by Jasmine Walt
“The phantom memories,” Jeremy said, not bothering to raise his voice. “There were moments in my parents’ past that I couldn’t see. You ordered them to forget, didn’t you?”
The earth trembled beneath him, and Jeremy realized his uncle was shaking with dark laughter in the real world. “I knew the moment I saw that note on your desk that there was something about you,” the ground roared.
“So it was you,” Jeremy mumbled. He noticed with impending dread that it was hard to catch his breath, even though, technically speaking, he had no lungs here. His body was steadily failing him in the physical realm, and Jeremy realized that his uncle was attempting to stall him with all the talking. “It’s not important,” he said, stepping forward. “Just tying up loose ends, before the end.”
As he navigated over fallen branches and small streams that ran along the forest’s floor, he saw more and more ghastly tendrils. They became so numerous that, more often than not, entire plants appeared purple by nature.
“It needn’t end like this,” came his uncle’s voice, issuing forth from the streams and damp undergrowth. “I could command you not to die.” The trees swayed where they stood, as if they were rooted on the shoulders of a shrugging giant. “Who knows if it would work, but what is the alternative? You’re dying, Jeremy.”
His hairs raised on end and his stomach did a backflip. It occurred to him that his uncle wasn’t keeping his body alive while all of this happened. Time was now his biggest enemy.
If what his uncle offered was true—was even possible—would it be worth the trade? He would live to fight another day, and he could confront his uncle on more even ground. Perhaps there was even something in his memories that could be used against him.
The beam of light stopped, and it pulsed consistently beneath a single mushroom the size of a beach ball. It was a solid, angry violet, and it was undoubtedly the source of the corruption which had taken over his uncle’s mind.
It was the memory of his power.
Jeremy placed a hand on its crown and was overcome with revulsion. The thing exuded evil. He recoiled and clutched his hand close to his chest.
Is this kind of thing inside of me? The thought horrified him. His own power had come to him suddenly, and without instructions, but Old Ben had told him it could be used for good. If he kept using his power, if he kept absorbing the memories of others…would he be corrupted just as his uncle had been?
Would he become the very monster he was trying to stop?
Suddenly, he didn’t feel too anxious about dying.
Jeremy steeled himself and crouched beside the enormous mushroom. He wrapped his arms tightly around its base, gritting his teeth against the waves of nausea that hit him, and he lifted up with his legs. The mushroom squished in his grip and noxious ooze slid out from its pores, but otherwise it remained firmly rooted.
The wind rose to a deafening howl and the earth shook violently beneath his feet. Uncle Rick was trying with all his might to expel him from his mind. Jeremy knew his body had little strength left.
He tugged harder, and the ground beneath the mushroom broke unevenly. Tendrils as thick as his arm connected like roots to the nearest mushrooms, and Jeremy realized that there was no way to lift it out by sheer force, not the entire system. He started kicking viciously at its stem, and bits of it gave way. He gripped a nearby rock and started using it like a crude axe against the mushroom. More of its base broke away.
Jeremy felt a strange beat inside of him, and he realized it was his own thready pulse. His body was weakening, getting ready to relinquish its hold on the world; he worked all the harder because of it. He had never attempted to remove a memory before, and the possibility had only come into his mind just a few minutes ago. But if it was his last act on earth, he would take his uncle’s power away.
The rock tore through chunks at a time, and finally Jeremy felt that it was weak enough to try again. He braced himself, gripped under the mushroom’s hood, and heaved. More tendrils broke, but not all of them. His body was in its death throes.
Jeremy was out of breath. His mind was fuzzy and his whole body clamored for him to sit down, to rest. He had done enough.
He snarled in defiance and pulled, again and again. More roots snapped each time, and he felt it giving way. The world inside his uncle’s mind roared like an oncoming tide; everything was connected now to the power he was taking.
Memories flashed before his eyes, and it took him a moment to recognize them as his own. His mother, beaming at him as she returned with a bushel of freshly picked food. His father, brooding solemnly by the fireplace while he recovered from the Tower. Ellie—sweet Ellie—running carefree through the garden with her squirrel friends in tow. He wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to her.
The mushroom—and the memory of power that it contained—broke free.
Then he was gone.
If you plan to continue with this series, there’s an epilogue…but I suggest you stop here if you don’t like cliffhangers and don’t plan to continue.
Thanks for reading!
Epilogue
Brennan tightened his somber black tie and flattened the collar of his dress shirt.
His jaw had been set, and scans showed only a hairline fracture in the bone. No surgery required, but his face was still far from a pretty sight. The bruises had started to fade over the past few days, but they were still clearly visible in patches all over his face. At least he could pronounce soft syllables correctly again.
Greg sat on the couch with a bouquet of flowers, an untouched glass of water resting nearby. He was already suited up and ready to go, and the shakes that had accompanied his withdrawal from the patch subsided yesterday. He looked healthier, but he hadn’t said a word all morning, and Brennan knew he was still hurting inside.
They were getting ready in Bishop’s apartment. She had been acting as de facto caretaker for Brennan and Sam after they were cleared from the hospital, though the latter had recovered much more quickly. Sam sat on a bar stool beside the kitchen counter. He was staring into the middle ground, keeping the entire room in view with unfocused eyes and a neutral expression on his face. He was respectfully quiet, knowing what today meant for Brennan and his nephew.
The door to Bishop’s bedroom cracked open, and an orange tabby cat sprinted out into the living room. Brennan raised an eyebrow at the furry intrusion. Bishop was half a step behind it, and she delicately scooped up the cat before it could jump on Greg’s lap. She held it at arm’s length, not wanting to get any fur on her clothes, and she dropped it back inside her bedroom before swiftly closing the door again.
Bishop wore a black dress with a dark jacket over top, and she went without any jewelry. She wore enough makeup to hide her injuries as best as was possible. Her eyes met Brennan’s briefly and she nodded sympathetically.
“Was that…?”
“Nettle’s cat?” Bishop nodded. “I couldn’t leave the poor thing to starve.”
“Careful,” Brennan said, thinking back to the yowling he’d heard earlier in the week. “She might be pregnant.”
“He’s a boy.”
“That significantly lowers the odds, then,” Sam noted.
Brennan gave them both a brief smile before the solemnity of the day brought his mouth back into a frown. He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged it on, smoothing out the wrinkles in front of the mirror. The four of them left in silence.
It was a short drive to the cathedral of St. Agabus, located on the western edge of the city. Nestled within one of the more affluent quarters of Odols, it was the only church Brennan knew of that served mass every day of the week. The stained-glass windows of its sanctuary were aligned with the rising and setting sun, and it was the largest cathedral in the Midwest. It was also where Brennan’s family was buried.
They followed the side path that led around to the back of the cathedral. A field of standing stones rose to greet them, each one a marker for the dead. The memor
ials ranged from unadorned headstones in simple plots to one squat, very ornate mausoleum in the back corner. Some of the graves were adorned with recent tokens of love from visiting family members: pictures, flowers, or trinkets that carried some special meaning.
The ceremony for Madison Warner was simple and straightforward, just as she would have wanted it to be. An older priest presided over the burial, sprinkling holy water on the casket as a thurible swung on its chain from his other hand, wafting incense over the grave. Finally, he petitioned to God that her soul should rest in peace.
No other words were spoken, and no other words were needed.
Greg stepped forward and placed the bouquet on top of the casket, over his mother’s hands. His shoulders trembled, and he couldn’t stop fresh tears from streaking down his face.
Brennan held him close as her body was lowered into the grave.
Goodbye.
The four of them stood around the grave for a while after the priest had departed. Time passed—minutes or hours, it didn’t matter. Sam and Bishop stood in solidarity with them, for which Brennan couldn’t express his gratitude enough. They were better friends than he deserved. When they were finally ready, they left the same way they had come, taking the path around the side of the massive cathedral to the parking lot.
The sky was a clear one that day, and the morning sunlight was shining directly into Brennan’s eyes as they approached, but he could make out a figure standing idly by Bishop’s car. He shielded his eyes with a hand and made out more features; an old-fashioned dark suit, sparse white hair, and small, dark glasses. He was small in stature, barely taller than the car he leaned against.
“Arthur Brennan,” the man rasped. “We need to talk.”
Bishop cast a glance between Brennan and the newcomer. “Brennan, who is this?”
“Benjamin,” he growled.
His response was terse, and Bishop must have recognized the tension that suddenly settled in Brennan’s shoulders. She took a half-step to the side and turned slightly, presenting a slimmer profile. Sam mirrored her movements on Brennan’s other side, his eyes never leaving the strange old man.
Benjamin sighed, a sad sound coming from the frail old man, like the last bit of air fleeing a deflated balloon. “Whatever your feelings toward me may be,” he said, “I am afraid you must put them aside. We have larger issues that must be dealt with.”
Brennan’s hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “Any business we had together ended long ago. You have no right to be here!”
“Ah. The death of your sister is regrettable, and you have my condolences,” Benjamin said lightly. “I only need a moment of your time, to convince you of my—”
“No,” Brennan cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Bishop, start the car.”
Bishop unlocked the car doors with the fob in her hand. Benjamin stepped aside carefully, testing his cane against the ground before shifting his weight. Sam and Greg exchanged a glance before walking toward the car, keeping a wary distance between themselves and the strange man as they piled into the backseat. Brennan made a move toward the passenger side, but he was stopped by the wrinkled hand that shot out and grasped his arm.
“Detective,” the old man croaked. “You have your reasons for disliking me. But trust me in this: death is coming to Odols.”
Brennan shook off the old man’s hand and put the car between them. The vehicle shifted beneath his weight as he sat down. “Bishop, we’re leaving,” he called before resolutely slamming the door. She joined them a moment later, her face a blank mask, and pressed a button to bring the car to life. They pulled out of the parking lot in silence.
Brennan watched her repress a shudder as they put the church in their rearview mirror. He knew all too well what thoughts were crossing through her head, since the same fear had taken hold in his own mind. Doubly so, for his power confirmed the truth of Benjamin’s words.
Death was coming to Odols.
To be continued…
Continue the Brooding City series in book two, Patient Darkness.
http://amzn.to/1S8fPip
About the Author
Tom Shutt writes paranormal suspense with generous helpings of humor and a sprig of mystery thrown in for good measure. Sometimes he dabbles in fantasy, but in all cases, he strives to push the boundaries of modern fiction in search of good answers to hard questions.
He lives on the perpetually rainy East Coast with some cats, dogs, and a basement full of mistresses. His favorite authors are Jim Butcher, George R. R. Martin, Jonathan Stroud, and Eoin Colfer. He knows how to hide a body from the police, and the research for his novels has likely landed him on a few security watch lists. He enjoys reading, gaming (Halo, Civilization, BioShock, Call of Duty, Minecraft), playing pool, chasing deer, hunting deer, riding deer, and lying about what activities he does with deer. His favorite shows include Supernatural, Game of Thrones, iZombie, and anything created by Joss Whedon.
For more information on Tom:
@TomShutt
thomas.shutt.9
www.TomShutt.com
[email protected]
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Death is But a Dream
Book One Of The Elysium Legacies
Erin Hayes
Death is but a Dream (Book 1 of The Elysium Legacies) © 2013, 2016 Erin Hayes
Edited by Felicia A. Sullivan and Lateia Elam Sandifer
Cover art by Damonza
Typography by Whit and Ware Design
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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About the Book
Death is But a Dream
Caught between life and death, all Callie wants is to live again.
Homicide detective Callie Saunders knows that death isn’t all pearly gates and angels. After being hit by a bus, she finds that it's the ancient gods and goddesses of Greek mythology who are in charge of everything.
So when Hades offers her a deal, she accepts. If she wants to be brought back to life, she’ll have to figure out who is trying to kill his son. But if she fails, both her soul and the world will be destroyed.
With the odds mounting against her, it’ll take everything she has within her to wake up from death. But the rules are constantly changing. And someone wants her to stay dead.
Prologue
Barnabus, the dog handler lay dead on the floor. His lover lay crumpled next to him, sobbing hysterically as she grasped his hand. Who could blame her? Her entire world had been shattered by his death. The two of them had been close, two parts of a whole, and seeing her like this was terrible. Heartbreaking.
He watched them and felt a wave of remorse.
He had dealt with life and death every day, saw it on the faces of everyone who crossed through his gates.
Even after thousands of years, it never got any easier.
He stood with his arms crossed, watching her cry over the servant's body. Some of the other servants along with several members of the security force known as the vigils tried to pry her away from the body, but she fought them, managing to stay with her lover just a little bit longer.
A deep, empty pit formed in his stomach.
That could have been his son there. It had been all too close to being his own son. After all, the assassination attempt had been intended for Plutus.
But to what end?
He shuddered at the thought, both relieved and ashamed bec
ause he was glad that it wasn't his son on the floor. But while his relief wasn’t going to help the ones who loved the dead dog handler, there would have been severe consequences had Plutus died.
After all the dog handler had been a mere servant.
The assassination attempt had been well-thought out and well executed. They must have been planning it for a long time to have gotten this close.
They didn't count on the fact that due to previous assassination attempts, the royal family always had the servants test their food. It had been Barnabas' day to take the first bite of food.
“You should've let them kill me,” his son muttered bitterly, running his fingers through his hair. He was shaken. They all were, but he seemed to be taking it worse than anyone else. He had been close to Barnabas. And Plutus had so few friends so it was even more devastating.
“You should've let them kill me, Dad.”
“Plutus...” he said, trying to soothe his son.
“I'm not worth it,” Plutus answered. He gestured toward the weeping form of the woman crying over the body. “Not if it means that.”
The man swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat.
“You are worth it, Plutus,” he whispered. “You are.”
His son shook his head furiously and stormed out of the dining hall. Barnabas' lover didn't even notice him leave, she was so wrapped up in her despair.
“They won't stop,” another voice told him, this one far more authoritative than Plutus' distraught mannerisms. “They won't stop until he's dead, you realize that, right?”