The Echoed Realm

by A. J. Vrana

  “I’m back,” she exhaled, her insides squeezing with dread. She’d returned with more than she’d left with, but in exchange, she’d lost something precious.

  Miya’s eyes drifted to the old man as Ama shuffled over to him on her knees. The white wolf had always been like a thunderstorm—loud, unyielding, unapologetic. Now, she shrank like a wilting flower.

  “He’s gone,” Miya answered her silent question. “I’m sorry.” The truth burned in her throat. “It’s my fault. He did it to save me.”

  Ama bit her lower lip. Her eyes—usually warm like sunlight—now glistened with untold heartache. Despite her best efforts to keep it all in, a single lonely sob slipped out. It was all the permission the dam needed to break. She covered her face and folded with grief. Muffled cries seeped through her fingers, dying in the space between her and Gavran.

  Miya was paralyzed, unsure of how to support the woman who’d always propped her up. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, and Ama shook her head.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, then groped for Gavran’s hand. “He made his own choices.”

  Miya still felt far from blameless. “I brought Rusalka into our lives. I messed up with the truth demon. All of this is because of me.”

  Ama sighed, then smiled shakily. “If it wasn’t Rusalka and the truth demon, it would’ve been something else. It’s my fault as much as anyone’s.”

  “Miya,” Mason interrupted softly, his voice tepid. “I’m sorry too…for whatever role I played in this. I shouldn’t have gone after you.” He ran a hand through his curls. “I should have just let you be.”

  Ama’s face darkened with shame, but she said nothing.

  Crowbar hovered behind Mason as he blocked the door. She peered over his shoulder, her face sheet-white. “Is he…really dead?”

  No one answered her. The ruse was up, and none of them had the energy to conjure excuses—not with their friend splayed behind the bar like a ritual sacrifice.

  Suddenly, Gavran’s body lurched up, then collapsed with a dull thud. Mason and Crowbar yelped, grabbing hold of each other in their fright. Jumping to her feet, Miya swooned as a wave of dizziness overcame her, and she toppled a vodka bottle while fumbling to grab the countertop for support.

  “He just moved! He fucking moved!” Crowbar pointed while gripping Mason’s arm.

  Ama remained frozen on the floor, unblinking as she studied the body. For a long, tense moment, no one stirred, and then it happened again. It started as a ripple beneath his tattered robes—once, then twice. The bulge began to undulate. His ribs swelled, then cracked like his heart was trying to break free. Something was inside him, fighting to get out.

  Crowbar slapped a hand over her mouth. “Jesus Christ. I’m going to be sick.”

  Mason spun and grabbed her shoulders. “It’ll be okay,” his voice cracked. “It’ll be okay.”

  Something sharp like a knife tip ruptured Gavran’s midsection, his corpse convulsing from the gouging force. Everyone but Ama shrieked in response, and as if encouraged by their terror, the curved point pushed further out, then split open to release a gargling croak.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Miya hacked on her own saliva, sliding across the bar to get a better angle.

  Then came the caw, echoing in the hollow cave. Dark feathers, slick with viscera, wrung from Gavran’s carcass. First the head, then a wing.

  It was a goddamn raven.

  He appeared caught on something, thrusting out his neck as he wrenched himself free. His other wing dislodged a rib as it tore through flesh like it was a paper bag.

  Perhaps that’s all the body had ever been—a sack intended to hold something far weightier.

  With both wings out, the raven flapped furiously, kicked his talons loose, and hopped onto the floor. Canting his head, he looked up at Ama and crowed.

  She reached out with trembling hands and cupped the bird as though he were a nesting hen. “Is that really you?”

  The raven purred and ruffled his feathers in response, and Ama broke out into a smile like the sunrise. She laughed and cried, lifting the bird overhead. His wings fluttered as he was raised like a beloved infant, his beady black eyes shining even in the dimness of The Spade.

  Old embers ignite new flames.

  Miya’s heart soared with relief. She let go of the bar and staggered towards her friends. Gavran—the real Gavran—pounced onto Miya’s arm, his wings beating in unfettered mirth as Ama wrapped both arms around Miya’s shoulders and kissed her hair. The raven’s joyous dance left them spattered in blood, droplets of red splashing the walls and shelves that housed the tavern’s bottles.

  Their celebration was interrupted by the sound of retching. Crowbar bent over, arms around her stomach, and vomited up her dinner—the smell of bile, scotch, and gumbo wafting past Miya.

  “Oh, God,” Mason cursed in a nasally voice as he scrunched up his nose and pulled her away from the sick.

  In their jubilance, they’d forgotten they weren’t alone. Crowbar had just witnessed a bird burst from a dead man’s chest, then watched as two women danced beneath the rain of viscera like a pair of devil-worshipping hags.

  Ama rushed to Crowbar’s side after another round of purging. “Forgive me,” she said, her face painted with concern. She shot Mason a pointed look, and he slowly backed away, arms up in mock defense. “Let’s clean you up,” she offered, then led Crowbar to the back.

  “You’ve got some…explaining to do…” Miya heard the bartender cough between ragged breaths as they retreated towards the employees’ bathroom.

  “She’ll be okay,” Mason said as he grabbed a drying towel from the bar and wiped his hands. “If I could come out on the other end, Crowbar will be fine.”

  Miya rolled out her ankles and tested her balance. “Did you, though?”

  “Maybe not completely,” he admitted. “Not sure it’s possible.”

  “I don’t think anyone gets out of that world once they’ve gone in,” said Miya. “And Crowbar—she’s already got one foot in, thanks to Rusalka.”

  Mason’s eyes widened, and he threw the towel into the sink. “My message. You got it, didn’t you? Rusalka—”

  “I know,” Miya sighed. “I saw when you touched me in the in-between. She’s from Black Hollow. Abaddon’s victim.”

  “Miya, I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t,” she stopped him. “There’ve been enough apologies for today. Besides, you fought hard to get me that information.”

  Mason squirmed under the weight of unspoken words. “Can I at least thank you?”

  “For what?” she frowned.

  “For saving my life.”

  Miya blinked, the gratitude somehow jarring. She smiled and patted him on the arm. “Seems like you’re the damsel in distress more than I am.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he grumbled.

  Miya went quiet, her mind churning. Mason was hardly the first to be swept up in the Dreamwalker’s chaotic path. Rusalka, Elle, Cassia—they were three of countless women who’d perished because of Kali’s battle with Velizar. She had to do right by them, but first…

  “I need a favour,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “And it’s something only you can do.”

  The colour drained from Mason’s face. “Okay. What is it?”

  “You came here to find me, yeah? Go back to my parents. Tell them the truth.”

  Mason’s mouth popped open. “Miya—they’ll never believe the truth!”

  “No,” she shook her head, “I don’t mean the literal hey-your-daughter-is-the-modern-incarnation-of-an-ancient-god-spirit-thing truth. I mean a truth. Something that’s true for me but feels honest for you too. Something that’ll end their search once and for all.”

  “Don’t you want to see them? Don’t you want them to know the real you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Miya. “I want it more than anything. But that’s just the little
kid in me, yearning for her parents’ approval. I’m not a kid anymore. If they didn’t get my struggles as a depressed student, they’re not going to accept this. They never met me where I was, only where they thought I should be. I need to let them go as much as they need to let me go. And I need you to be the one to help me with that.”

  “But why me?” Turmoil weltered all over his face.

  “Call it my way of establishing boundaries,” she replied. “I don’t have the tools to speak to them the way I need to. Not yet. But you…you’re good at this stuff.”

  “No, I’m not,” his voice wobbled.

  “You are,” she insisted. “Besides, you’ve got something to gain from this too.”

  He sighed, sounding exasperated. “And what’s that?”

  “A backbone.”

  The shock in Mason’s expression blanketed any offense he might have felt.

  “Your drive for the truth has caused both of us nothing but pain,” Miya went on. “You endanger the people you try to help because you want to be the hero, and I know you feel guilty for that. Isn’t that why you came looking for me? To make up for what happened three years ago?”

  His gaze sank to the floor. “I thought I’d conquered that impulse after Amanda. I guess old habits die hard.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Miya snorted. “Just look at Abaddon, or Kai, or me. We’ve been repeating our patterns way longer than you.”

  He smiled at that, and Miya couldn’t help but return the gesture.

  “Listen,” she began. “The point is, you need to stop feeling guilty for your mistakes. Guilt’s only led you to do more of the exact same thing. If the truth demon should have taught you anything, it’s that you don’t need all the answers. But what you do need is to confront your shit for real. Why are you so afraid of telling my parents the truth?”

  “Because I don’t want to be seen as a failure.” Mason swallowed. “I don’t want to feel ashamed for failing them too.”

  “Which is why you’re the perfect person to confront them when I can’t.” She stepped up to him, searching his face. “Stand your ground. Conquer your guilt and tell them they need to let me go until I’m ready to face them on my terms.”

  “But aren’t you just avoiding them like I am?” he challenged.

  “Yeah,” Miya nodded, “I am. Only I’m making that decision with my eyes wide open. I’m doing it because I’m too tired and heartbroken to watch them lose me a second time—because I don’t want to endure losing them a second time. What’s your excuse?”

  His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Pride.”

  Miya gave him a light shake. “Do the right thing, Mason. Not for your ego or for praise, but just because it’s the right thing to do.”

  He ground his teeth, mulling over her words until finally, he conceded. “All right, I’ll do this for you. Besides,” he smiled weakly, “I don’t want to be anywhere near this place when impossible things start getting too real.”

  “Wise man,” she joked, then caught his sleeve as he pushed past her. “And hey—thank you. Really. I owe you one, friend.”

  She saw the elation in his eyes when she called him friend. “You got it—” he hesitated, then let out the breath he’d been holding. “Dreamwalker.”

  48

  After Mason left, Miya retreated to the back of The Spade. She heard the faucet in the employee bathroom squeak on and halted at the door, kept ajar by a stopper. Ama was steadying Crowbar, then ducked out to let the bartender brace herself against the sink. Crowbar splashed water on her face and scrubbed the blood splotching her arm tattoos. Scouring the vanity, she located a half-empty bottle of mouthwash and rinsed out whatever sour taste remained.

  “What the hell was that?” Crowbar asked when the water shut off. She clutched either side of the porcelain bowl, staring at Ama’s reflection in the mirror.

  “I’m not sure,” said Ama, and Miya knew it wasn’t a lie.

  The bartender whirled on her. “Then what is he?”

  “A living spirit,” said Miya, inching a little closer.

  “What does that mean?” Crowbar pressed, looking between the two women.

  Ama took a deep breath. “It means you shouldn’t worry about it. It’s not something you want to be wrapped up in.”

  Crowbar balked at her. “When you brought that kid into my bar, I thought she was on drugs!” She pointed at Miya. “Drugs don’t explain a bird exploding from a dead guy like a freakin’ chestburster! And I repeat—in my bar!” She closed in on Ama, their noses nearly brushing. “You don’t want me wrapped up in this, but you brought it to my door!”

  Miya felt the strength sap from her bones. They did bring this to her door; they owed her more than vague warnings. She could tell Ama felt the same way, the white wolf’s expression pained as she was confronted with another person’s distress and confusion. Perhaps she was finally beginning to understand what she and Gavran had put Mason through, and Miya too felt herself question if her own omissions about Crowbar’s sister had done more harm than good.

  “It’s complicated,” Ama whispered, running her hands up Crowbar’s arms before giving her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “And frankly, I don’t have the energy or the words to explain it all, but I’ll tell you this: The stories about the things that go bump in the night—they’re all true. And we are one of them.”

  Crowbar swallowed and took a step back, her forehead knotting with unease as her eyes darted between Ama and Miya. “We?”

  As though tethered to her by an invisible cord, Ama glided forward. “The raven you saw, Miya, Kai, and me.” Crowbar gasped as her backside hit the sink. Ama closed in, amber eyes glowing in the mirror behind her. “We’re the monsters from your darkest fables.”

  “Why are you here?” Crowbar asked.

  “Hunting,” Miya answered when Ama averted her gaze.

  Crowbar squeezed past to the doorway. “Hunting what?”

  Ama snatched her hand and pulled her back. “It’s about your sister.”

  Crowbar froze. Miya knew she’d been suspicious of the police’s lazy insistence that Vincent had suffered a psychotic break. Mental illness was rarely behind domestic violence; something had been missing. Now, that twisted puzzle finally had a jagged little piece that fit.

  “Oh my God,” Crowbar choked on a sob and pulled her hand back, then turned the corner towards the kitchen.

  Miya caught the look of devastation on Ama’s face. “Go after her,” she encouraged, and Ama followed, catching the door as Crowbar slammed through.

  “It was something supernatural, wasn’t it?” Miya heard Crowbar ask.

  She padded up to the kitchen doors and opened them a crack. Crowbar didn’t need both of them, and the last thing Miya wanted was for the bartender to feel ganged up on. Besides, Miya had never seen Ama so vulnerable with another person before; she deserved the chance to work this out on her own.

  Miya saw Ama nod in response like she was unable to speak the dreaded word: yes.

  Crowbar stormed up to her. “Do you know what it was? How it…m-made Vincent…”

  “A malicious spirit,” Ama said quietly.

  “Like, a vengeful ghost?” Her head was shaking as though her mind rejected the possibility without her say-so.

  “Yes. In life, she was the victim of a tragedy. One Miya found herself a part of three years ago.”

  Miya’s heart squeezed. This was all because of her—because of her legacy.

  “And now she’s just…hurting random people?” Crowbar sounded incredulous, her grief blurring into rage.

  The white wolf sighed. “Yes. She’s gone after Kai now, which is why you haven’t seen him with Miya lately.”

  “He’s staying away from her.” Crowbar drew a ragged breath. “Vince did the same thing. Just started disappearing. Everyone thought he was cheating, but he was spending his nights away from home because he didn’t want to hurt Syd.”

  “Dahlia—I’m so sorry.” Ama finally unglued h
er feet from the floor. Her arms snaked around the bartender and pulled her into a tight embrace. Miya knew she should’ve walked away then, but the tender scene held her in place. It inspired hope that maybe there would be something redeemable on the other side of this damn crucible. Crowbar had lost so much, and what Ama had gone through earlier that day was unimaginable. First, Miya had descended into a black hole, her memories and identity obliterated. Then, Gavran went after her with no promise of returning and no guarantee of success. Just as Ama had crumbled from the loss, so too did Crowbar upon realizing that her sister’s death had resulted from machinations far outside her understanding. The floodgates collapsed as she wept into Ama’s shoulder, her body shaking with anguish.

  “H-how do you all know this?”

  “It was a team effort,” Ama mumbled into her rose-coloured hair. “Miya and Kai get most of the credit, I’m afraid. I’m sure you can understand why they struggled to tell you.”

  “I’ll forgive them…eventually,” she whimpered.

  Miya swallowed the lump in her throat, a jumbled assortment of elation and embarrassment flooding her cheeks in a heated wave.

  “I think they’d appreciate that. You seem to have developed a bond, albeit a young one.” Ama smiled as Crowbar untangled herself. “You didn’t tell me your preferred name was Crowbar.”

  She shrugged. “For friends, yeah. But I like to give pretty ladies my real name.”

  “Oh?” Ama’s brow arched as her lips curled into something sly.

  “Come on,” Crowbar chuckled. “You know you’re hot.”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that,” Ama joked. “I prefer not to make assumptions that might come back to bite me later.”

  Crowbar laughed, the sound strained before it lightened to an easy chime. “Well,” she slid her arms around Ama’s neck and swayed forward, “the beholder is impressed.” Her rueful smile crumbled then, and her fingers curled into the fabric of Ama’s shirt, ensnaring her. “It feels wrong to laugh, but I’m tired of feeling like shit all the time. I’m sick of losing people.”

  “I know,” Ama murmured. “Me too.”