I need to figure out my options, quickly. I sense its presence closing in, dropping the tunnel’s temperature from cool and damp to downright frigid, the glacial air settling around the passageway. My breath comes out in a cloud in front of me. My heart rate increases as I stifle the gag reflex being challenged by the rancid smell of sulfur and sour milk.
“Eeeve,” it hisses, mocking me. Sensing my deepest fears, it begins to play with me by using those emotions against me. “Oh God,” I exhale, as I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to ease the dread rising in my throat.
Panicked, I start talking to myself. “Think, Eve.” I turn around, allowing my eyes to scan over the dark enclosed area. All I can see in front of me is black. Blowing out a harsh breath, I begin to pray for a miracle as I wait for it to manifest.
“Nope, nothing,” I say dejectedly to no one.
I twist back to the wall. In a frantic state, I push and pound on the large, dark gray stones, trying anything. I’m desperate, and there’s an off-chance that located somewhere is a hidden opening that could grant me freedom.
Then I hear it. The thing I fear most. I spin and freeze, fixed in my spot at the hissing sound of slithering snakes. Oh shit, now I’m really afraid. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as a severe chill runs down the length of my spine. My lips force air out sharply in a frenzied state, causing strands of fallen hair to jump away from my face with each irregular breath.
Without warning, the tunnel goes silent. The only sound ricocheting off the wet stones is my strained breath being forced into the dark abyss. I remind myself to inhale before I suffer from a full-blown panic attack. With great slowness, I rotate to face my attacker.
No one is there.
As I swallow hard, my eyes shift down to the floor and take in the dark tendrils of smoke that crawl around my ankles, rooting me to the ground. What the hell? My eyes dart around wildly, searching for the point of origin of the wisp, but there isn’t one.
With my back pressed flat against the cold concrete wall and the dampness seeping into my shirt, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this is how I’m going to die. I close my eyes in acceptance and attempt to steady my breathing, listening to the droplets of water hitting the ground.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I try to convince myself it will be okay as the dark cloud works its way up my body, wrapping forcefully around my neck and cutting off the oxygen supply sustaining me.
Black spots form behind my closed eyelids as I become light-headed and dizzy. The lack of oxygen begins to take hold of my body, and I start to lose consciousness. Crap.
“Dimittet eam, Nero,” I hear a strong male voice order, in a calm yet deadly tone.
I can’t see my savior. Everything is shrouded in darkness. Maybe he isn’t even here, and I’m hallucinating in my final moments of life.
The black mist loosens its choke hold on my neck while hissing angrily. “Deus tuus, ibi est filia eius.”
A putrid gust of air blankets my face with each seething mock. Changing its mind, the evil smoke cackles, wrapping around my throat again and gripping firmly, causing me to wheeze. What the fuck?
“Dixit mittam tibi pergat ad profundum inferni, sive,” my liberator says heatedly in Latin.
Nero releases me, then turns to my rescuer, morphing into the outline of a man. At the discharge of its hold, my body slides down the slick wall, landing harshly on the glacial, water-soaked stone floor. I begin coughing and gasping for air as I place my head between my legs, willing air into my lungs.
“Et subdit quod me putesssss?” Nero hisses.
“Yes, you repulsive excuse of an existence, I do think I can send you back to the depths of Hell,” my protector replies calmly, yet cockily.
“Et veniunt ad me ut, gurgulio,” Nero states, in a final slithery tone. At that command, my savior pulls out a long, black, granite sword that reflects the water cascading down the passage walls.
“Delectabiliter,” the dark knight replies coldly, before he attacks.
Even wrapped in blackness, I can sense he’s a trained warrior. His body moves with ease and agility as he engages Nero. I hear each whoosh the sword makes as it slices effortlessly through the air, making contact with each thrust.
I can’t make out any of the warrior’s facial features, but I know he’s large and moves fast and efficiently. I close my eyes for a brief second, only to throw them open in alarm at the high-pitched shriek coming from the thing called Nero, as it bursts into blue flames and vanishes.
That’s when I officially lose control over my emotions and begin to shake uncontrollably, with tears flowing down my pale cheeks. The blackness engulfs me, choking me. I shut my eyes, wishing that everything would just stop, and that I was anywhere else.
All of a sudden, I feel warmth and calm flow through my veins, as my guardian kneels down next to me and pulls me into his safe embrace with gentleness. He strokes my hair, trying to pacify me as I cling to him for life.
The masculine scent of smoky wood and leather fills my nose, as his deep voice whispers in my ear.
“Hush. It’s all right. You’re safe. No harm will come to you. I’ve got you.” His tone is slow and soft, as if speaking to a wounded animal, lulling me into a state of calmness.
With great tenderness, his large, warm hands cup my cheeks and lift my face to meet his, wiping the tears away with his thumbs—a pointless effort, since the flow increases with the kind gesture.
My gaze lifts and connects with a pair of glowing indigo eyes. They’re staring at me with such intensity and affection that his look creates an ache deep within my chest, as my body draws itself to his of its own accord, like it knows him.
The voice belonging to those eyes speaks with a firm vow. “I will protect you . . . always.”
Gasping for air, I abruptly sit up in bed and swallow down a scream. My fists clutch my blanket in a severe death grip, as pieces of my light brown hair fall from my ponytail and stick to the sweat on my face and neck.
I drop my head into my waiting hands and realize my cheeks are wet, most likely from the tears that escaped my hazel eyes during my nightmare.
The dampness causes my long, dark lashes to stick to one another while I rub them. The lids open, then close again, and I order myself to take even breaths to calm my erratic heartbeat. As I slowly open them for the final time, my heart rate picks up once more, at the realization of what’s coming next.
I turn to my left and steel myself.
“What. The. Hell. Eve!” Aria, my roommate and self-appointed best friend, screeches, and I wince from the high-pitched octave. Crap. I woke her up, again.
She’s sitting on her bed, looking like a pissed-off fairy. Her normally cute pink, pixie-cut hair is suffering a major case of bed head, sticking up in all directions.
“Are you okay?” Aria asks, with an irritated yet concern-laced voice, and her petite hands on her curvy hips. She’s staring at me, waiting for an explanation as I open and close my mouth like a gaping fish, trying to form intelligent words.
“Sorry, I um, bad dream,” I mutter inarticulately.
“No shit,” she says, with sarcasm dripping from her lips. “Same one?” The question is thrown out along with some serious stink eye radiating from her round chocolate orbs.
Arianna “Aria” Donovan dislikes being woken up in the middle of the night. I know this because we’ve been college roommates for all of one month now. Which means I’ve woken her up more times than I care to count.
We met over the summer during freshman orientation, and according to Aria, it was “friendship at first sight.” As new students, we were placed into groups of ten and forced to play this ridiculous get-to-know-you game where each person had a photo of a particular cartoon character taped to their back. The goal was to ask the group questions in an attempt to gain enough information to guess who your character was, so you could partner up with your match for the rest of orientation.
&
nbsp; Aria was Bert and I was Ernie. We’ve been inseparable ever since, even requesting to room together this semester. Well, in truth, Aria demanded we room together, and since I’m pretty easygoing, I didn’t put up a fight, figuring it would be nice to know someone.
At the moment, I’m thinking she’s second-guessing her choice in roommates.
She sighs and prowls to the minifridge, grabbing a bottle of water and shoving it in my hand before turning on the crystal-embellished lamp on the pink thrift-store-revived table between our beds.
Our dorm room is a decent size. We got lucky in the housing lottery and managed to snag a suite. Unfortunately, that means we share it with two other roommates.
The space consists of two shared bedrooms, a common lounge area, and an attached bathroom. Overall, it’s your typical college dorm room, amped up with Aria’s thrift store finds reincarnated into amazing pieces of art, because she is an eternal optimist and believes everything can be redeemed.
Her décor style matches her schizophrenic personality to perfection—Barbie meets Marilyn Manson. She’s the only person I know who can pull off pink combat boots, black nail polish, and dark black smoky eyeliner with a pink sundress, and have it look adorably sexy.
I like her one-of-a-kind style. It offsets my average, girl-next-door fashion sense, which usually consists of skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a cotton long-sleeved shirt. I suppose it’s what originally drew me to her—opposites attract. I also presume that’s what makes our friendship fun.
The cousins, our other two suitemates, are a different story. Speaking of which, I need to take cover as the door to our room crashes open in dramatic fashion and both Abby and McKenna enter the room like a Victoria’s Secret pajama commercial.
Abby, the younger of the two cousins by only a few months, smiles with her delicate arms folded, allowing her long red hair to cascade over her refined shoulders.
“You okay, Eve?” she asks with concern.
Even at three in the morning, Abigail “Abby” Connor is ethereal looking. She’s wearing her black flannel pajama bottoms and a cute green T-shirt that says, Kiss Me, I’m Irish. The green brings out the flecks of shimmer in her crystal-blue eyes.
I force a casual shrug. “Yeah. Just another bad dream. Sorry to wake you guys up again.”
She responds with a warm smile.
On the other hand, McKenna just grunts. I’ve deduced it’s simply because she hates talking to people.
Now that I think about it, McKenna “Kenna” McIntyre just dislikes people in general. She’s always ranting about the “human race” being inferior. Inferior to whom, she’s never clarified. Most of the time, her off-handed comments go in one ear and out the other, because they’re so frequent.
I exhale and take a sip of water, the cool liquid hydrating my dry throat.
McKenna narrows her sapphire eyes, outlined with lush black lashes, at me. “Seriously, Eve. I’m tired of waking up to your fucking screaming every night,” she comments in a harsh tone.
I grimace. “Was I screaming? Sorry, I had no idea,” I offer. Of course I was screaming. I was being choked to death, for God’s sake. The shrieking might also be why my throat feels like sandpaper, making it painful to swallow or talk.
Turning like a graceful but angry swan, McKenna heads toward the doorway, stopping just before making her dramatic exit. “You look like shit, by the way,” she snarls, and flicks her long, platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder to enhance her point. With that, she storms out, fuzzy slippers and all.
Most of the student body on campus is terrified of McKenna. It would be wishful thinking to assume they’re put off by her “sass” and “straight shooting” attitude.
I think she just gets off on intimidating people. She also has no filter, a vocabulary rivaling any truck driver, and can make even the strongest person fold into her- or himself with her malevolent stare.
Needless to say, the jury is still out on our friendship. It’s only been four weeks. Abby, on the other hand, is extremely likable, and is becoming a good friend.
“Sorry,” I mutter, for the fourth time this week.
The nightmares began on my eighteenth birthday. Each time, I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, crying and screaming from being terrified and tortured in the outlandish dream. It’s been rough, to say the least.
Lying back on my pillow, I put my arm over my eyes, willing my body to calm itself down, as the adrenaline still pumps wildly through my veins. I try using the breathing techniques I’ve learned through years of studying yoga. It’s not working.
Abby fidgets with unease. “Kenna doesn’t mean to be bitchy. She’s just tired,” she excuses the poor behavior, a maternal habit of hers.
With poise, she sits on my bed, removing my arm from my hidden face. “Do you want to talk about it?” She offers a small smile. “It might help make it less scary and real if you say it out loud.” Abby pauses before continuing. “You’d be surprised at my level of understanding when it comes to fear-provoking things,” she says at almost an inaudible level.
“No. Thanks, Abby. I’m good. Just a bad dream,” I say as persuasively as I can, for both our sakes, because if she knew what lurked in the darkness of the dreams, she’d have me committed.
Abby studies my face for a moment, searching for a hint of deceit. When she’s convinced I’m all right, she stands to go back to her own room. “Okay, but if you change your mind, come and get me. I’m happy to listen, Eve. Night, girls,” she utters in a sweet voice before leaving.
McKenna and Abby are both tall and built like dancers. While Abby exudes grace and regality, McKenna radiates fierce warrior princess. When they’re together, it’s intimidating.
Aria just stands there, staring at me, taking this all in while wearing her favorite pink T-shirt and matching boy shorts. All five feet of her looks both adorable and annoyed.
“Fine,” she huffs, and relinquishes the idea that I want to elaborate on my nightmare-induced state. She crawls back into bed, pulls up her ruffled pink blanket, and turns off the light.
We sit in silence, the moonlight shining through the window, bathing the room in a blue glow and twisting the shadows on the walls. I turn my eyes upwards to the ceiling, focusing on it with immense concentration, wishing the terrifying dreams would stop so I could have a normal night’s sleep.
After a few moments, Aria rolls over to face me as the night’s silver light bounces off her features, masked in sympathetic concern. She goes to speak, but I cut her off.
“Please don’t, Aria. I just don’t have it in me tonight,” I whisper, pleading for her to back off.
“Okay, but at some point we need to figure this out, Eve. I’m worried about you.” She sighs, turns over, and goes to sleep.
I’m left to contemplate my dreams and their meaning while, once again, staring into the abyss of darkness.
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Vernal
The Royal Protector Academy Series
My eyelids slide closed as the tiny drops of water cascade from the darkened sky. The warm beads hit my face, trickling effortlessly across my cool skin. The sensation of being alive wraps around me, as my spirit connects to the energy the weather bestows. Strength bleeds into my body, penetrating each layer until the energy drifts throughout my veins.
I ignore the dull ache making its way into my neck, a result of tilting of my face skyward. Instead, I lift my arms and, without thought, twirl and embrace each tiny droplet of water as the rain soaks the crenulated coastline around me in a fierce assault.
The elements heighten my supernatural powers, causing my core to hum with vitality. My lips form a small smile as I pirouette my way through the mist-shrouded, endless emerald hills. Each rise is crisscrossed by tumbledown ancient stone walls. My laughter floats in the wind. It’s the only other sound encircling me, aside from the rainfall.
I loved doing this as a child. Spinning so fast I’d become dizzy and disoriented, until the earth
around my feet would simply slip away, and breathlessly I would collapse onto the blades of grass. I miss the carefree days of my youth. There’s something freeing—liberating—about standing in an open field, with your arms extended, allowing the rain to wash away your inhibitions. Not that I have many hang-ups, but the ones I do—they wrap around my heart like chains, squeezing until the simple act of breathing becomes almost impossible.
Another childish laugh escapes me as my body tumbles and collapses onto the soaked ground. I stretch my lean limbs and sink into the sponge-like soil, becoming one with the aged earth below my undressed body. My wet, auburn hair falls messily around my face and some of the long pieces stick to my dampened skin.
I don’t care.
For the first time in days, I feel alive again.
Lying on the ground, I simply stare at the dark sky above, as the world spins around me. For a fleeting minute, the dizziness offers a brief reprieve from the musings that constantly cloud my head.
My free-spirited revel ends abruptly at the sound of a throat being cleared. I release a half moan, half sigh, knowing my moment of serenity has come to an end.
Rather than sitting up to face Rulf, the royal guard assigned to protect me, I pout like a child. My unhappiness overtakes the bliss I was feeling seconds ago.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Rulf’s company. It’s just that his presence reminds me of my royal bloodline, my duties, and my obligations.
Knowing the gargoyle’s temperament, he’s probably standing with his arms crossed, aggravated by my lack of acknowledgment while he continues to get wet.
“Go away, Rulf.”
“You’re naked.”
The statement comes from an unfamiliar, seductive, masculine voice, filled with an inherent confidence.
Definitely. Not. Rulf.
Unaware of who this stranger is, I remain still and strategize a plan of attack, should I need one. Though I’m without my weapons, I’m not concerned. Years of training with the best protectors have made me a skilled opponent. If all else fails, I always have my supernatural powers to help me kick this guy’s ass.
IF | A Novel Page 20