Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One)

by Lysa Daley

  “And what’s this Stargate thing?”

  “It’s a portal, like a wormhole, that will take you directly back to the Pleiades and the Council of Light.”

  I think back to 10th-grade physics class. “Like Einstein and relativity?”

  “Einstein had it partially correct.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I can see he’s trying to figure out how to explain it. “The Stargate is like an intergalactic shortcut. Let’s say you took a piece of paper and put a dot on the top of the page to represent Earth, and then put a second dot on the bottom of the paper that represents the Pleiadian Council of Light.”

  “Okay,” I say, following along so far.

  “Then you fold the paper to make the two dots touch each other, that’s a Stargate.”

  “Whoa. Is that how everyone travels from planet to planet?”

  He laughs. “If only! No, Stargates are exceptionally rare. Only available for the super VIPs, you could say.”

  I nod dumbly. Am I really some sort of a super VIP?

  "Tell you what." Jax claps his hands, breaking the serious mood. "You start looking down here for the sword. I'll scope out the rest of the house."

  "Okay, I'll check my uncle’s office," I say, watching him walk up the dimly lit stairs that lead to my uncle's bedroom.

  Our home office is more of a converted closet than an actual official workspace. Even though he was the size of your average grizzly bear, my uncle put a small table, chair and narrow set of shelves in here. The tiny room is immaculate. Everything in its place and all that.

  The only unusual thing I spot is my uncle's journal, a pocket-sized old battered spiral notebook, again sitting out on the desktop.

  That's weird. He usually keeps it locked up tight. It's been left out twice in two days.

  Opening the cover, I see Uncle's handwriting, and I feel a little guilty invading his privacy. I can't help but wonder if he knew all of this might happen, so he left it here for me to find.

  The first entry is from over ten years ago when I first came to live with him. It read only -- Earth date, June 2, 2005. Found suitable housing. The child is healthy and safe.

  Wow. How heartfelt.

  Flipping through the pages, it looks like he made an entry about once a month - every 28 to 30 days. It takes me a few entries to realize that he recorded each entry on the day of the full moon. I flip back to read the second entry.

  Host planet date: July 5, 2006. As we are something of immigrants to this new world, I will use their calendar to keep a record of my notes and observations.

  The child continues to be healthy but has refused to speak now as well as on our entire journey. She remains in a state of shock from the events that have recently transpired. Who can blame her? One so young should not witness what she has seen. It does not appear that we were followed.

  So far no one has approached or attacked us. I await contact with our guide.

  The next entry came two days later.

  The guide met us at the arranged location in a place called Montana. It is a flat, open area where it is easy to keep watch. The guide is quite skilled in the ways of this civilization.

  Although the child still refuses to speak, the guide brought her some human toys and clothes that belonged to his daughters. She has shown no interest in any of them except for a flaxen-haired doll in an elaborate gown. The doll bears quite a resemblance to the child's mother so perhaps it brings her comfort.

  Guide? I try to think back to who this could be, but I draw a blank.

  But I do remember the flaxen-haired doll. Who can forget Barbie? I loved my Barbie dolls when I was little. I distinctly remember being 5 or 6-years old and playing with them on my bed with the green and purple flowered quilt.

  But it's weird he said the doll looks like my mother. From all the memories in my head, my mother had black hair. Now, I wonder if it was all a lie? Can I trust those memories?

  I keep paging through the journal, scanning his entries. It reads more like a technical report than a personal diary.

  He kept track of the specifics of everyday life. When we got an apartment. When he started to work. Some lady who kept bringing over casseroles. When he learned to "operate their land vehicles" which I assume means when he learned to drive a car.

  It wasn't until almost eight months later that this entry appears.

  She has begun to speak again. I was giving the child her morning feeding when she turned to me and asked where her mother was.

  That's it? No other notations? How had he answered that poor little girl? How had he explained the absence of her mother? It made my heart ache for the younger version of me. She must have felt so alone.

  There isn't another entry for several more months.

  We have relocated to a place called Maine after noting that a Grail scouting craft in the form of a meteorite was spotted within 300 miles of us by our guide. We have no reason to believe that the child has been compromised. Nevertheless, protocol dictates that we immediately re-establish our basecamp as soon as possible.

  The next entry comes two months later.

  The child has learned to speak the regional language and has been enrolled in the local educational program where she is thriving.

  I guess that means school.

  My first grade teacher was a lovely lady named Mrs. Calabrese who smelled like gardenias and played the piano in the classroom. I liked her.

  She has begun to forget our language. I would like to continue to speak it to her, but I fear it might compromise her in the future.

  We have learned that two of the other sisters of light have been found and killed. The whereabouts of a third and her guardian is unknown.

  The Crimson Lord will stop at nothing to destroy all seven. In some ways, my guardianship is harder than anticipated.

  For a moment, I got lost in the pages of the journal, lost in the past. I’m startled to hear Jax coming down the stairs.

  His face appears in the doorway. "What'd you find?"

  "Nothing," I say, holding it up. "Just this old journal."

  "Let focus on more important things than your diary, please."

  “It’s not my…” I begin then stop. "The sword's not in here."

  “That’s because I think I found it!” I turn to see him holding an old, ornately forge medieval sword that hangs above my uncle's bedroom door. It looks like something a Viking king may have owned. "Check this bad boy out."

  "That's not it."

  "What? Are you sure? The gemstones in the handle are amazing." Jax examines the forged metal and the carved handle.

  "I think one of the parents at the karate studio gave him that for Christmas last year. It's just a replica."

  "Are you sure you’re sure?"

  “Yeah.” I nod my head. “Besides, he hated it.”

  "Just try it."

  “Fine.” I take it in my hands and hold it in front of me. It doesn't resemble, in any way, the sword in my mind. "It feels dead."

  Jax looks frustrated. "There's nothing else in this house. Except a bunch of cheap, beat-up wooden bow staffs in the front closet.

  "That's it!" I say, moving through the house to the coat closet by the front door.

  Tom lies in front of the closed closet door, and I have to shoo him out of the way.

  Shoved in the back corner, behind the winter coats we never wear in California, sits a tacky brass umbrella stand that came with the house. I pull out a tattered bow staff.

  I brought this old staff home a few weeks ago when I promised to practice more. I never did. I must have slipped it into the stand hoping Uncle wouldn't see it, and never picked it up again.

  It feels light and brittle in my hand like it would break if you cracked it over your knee.

  "That cheap thing?" Jax frowns. "That can't be it."

  “He said it would be cloaked.” There's something about the way my hands slide comfortably into the worn grooves in the wooden handle. There's a slight vibration coming from the staff. "
This feels different. It feels good."

  "Okay. Hold it in fighting stance," Jax suggests. "Like you're about to attack."

  Even though I feel a little silly, I do it. I look down at the hilt and see the faintest outline of a fading seven-sided star. It's almost identical to the star scar I have on my shoulder.

  "This is it," I say with certainty in my voice.

  "I'm pretty sure it's not." Jax shakes his head, ready to walk away.

  But as soon as I wield the staff around my head, I feel a vibration of energy surge through my hands into the wood as the bow staff transforms into a gleaming sword made of a rose-tinted metal. “Jax!”

  “Whoa…” He’s silent, staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed. "Astrid… you truly must be one of the Seven Sisters of Light."

  A pounding coming from the back of the house makes both of us jump.

  Jax and I exchange looks.

  “Stay here,” he says, then he pokes his head around the corner.

  “Who is it?”

  "There's some old guy in your backyard.”

  Chapter 15

  "Old guy?" I mentally run through the possibilities of who could be at the back sliding glass door at this late hour.

  "He's short with gray hair." After a beat, he adds, "Looks kind of grumpy."

  "Is he wearing overalls?" I ask as I poke my head back into the office and slip my uncle's small journal into my back pocket. "Cause I think that might be our landlord, Mr. Johnson."

  "Why is your landlord at the backdoor instead of the front door like a normal person?"

  "He lives next door, so he comes through a gate in the side yard."

  Mr. Johnson is a nice enough old guy. Pretty much keeps to himself. Except when it comes to sweeping his driveway. The man loves to clean. Rain or shine, he's out there with his industrial-sized broom. Why does a driveway need to be so clean? I do not know, but Mr. Johnson is forever sweeping, sweeping, sweeping.

  There's another bang on the sliding glass door and Mr. Johnson's deep raspy voice calls, "Hello? Sensei? Need a word with you."

  "Looks like he's going to be a problem," Jax mutters.

  "Mr. Johnson?" I say, thinking about nice Mr. mild-mannered Johnson and the perfectly swept driveway. "I don't think so. Let me talk to him."

  "No." Jax stops me. "Stay out of sight and keep your sword with you."

  “What? Why?"

  "Just do it." With a sigh, like he's regretting ever having gotten involved, he says. "And, no matter what, don't come out until I tell you it's safe."

  As he slides the door open, Tom the cat slips out into the cold evening air as well.

  Jax instructed me not to come outside, but he didn’t say I couldn’t watch. The only place I can think to both hide, and still be able to see, is in the tiny bathroom between the kitchen and the laundry room.

  "Hello!" Jax calls out with a friendly wave to Mr. Johnson.

  From the bathroom, I can hear Mr. Johnson reply, "I'm looking for the sensei. We have an appointment."

  With my sword at my side, I slide my finger between the window frame and the plastic blinds in order to peek out into the yard.

  "He's still at his studio teaching the late classes." Jax moves closer. "You're welcome to come back in an hour or so."

  Mr. Johnson, who always struck me as a pretty mild-mannered little lump of a man, steps forward in a surprisingly aggressive way. "I think we'll come in."

  "We'll?" Jax repeats, noting the plural form of the word.

  As if on cue, from out in the wooded canyon behind the house, two younger versions of Mr. Johnson -- both wearing black suits -- appear.

  "Me and my boys," Mr. Johnson nods to them. "They work for some important government people who are looking for the sensei."

  The two younger Johnsons move up behind their dad.

  "Gosh, I think you might be waiting quite a while." Jax tries to play it off, totally relaxed. "Does he have your number? I'll have him call you when he returns."

  "Where's the girl?" One of the sons sniffs the air. "I can smell her."

  Yikes. That's creepy.

  "Listen, Mister, I got no idea what you're talking about," Jax says as he slowly edges backward. “But you need to get off this property.”

  “I own this property. And I ain’t going nowhere without the girl.” With a jerky motion, Mr. J pulled something from his coat and points it at Jax. It's a handgun, unlike any gun I've ever seen. It resembles a futuristic mini-blow-dryer.

  "Whoa, whoa..." Jax puts his hands up and acts incredulous, "Mind telling me how you got your hands on an illegal Draconian blaster?"

  "The winds of war are shifting, Arcturian," Mr. Johnson says with a wicked grin. "When the Alliance fails, the Swarm will take over."

  "Except the Alliance will never fall," Jax replies firmly, dropping any pretense.

  Mr. Johnson fires his weapon and a neon black light, sort of like plasma, streams out.

  Faster than the eye can see, Jax easily gets out of the way. But the black plasma strikes the back of the house, and it instantly explodes in flames.

  All I can do is duck as the exterior wall is torn away. The next thing I know I'm lying on the cold bathroom tile floor covered in debris but still alive.

  Struggling to my feet, I see an enormous charred hole in the side of the house. Fire and black smoke roll up into the night sky.

  As I regain my balance, I see the two Johnson boys bearing down on me with their guns pointed.

  I turn and bolt out the bathroom, through the short corridor into the kitchen with the Johnson boys right behind me.

  Luckily, Jax manages to cut off one of the sons and Mr. Johnson.

  But the second son is too fast and quickly catches up to me. With one hand, he grabs me by the back of my neck, yanking me off my feet like I'm nothing.

  For a little guy, he’s super strong.

  He drags me through the house like a bag of garbage. As he strides swiftly toward the front of the house, I do my best to try to fight back, kicking and screaming as we go. But I can't get free.

  I hear Jax yelling to me from the back. "Don't let him get you away from the house!"

  He’s trying to fight his way toward me, but the father and other son are behind firing their deadly weapons. Jax, with his crazy super-speed, manages to evade each shot.

  Unfortunately, as all this happens, more and more of the house catches fire as the lethal plasma from the weapons rains down on everything.

  My squirming has forced the second son to use both hands to control me. With his foot, he kicks open the front door, pulling me out to the driveway.

  But then, unexpectedly, he abruptly stops.

  Because I'm facing the wrong way, I can't tell why we've halted. I try to swivel around to get a look, but I can't maneuver myself until I hear a familiar --

  Rrrooaawwww

  It's Tom. The gray cat stands directly in our path, his back arched and his ears flat against his head.

  The brave little cat is trying to protect me against this deadly enemy.

  My heart overflows with affection for the little feline, but I'm also gripped with fear and can't bear the thought of him being torn apart by this monster.

  "No Tom!" I cry.

  The son lets out a cruel laugh then points his weapon at Tom.

  I struggle to get free, yelling, "Tom! Run!! Get out of here!!"

  But then I hear another much, much bigger and deeper rrooaawwww. This time, it sounds more like the engine of a Mack truck than a cat.

  The son drops me.

  My head whips around to see a massive creature wearing a red collar with a big brass bell. Except for the size, it’s identical to the small red collar that encircles the cat's neck.

  "Tom?"

  Standing before us, blocking the path from the house to the driveway, is what can only be described as a cross between a dragon and a bulldozer. The reddish-orange creature, with six legs and a split tail, circles closer, snarling at the son.

  "W
hat's going on?" From behind me, Jax appears in the doorway.

  "Something... something happened to my cat."

  "That's no cat!” Jax stares with wide eyes. "That's a greater Pleiadian drolgon."

  "What exactly is a greater drolgon?" I asked as the son steadies his quivering gun. He aims and fires at the beast, making a direct hit.

  "Tom!" I cry out. "No!"

  But as the purple-black stream of energy dies away, Tom remains standing. The alien plasma has about as much impact as a spitball would have against a pitbull.

  "They're supposedly an ancient mythical guardian," Jax explains. "A nearly indestructible creature said only to protect a chosen spirit. Honestly, I never believed they existed. I've only heard of them in legend."

  "That free-loading mangy cat that sneaks into sleep on my bed is actually an ancient, otherworldly guardian?" I asked.

  "Has he always been with you?"

  "No," I say. Now I'm even more confused. "We've only had this cat since we got to California."

  "Did you have other cats?" he asks. "Because they're shapeshifters sort of like the Grail. They can change their form."

  "No. Never." I shake my head.

  But now that I think of it, we always seem to be plagued by some random creature. In our last house, we had a white rat that we couldn't manage to capture. There was an owl that lived in our tallest pine in Montana. And a raccoon made a home under our house in Wisconsin.

  Were they all different forms of Tom?

  The massive drolgon creature glances my way with those familiar golden eyes. It really is Tom. I have had two guardians all along.

  From down the hill, the sound of sirens drifts up the canyon. Someone has called the fire department. The rolling black smoke stings my eyes as I say, "We have to get away from this house."

  I glance over to see Mr. Johnson and his first son trying to distract Tom in order to help the second son escape from the enormous angry beast. But Tom stands his ground, snarling at all three of them.

  “Come on. Let’s go, while Tom holds them off.” Jax takes my hand and pulls me out of the burning house. "Wait!" Jax pulls up, coming to a stop. "Where’s the sword?"

  “Oh my God! I don't have the sword.”

  The only thing I was supposed to do was hold onto BrightSky.