Hidden Realms

by Unknown

  The bat swung, striking one of the beasts square across the back. It hit with a solid thud, but the monster did not go down. He only flinched, as did the rest of them, spinning around to stare at her. It was less than one full second before her victim retaliated, not even enough time for her to reset her swing.

  He struck her. A man-sized fist crashed solidly into her sternum, taking her wind and her grip and every single thought. She landed hard on the concrete walkway, her head smacking the ornamental stone border. Light burst in her vision, sound ringing in her ears; she could not catch her breath.

  Her instincts told her to run. She fumbled for some handhold to get to her feet, but the monsters weren’t watching her. They’d resumed their torture of the boy, kicking and spitting on his prone form, cursing him with their strange, unfamiliar tongue.

  Mackenzie’s reflexes had taken over, or she might have realized how alien, how surreal the entire scene was. Instead, all she could think was she’d lost her bat.

  She rolled to her knees, coughing at the first intake of breath, and sank her fingers into the cold grass of the park’s lawn. Later, she might be able to determine whether it was the familiar feel of that grass, the knowledge of its immutable loss, or the sheer rock-bottom hopelessness of her situation that caused what she did next. Because in that moment, there was absolutely nothing like thought.

  Her hand wrapped around the base of a rusted metal pipe, some remnant of a decorative park bench or iron railing, and she lifted her head to find the monsters before her. She moved on impulse, one swift thrust that shoved her from the ground and into the group. She screamed, hurling her arm forward with every drop of anger and fear and emotion she’d had in the last nineteen years. She would kill these things. Kill them or die trying.

  There was a sudden shift, a realization from the crowd that a human girl was swinging a rusted pipe in their direction, and then confused chatter, clipped orders, pointing and waving of hands. A shriek broke this commotion, the first monster she’d hit staring down at his claws where some thick red sludge oozed through his fingers. Mackenzie had caught the thing’s stomach, opened its guts with the jagged edge of her makeshift bat.

  “Come on,” she muttered. “Come at me now, you—”

  Their leader stepped forward. The fact that he was the largest wasn’t what made her designate this creature as their lead—though he was massive—it was the way he carried himself, the way he moved. His shoulders were straight, wide set and drawn backward. His eyes were on her, dark beneath the ridge of a caveman brow, his lips pulled back in a snarl over man-eating teeth. And he had wings. Wide, golden wings cut like shards of glass instead of feather. They flicked a warning. She tried not to stare at them, or his bare chest, painted with red-brown dots and uneven lines, or the fur mantle over his back, leather-like straps holding it in place as they crossed his shoulder and abdomen, was only vaguely aware of the woven blue cloth that covered his legs.

  “Vanshay-ya,” the monster hissed, and the intensity of his voice nearly caused Mackenzie to drop the metal pipe.

  She glanced at the others, three watching her with narrowed eyes and the fourth crumpled in on himself as he clutched his abdomen. “Get away from me.”

  The thing towered over her, deep gold eyes daring her to move. “Vanshay-ya,” he said again.

  The boy on the ground behind her uttered something unintelligible. His voice was low, but with an air of authority. Like he was giving a command. He must have been hallucinating. He should have been asking for water. Begging for mercy.

  In the back of her mind, she was disappointed for him that his last words were so incoherent, but she didn’t figure hers were going to be much better.

  Now that she wasn’t swinging, the reality of her situation was creeping in. Her palms sweated against the grit of the pipe, and she yearned for the soft, familiar grip of the leather-banded baseball bat. She shifted her weight, the heel of her shoe brushing against the bare arm of the boy behind her. There were two of them there. Two humans against five monsters. And from the sounds of the boy at her feet, he didn’t have much longer to live.

  “Let us go,” she warned. They might not understand her, but it made her feel better. Like she wasn’t just lying down to die.

  She raised the pipe a fraction, readying herself for the final blow, but a screech shot through the silence, piercing Mackenzie’s ears so that her shoulders drew up in automatic response.

  She stared skyward at a winged form flying above. It fell into her mind somewhere between a pegasus and a dragon and she cursed, in absolute awe for what had to be the fifth time this week.

  Her eyes shot back to the monsters, the taste of panic and dread thick on her tongue. They were not looking at her. The smaller beasts had turned their gazes to the heavens, expressions so alien she could merely discern hints of concern and distaste. Only their leader had not been distracted by the sight. He glared at the boy on the ground, unspoken threats clearly recognizable, despite the unfamiliar features and terrifying war paint.

  It was paint, Mackenzie realized now that he’d shifted his focus. His skin was tanned beneath, a hint of flesh showing at the corner of his brow, the tips of his ears. A thin scar crossed his cheek, faded with time. His hair was spiked, and at each side of his head, he wore a small curved horn. No, no, no, she thought, not wore. They’re his. He’s a creature, a demon. A magical fairy from space.

  She might have shaken her head at the impossibility of it, but Mackenzie was frozen, her throat seized against the need to swallow, her chest petrified around burning lungs. This was not imaginary. He was real. He was a monster.

  He was a mere arm’s length in front of her.

  The boy muttered something and she resisted the urge to kick at him, shush him before he got them both killed. But the monster only hissed strange words that might have been an oath, and spat toward the body behind her. Suddenly there was a screech, a chorus of sound, and the others rose into the air behind him. Her heart leapt, thundering, but she didn’t even have the chance to hope before the lead monster’s clawed hand thrust out, colliding with her chest to knock her backward.

  For an instant, she thought she was falling, but she was merely bent backward, the hooks of his talons fastened into her shirt and towing her skyward.

  It was only a breath, the blink of an eye, and she was flying, feet lifted to dangle midair as her body hung beneath the beast who’d grabbed her.

  Visions of flight and prey birds rushed her, but this thing had no need of its wings, even if she was its carrion. They pressed flat against his back as it rose, sleek as any man. Its claws ripped into the fabric it clung to, a thin leather jacket the only thing that kept the meat of her frame intact.

  She glanced at the ground beneath her, impossibly far away. It was flattened earth and upturned sunshine. It made no sense at all.

  A heartbeat later, the creature’s claws opened, dumping Mackenzie to plunge into the empty air below.

  Chapter Three

  All she could feel was air. Terror burned through her, cutting hard against an icy wind.

  Her back slammed into the remains of the railing. It knocked the breath from her chest; what was left of the curved iron bars caught the edge of her shoulder and flipped her forward, head over heels to stare into her descent, straight into the chasm below. Falling, flailing, her arm smacked against the spindles, the cuff of her jacket catching the jagged end of a broken rail. It didn’t slow her momentum, but jerked her hard enough to throw some instinct into action, her fingers curling automatically around the metal. The force of it wrenched her shoulder and swung her to slam into the side of the rock ledge before gravity pulled her back to level, hanging—swaying—by a tenuous grip.

  Her body was fire. Everything screamed.

  She was going to fall.

  She was going to die.

  There was a sound over her ragged breath, a whimper that barely registered as her own. She could see nothing but the floor of the chasm, so far belo
w.

  Her fingers ached, her hands sweated. Riley, she thought. He’d come home to an empty house.

  There would be no one left for him at all.

  There would be nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Like the empty air below.

  A hand smacked the torn leather of her jacket and she screamed. She couldn’t be sure what would be worse, the monster coming back for her, or someone untangling her grip even faster than it was managing on its own. Her free arm came up, scrabbling to catch some part of the bridge, and the wind caught the loose hair that had covered her eyes, finally freeing her to see something aside from the ravine floor.

  A man was holding her, gripping her jacket as he lay face down on the wood planks of the bridge. He was pale and ragged, blood splashed across the ridge of his cheek and nose, and she realized it was the boy, suddenly much larger, much older up close.

  “Grab on,” he said, indicating his forearm with a nod. She stared at him, eyes flicking only momentarily to her grip on the rail.

  She would have to let go.

  The boy took a deep breath, and she could see it was straining him, remembered how weak he’d been only moments before.

  “Okay,” she said finally, nodding her confirmation.

  He waited, watching as she did not, in fact, let go.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your name.” His words were clipped, harder to get out than they should have been. “Tell me your name.”

  “Kenzie,” she said automatically. “Mackenzie Scott.”

  “Mackenzie, take my hand.” His other hand appeared, reaching forward.

  She stared into his eyes, dark gray and pinched with pain. She was too immobilized by fear to release her hold, to trust her life to anyone else.

  His voice came softer this time. “Kenzie, please.”

  Neither of them could keep their grip much longer, if she didn’t trust him to hold her, she would categorically die.

  She held her breath, unsticking her fingers to clamp around his hand. The threads of her jacket began to snap, straining at his clutch on the sleeve, but he was drawing her up, struggling to maneuver between the broken railings. She kicked out, finally able to gain purchase on the base of the bridge, giving her leverage to press herself over chest-first onto the platform with the boy.

  In a matter of seconds, Mackenzie was panting, gasping for air as she lay flat beside him. Body trembling, limbs like jelly, she hugged the wood planks lining the floor of the walkway.

  Alive.

  It was only when her gasps subsided that she heard the low cough. The boy curled into himself, flat on his side as he heaved on the planks of the bridge.

  “Oh, God,” she said, scrambling to her knees alongside him. “Are you okay?”

  His only answer was a shake of his head.

  She glanced at the sky, searching for more creatures, and saw the dragon-bird-thing circling high above. She touched his shoulder, his side. “We need to get inside. Can you stand?”

  He managed to get to his feet, but barely. Mackenzie slipped awkwardly under his shoulder to support some of his weight. Mackenzie wasn’t short, but even with the way he was curled into himself, she could tell she’d severely misjudged him as a “boy” when he’d been lying on the ground. It was probably owing to the five massive monsters that had been standing over him at the time.

  “Did they scratch you?” Mackenzie asked. “Those things, did they cut you with a claw, mark you?”

  His chest stiffened under her grip, but he only looked at her sidelong, the blood spattered across him drying to a deep red. Like the monsters. She decided most of the blood had not been his, and gestured toward the road. “We have to go.”

  Mackenzie stepped forward, pulling him with her as she scanned the streets for any sign of the creatures. It wasn’t going to be an easy walk, but none of the structures here were safe. Everything had been flattened, torn, twisted into rubble. She and Riley had been lucky in that aspect. Of all the houses on their street, 124 Oak Lane had fared the best. The upstairs rooms had a new view to the skyline and several downstairs windows were busted out, but for the most part their home remained intact. Riley had wondered at it aloud, but not Mackenzie. They’d had their share of bad luck in life. It was about time something fortunate happened.

  “It’s only a couple more blocks,” she assured the boy, feeling his heaviness grow with each passing step. “It’s safe there. I promise.”

  He coughed, hand coming away from his mouth bloody, and Mackenzie’s stomach dipped. He was hurt worse than she’d feared. They might have dropped him like they had tried with her, or kicked and punched him hard enough to damage his insides. She was going to be sick. The thought of him dying, the last person here—this boy leaning on her shoulder—was too much.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, forcing her feet to keep moving, pushing down the dread.

  He took a shallow breath, and coughed. Mackenzie didn’t stop. She couldn’t leave him there to die in the street. She tightened her grip on his waist, pressing her hip hard against him for support, and took another step.

  “Hunter,” he said between gasps. “My name is Hunter.”

  “Two more blocks, Hunter.” She nodded toward the two-story white Colonial standing between the remains of its neighbors. “That’s us.” His eyes flicked to the house, its white shuttered windows and gingerbread trim. It had been pretty once. She’d drawn pictures of it as a kid, crayon outlines with oversized daffodils and a bright purple window shade that indicated her own room.

  Now, it was as if the whole scene was washed in a haze of gray. That giant yellow sunshine was gone; the thing that remained had peeling paint and torn-off shingles. Its dormers battered by wayward limbs, a gaping hole that stared at the sky.

  “It’s sound,” she said. “We’ll be safe inside.” And when night fell, if he was still alive, they’d hide in its basement.

  He didn’t respond, only dragged himself forward. It must have taken them a dozen times longer to get back as it had for her to reach the park site, but she had no true way of knowing. The importance of time had ceased after the monsters came. Once Riley left, there was only day—the relative safety of light—and the long hours she’d spent alone in the darkness of night.

  Chapter Four

  They had walked through the antique iron railing that fenced in the house more than an hour ago. Mackenzie knew this because inside the hallway rested the only remaining furniture that had not been overturned: a too-heavy grandfather clock. She had deposited Hunter onto some cushions on the floor, because the couch and chairs had been braced against every door after Riley had been attacked. She stood in the kitchen, staring down at the stranger’s motionless form, more than a little aware of the waning light outside.

  Her fingers tapped against the counter, click, click, clicking away the seconds with the tick of that clock. He had barely moved. Since the request for baking soda and chalk, an antidote for what ailed him, Hunter hadn’t spoken a word. He’d not even groaned. Poisoned, he’d said. Not beaten, not dropped from the air, but poisoned.

  By monsters.

  She had stepped back from him then, stared in dull shock as the boy she’d found lying on the ground was now sprawled very un-boy-like over the cushions of their brown woven sofa, and watched as he mixed the white powder with the dregs of a cola they’d found in the unplugged refrigerator. It had made a paste, thick and foaming, and Hunter had choked it down. She’d had some ideas about poisoning, some notion of needing to induce vomiting, or of definitely not, but the answer was the first option, apparently, because Hunter began heaving in a matter of breaths. Mackenzie had kicked a bowl toward him, the plastic basin they’d used to catch a drip from their now leaky ceiling, watching in horror as black bile rose from his stomach. She had been frozen ever since, petrified of nearing him as he retched, and then afraid to disturb him once he’d fallen silent.

  But now the sun wa
s getting low and she couldn’t leave him be.

  Sweat had beaded on his forehead, grabbing locks of dark blond so that they clung to him, mussing what was already a disheveled, bloody mess. He’d brushed a forearm across his face, clearing a cheek of the red, but smearing it across his brow. He needed cleaning up. She could at least do that.

  The water in the basement was for drinking, but Riley had managed to save some rain from the small pots and pans that he’d poured into a larger plastic tub. She suspected the tub had once held gardening tools, but that had been long enough ago that all evidence of dirt had dried and flaked away, leaving only sun-faded plastic.

  Mackenzie shuffled through the cabinet drawers to find an old dishcloth before she filled an empty container with rainwater. She knelt beside him as the rag soaked, pushing the hair off his brow with the tip of her pinky before wringing the cloth. He had a kind face, peaceful with sleep and smooth beneath the filth. It had been hard to tell when he’d been in so much pain, but she guessed he must not be more than a year or two older than she.

  Riley wasn’t a boy any longer either. He was going to be eighteen soon, and he would have gone off to college if not for this bizarre invasion. She’d never have protested him leaving for school, but his chances of being killed there were considerably less than the current case.

  She felt the weight of his note in her pocket as she brushed the damp cloth over Hunter’s brow. I am Marked, Kenzie. They will come looking for me, and there’s no way I can chance it, not with you. He didn’t want to risk her by staying, and she’d have never let him out of her sight.

  Hunter’s fingertips brushed her wrist and she jumped. “Oh,” she said, “I just—” She was as awake as he now, her gaze trailing over the dishcloth, stained a rusty red. “How did you get so much of their blood on you?”

  He shifted, pressing himself up to lean on an elbow. His eyes were blued steel, lined in coal and cut through with silver. They were like clouds and storms and all the things she’d never understood about poetry and romance novels. He coughed. “I guess you weren’t the only one who got a couple of good blows in.”