by R.K. Ryals
~Bezaliel~
There was darkness surrounding me. I squinted but could barely make out my surroundings. Stone? Something fluttered above my head, and I ducked instinctively. What was that? I cringed, my eyes growing wide until they finally began to adjust to the darkness. A cave? I looked around desperately. What I saw didn’t make me feel any better. Shadows crawled through a cavern, inching along like spider monkeys in the jungle, creeping with each flicker of flame coming off sconces inserted along the wall. And then there were the voices. I was terrified. What was this place? What had happened to me? Shadows came at me from everywhere, and I tried reaching out to grab at the cave wall. I couldn't see my own hand. I tried again. Nothing. Was I only viewing the scene? Was this a vision? Had I died? The voices grew louder, and I began to register them. They seemed a part of the shadows.
“You crave too much the power of our forefathers,” one voice mocked as another rose in laughter. Both male, both low and frightening. I looked for the men but could only make out shapes. They were tall and dark.
“No, brother, I crave redemption,” the second voice uttered sourly. This time the first voice laughed, but solemnly.
“There is no redemption for us. There never can be,” he said.
“You’re wrong, Marcas. There is. I’ve seen it,” the second voice remarked. Marcas?
I tried harder to see, but the darkness in the cavern was too much, the light too faint.
“You imagined it,” Marcas argued. I knew his voice now. “You’re a fool to think otherwise.”
“Oh ho, brother! No, you are the fool! Maybe it is you that seeks power.”
“I seek only vengeance,” Marcas stated. The shadows crept closer, swirling around the two men as they faced each other defiantly.
“We had redemption once. And then it was revoked, leaving the rest of us cursed for eternity,” Marcas pointed out, waving what appeared to be gloved hands upward. The second man waved his own hands in agitation.
“No, I have found the cure. And I will have it!” the man yelled vehemently as Marcas began to circle him suspiciously.
“At what cost, brother? At what cost would you have your redemption?” Marcas asked in frustration.
This was a mistake. I didn’t belong here watching this. Both of the men terrified me. I tried to touch something again and failed. Maybe I was invisible. I hoped so. I had no desire to be caught among them.
“It’s better we are damned than the world,” Marcas said quietly, stopping only inches away from his brother. “I could stop you.”
The second man reached forward, patting his brother affectionately on the cheek before shoving forth his right fist. Marcas slumped forward, clutching his side as a wet stain spread slowly onto the other man’s hand. Oh my God! Was that blood? I felt nausea swamp me. Oh my God! The man laughed as he produced some kind of container and filled it with the crimson fluid. My stomach burned as if dry heaving. Oh my God!
“No, you won’t stop me,” the man said before pulling out the dagger he had pushed into his brother’s side. Marcas crumpled.
“You’ll heal,” he murmured as he cleaned the dagger on his jeans. “Some things are worth more than family.”
He turned to walk toward me. I couldn’t let him see me! He drew closer, closer still, and I screamed.
“No!” I cried out, shoving at something hard, my fists clenching desperately at fabric and skin. I wouldn’t let him get me! A hand caught my wrist, and I fought harder, my legs kicking frantically as I opened my eyes only to discover the lights were too bright, images too blurry.
“Dayton!” a voice cried out. “Dayton, calm down! It’s Conor!"
His words penetrated the fog, and I loosened my grip slightly.
“Dayton?” another voice cut in, and my grip tightened again. My nails dug in unmercifully. I didn’t recognize this voice. Hands came down on me harder.
“Give her a moment, dammit!” Conor’s voice cried out, strained as I kicked him again. His voice made me pause. Conor?
“Just give her a moment,” he repeated, his voice more relaxed as I loosened my grip. My eyes began to adjust.
“Day?” yet another voice questioned, and I almost sobbed in relief. Monroe.
“She’s coming around,” Conor said.
I turned my head slowly and tried looking in his direction. Pain engulfed me.
“Slowly. You hit your head, sweetheart,” Conor soothed.
A small hand slipped into mine, and I knew from the manicured nails that it was Monroe’s. I gripped it gratefully.
“What happened?” I managed, my throat dry and my voice raspy.
“You had a seizure,” the strange voice supplied, and I tried again to focus. A lined but blurry face came into view. A seizure? He leaned closer, and I recognized his uniform. A paramedic. He smiled and began asking questions. I answered them haltingly.
“Any head pain?”
“Some.”
“I’m going to remove a collar I put around your neck, and I want you to tell me if you can move your head."
I just stared at him distantly as he moved closer. Air rushed against my skin. I tested my neck experimentally.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
“Can you touch your chin to your chest?”
I leaned up.
“Yes.”
“Alright, I’m going to try and sit you up. Is that okay, Dayton?”
I nodded. Hands began pushing against my back. I recognized things a little better now. Blood rushed back down into my body, and I looked around carefully. The walls around me were white. The library?
“It was the closest room to the field,” Monroe whispered from beside me.
I looked over at her and smiled slightly.
“Books are healing,” I muttered. She chuckled before frowning again.
“What happened, Day?”
The paramedic began checking my vital signs. I could tell he was irritated at the group of teenagers surrounding him, but none of them seemed prepared to leave or seemed to care that he wanted them to. Monroe leaned over me worriedly, and I could just barely make out Lita and Jacin hovering in the background.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, the vision crashing down all over me again. My breath caught, and I turned toward Conor. He was watching us quietly, one of his hands still resting securely at the small of my back. My gaze fell to his chest.
“Oh, my God!” I cried out.
Conor grabbed at his shirt but not fast enough to hide the damage I had done. The fabric was ripped and there was a gash along one bicep.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed. Conor laughed.
“Enough cries to Heaven, and I may be miraculously healed,” he joked. I didn’t laugh. He moved carefully as the paramedic motioned for him to back off.
“Look, Red, I’m fine. Let’s just figure out what happened to you,” Conor whispered.
I nodded, but my mouth still hung open. Had I really done that?
“I’m going to take you in and have you checked,” the paramedic said suddenly.
What? My mind was having trouble keeping up. Too many things were going on at once. Take me in? I gave him my full attention. He was a small, almost elderly man. It made sense that Conor had helped him hold me down.
“Wait a moment, Bobby,” a female voice called out from in front of us.
It was then I noticed another paramedic a few feet away, her hand lifted to show her partner he needed to hold off. She was small and brown-headed and deep in conversation with a black robed figure. Nausea overcame me.
“I don’t think the hospital will be necessary,” the robed figure said, turning around to face us. Aunt Kyra.
Bobby looked up at her, startled, his gaze searching as he looked between us. An open book, Conor had said. I’m sure my face was revealing a lot more emotion than it should be right now.
“It’s protocol that I have her checked,” Bobby said carefully.
My aunt looked at him intently, and I noticed him step backward. She may be a small lady, but she had presence.
“I’ll take her to our family doctor,” Aunt Kyra said firmly.
I stared at her. Family doctor? Bobby started to speak, but his partner shook her head from behind the Abbess. Bobby looked between us again. Aunt Kyra never flinched, never blinked.
“I guess I’ll leave you to it, then. There’s some papers I’ll need signed,” he said.
He was my aunt’s senior by some years and I could tell he refused to appear cowed despite her black habit and her grim self-assurance. My aunt nodded. I cringed as she moved toward me, her robes slapping softly against her legs. I felt tempted to hum the Darth Vader theme music from Star Wars. It was a silly thought, but my weird seizure-like vision had cast a sinister shadow over everything. I felt like I was losing my mind.
My aunt grew closer. Conor and Monroe both remained where they were. Lita and Jacin kept their distance, but I could see they were ready to move in if need be. Were they really that worried about my aunt?
“I think I have it from here Mr. Reinhardt, Ms. Jacobs,” my aunt said shortly as she reached the stretcher I was on.
Conor and Monroe shared a brief look and stood their ground. Aunt Kyra grew eerily silent as she gazed at them both. In the background, I heard the female paramedic whisper something about "the girl’s history of faking illnesses." I looked up at my aunt. Had she told them that? I’d never been sick a day in my life.
“Maybe I could assist you?” I heard Conor ask. “I could carry her to your car.”
My aunt glanced briefly at Conor’s exposed chest and lifted a brow.
“I think you’ve been helpful enough, Mr. Reinhardt. I’m fairly certain Dayton can walk."
I looked between Conor and Monroe and nodded my head. It wouldn’t do to continue this show here. I’d have to go with her sometime. I could tell Monroe wanted to say something then thought better of it. Call me, her eyes said. I will, mine answered back. Conor ignored my aunt and leaned in close.
“Who’s Marcas, Red?”
My head snapped up, and I fought not to put my hand over my mouth. His expression was inscrutable. Had I said that name aloud?
“Be careful,” Conor warned.
I shivered. Did I really need to be afraid? I avoided his gaze as my aunt held out her hand, her eyes full of disdain. She moved between Conor and me.
“Let’s go, Dayton."
I looked down at her hand for a second then looked away. I didn’t need her help. With every ounce of energy I had left, I climbed off the makeshift bed, stumbling only slightly as she signed a medical release form. I was unsteady but she was fast and I followed her out of the library, out of the school, and into the car.
I gazed out the window as she pulled away, my eyes locking on four figures lounging on the walk just a few feet away from the curb—Monroe, Conor, Lita, and Jacin. They must have followed us out. Conor leaned against a light pole, his arms crossed and a frown marring his features. A few girls giggled as they walked by and caught sight of his shirt. He ignored them. Monroe looked sick with worry, her eyes darker than usual and her stance restless. Lita said something to Jacin before pulling a cigarette out of her blue jean pocket and twirling it between her fingers. Jacin put a comforting hand on Lita’s shoulder and stared after the car. I lifted my hand and waved at them all.
Chapter 7
If there is war, there will be many mortal deaths. War will not end until the world has been damaged beyond repair. The ranks will be divided, the losses heavy. The burden seems unfair. Whether there is war will depend on one thing: Her strength.