining room to find Crowbar setting up a fort of blankets on the floor behind the bar, the arrangement complete with fluffy pillows.

  “Do you sleep here?” Mason asked.

  “Sometimes,” she answered. “When I don’t want to be home alone. Grief will do weird things to your brain, even when you don’t feel it sawing through your insides.”

  Mason and Ama traded glances. Did the white wolf know about Crowbar’s sister?

  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

  Ama laid Miya down and cleared her throat. “Excuse me a moment.” She squeezed past Crowbar, her eyes warming as their shoulders brushed. Crowbar’s gaze lingered, and Ama offered a reassuring smile. “I need to call someone. They might be able to help.”

  “Help?” Crowbar tossed her thumb Mason’s way. “Isn’t he a doctor?”

  “Her problem is not of the medical variety.”

  “Oh?” Crowbar waited expectantly.

  Ama hesitated. “Think of it as more of a spiritual crisis.”

  Crowbar looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. “I didn’t think you were that sort.”

  “I’m not, it’s just—” Ama tripped over her words. “I’m sorry.”

  For what, Mason wasn’t sure, but she was already retreating towards the rear.

  Crowbar turned to him. “Okay, what’s wrong with your girl here?”