Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  It was a very big lake.

  Somehow she’d determined the house beyond the gate was on a piece of property that stretched along twenty miles of shoreline. That explained the lack of houses in the area. They could take the boat to shore, she explained.

  “Then what?” he had said.

  She shrugged. “See what we can see.”

  If they saw something interesting, whatever that meant, they could hike toward the house, say they ran out of gas, got lost, or something. Of course they would recognize them, they had photos of them pulling up just a few weeks earlier. They had called his dad within minutes. They could call him again if they wanted. What was he going to do, disown him again?

  “Aren’t you the one that said we can’t just ring the doorbell?” he said.

  “We’re not ringing the doorbell.”

  “This is worse.”

  “They don’t own the water.”

  “They own the land, Rach.”

  She stared blankly. “Look, you started this. You want to quit now?”

  If he was honest, this was why he’d asked her to drive him out the first time. If his nerve wavered—and it was doing a major dance right now—she would be there to set him right. He wanted to quit, to turn around and go home. Driving to the house was crazy, but this was suicidal.

  “Don’t give up.” She took his arm. “We just take a look, see what we see. It’s just a ride across the lake, that’s all. It’s not like you had plans to do something else tonight. We’re just a couple of friends enjoying the great outdoors.”

  It wasn’t the best speech, not the most convincing, but he heard what she was saying. She had been there when his dad called it quits. She never liked him, but her father wasn’t winning parenting awards, either. Maybe that was it.

  It’s just a boat ride.

  The boy finally backed the trailer down the ramp. When they were tied down and out of the water, Rach swung around. Her grandfather’s army green johnboat teetered in the water.

  “Is that going to make it?”

  “Hamburger Hill?” She pointed at the boat. “She has never leaked.”

  “Always a first.”

  “It’s just water, Grey. There aren’t sharks out there and you can swim.”

  “Not across a lake.”

  “We got life vests. You get the orange one.”

  “How about gas?”

  “How about a pacifier?”

  She left the truck running and didn’t ask for help, released the boat into the water by herself and backed away from the ramp. A cloud of blue smoke puffed from the engine. Grey parked the truck and waited on the dock. The sun had dropped behind the trees.

  “We get there at dusk,” she said. “Look around, that’s all.”

  The water was calm. Grey imagined he could see the other shore, imagined maybe it was closer than it really was. He climbed aboard, sitting on the life vest. The engine roared and the boat leaned. Rach steered with a smile and the hair off her face.

  It was just a boat ride.

  Gasoline.

  The ridged hull rocked like the belly of an aluminum whale, bloated and still. The prop slapped the water.

  Grey couldn’t feel his fingers.

  “Rach!” He wiped his face, a warm sting on his lip. “Rach!”

  He kicked the black water. His jeans were heavy. A sock wagged off his foot. He was missing both shoes.

  They were full throttle when the cliff came into view, a rock wall of iron-laced stone that plunged into the water. Points of light dotted the top. Grey was pressing the binoculars to his eyes—a three-story mansion coming into focus—when the boat lurched.

  Rach didn’t see the old post lapping just below the surface, a remnant of a forested town when the manmade lake was flooded. There were markers they didn’t see in the dark.

  The water hit them like concrete.

  “Rach!”

  The boat rocked on the waves, catching his chin. The blow opened a gash and slammed his teeth together. A bell rang between his ears, a high tenor that refused to fade. He drifted from the humpbacked boat, legs numb. Water filled his mouth, nipping his chin where the flesh hung open. The sound of the slapping hull faded as he went under, the green wash flushing his eyes.

  Fingers clamped his wrist.

  He was yanked up. The hard edge of the boat was in his hand.

  “Hang on.” Rach put his other hand on the hull. “Don’t let go. You got it?”

  He pushed his hair away. Her eyes were big and white, hair slicked back. She swam away before he could say anything, returned with a cushion and shoved it between his legs.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  He rubbed his face. His nose was slick. He felt the slash beneath his chin, raw and wet. “I think I’m bleeding.”

  “Don’t touch it.”

  “Are you…” He swallowed. “Are you okay?”

  Her chin was quivering. She didn’t look scared, but the lake was sucking the warmth from them. They clung to the boat, huffing, shivering. There would be no turning it over in the deep. The shore was far off. If they took their time and traded off the cushion, they might get there before hypothermia set in.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “We hit something.”

  Grey knew what had happened, knew boats hit posts and trees all the time, usually inebriated captains or distracted teenagers that had to be pulled from the water and wrapped in towels. Sometimes they were arrested for drunk driving, but they were saved. Always saved.

  That was during daylight.

  “Just hang on.” Her teeth chattered. “Someone will pass by.”

  The only lights were perched high on the cliff, too far away to see a couple of bodies on the water.

  “No one’s coming,” he chattered. “We should start swimming.”

  Rach ducked below the surface. Grey panicked for a second, thinking she was giving up or leaving him behind. She popped up several yards away. He heard splashing and saw her retrieve more debris. Where was she finding the strength to swim that far? He didn’t like floating in black water, let alone swimming in it.

  This is all too stupid. All of it. Starting with Dad, the email, the white cards. The Maze. I never should’ve got her involved. It was selfish, should’ve gone alone on this.

  The stars were out and a pleasant numbness had begun creeping inside him, warming him to the thought of sinking to the bottom. Perhaps it was just as well.

  She returned with two orange vests, stuffed one under his arms, and put the other between her legs. She rose above the surface, a blonde buoy scanning the water.

  “Rach.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shhh. No. Don’t say that.” She squeezed back. “Someone will come.”

  “We should swim or something. Before it’s too late.”

  “Hang on, just a little longer.”

  He grabbed her, leaned into her, their foreheads touching. It wasn’t fear or sadness. Selfishly, he was glad she was there. An unceremonious ending shouldn’t come alone.

  “It’ll be all right.” She swam around the boat again.

  He considered following her. The high-pitched ringing in his head dulled the outside world. He was already disoriented, the moon hiding behind a cloud cluster. He cursed his cowardice, hated that he couldn’t let go of the boat, convinced himself that staying put was a good idea while she retrieved another floatation.

  “Hang on.” She hugged him from behind, their chattering bodies in sync, her chin on his shoulder, wet and warm. “Someone’s coming.”

  It sounded like lost hope, what destined victims tell themselves to stave off panic, clinging to optimism as the branch was breaking. He was too cold to care. It would be so much easier to do this if she wasn’t there.

  He closed his eyes and bumped his head against the boat.

  The ringing droned louder. He turned sluggishly, stupidly, toward a cluster of lights. Perhaps he had already left his body, had floated ab
ove the lake, was staring into the mansion that overlooked them, dreaming he could fly onto one of the cantilevered porticos and sip wine or whatever rich people did.

  The light grew brighter.

  It sliced over the water, illuminating the lapping waves. For a moment, it blinded them. Then the sound of a motor cut through the ringing.

  It was coming from the cliff.

  20

  Grey

  Before the Punch

  His chest hurt with the dull ache of a large boot standing on him, holding him down, pushing the air out of his lungs. Burning and crushing—Grey thrashed awake.

  He lunged to escape black water. He inhaled long and loud. Pain spread across his ribs. Blood surged between his eyes.

  A rhythmic headache settled into harmless ripples. Shipwrecked memories rose to the surface. They bobbed just out of reach, chaotic and nonsensical, faded photos, snapshots distorted with a vintage filter.

  There was the lake. And then what?

  The room was odd, futuristic. He lay back in a lounger that reminded him of a dental chair. There was an empty hard-backed chair on a shiny hardwood floor. Sheets of water trickled down slate walls to his left and right, disappearing into narrow troughs at the bottom. A white wall was behind him.

  He faced a glass wall that reminded him of his dad’s apartment. Instead of a view of the city, an orange glow highlighted a large body of water. It was early morning, the sun peeking above the horizon.

  Memories began falling in line, an unwinding of chaotic thoughts snapping into their rightful places. The lake. The boat.

  The house.

  He was wearing a white robe, the sleeves wide, the belt long. The white terrycloth was soft and clean. The flesh over his ribs was raw and tender. He explored a numb spot on his chin. Some sort of glue had been used to patch the open wound.

  “Hello?”

  His voice echoed off the floor and in his head. Water clogged his ears. He thumped the side of his head. His forehead screamed. It took a few minutes to settle.

  Where am I?

  He and Rach had been stuck in the water, cold and alone. And then the boat, a bright light. And now he was in a strange room.

  The house. I’m in the house.

  The glass wall was spotless. He reached out to touch it before coming closer, his swirling fingerprints fading. A swimming pool was a few stories below. Vertigo clutched his belly. He remembered a time he bungee-jumped from a tower, how the cord yanked him upside down, blood surging into his head like it was now. He hung like a dying yo-yo, his friends hollering from the tower.

  Wait. I’ve never bungee-jumped.

  The door opened. He jerked around too quickly. Nausea turned his stomach in circles. He braced against the glass wall, forgetting about the drop below, his attention consumed by a barefoot woman. Her hair was short; her dark skin contrasted with the ivory white summer dress. One of the narrow straps fell off her shoulder.

  “Good morning,” she said with an accent.

  “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Your friend is well and rested, as are you, I hope.” She placed a breakfast tray on the hard-backed chair. “You are hungry?”

  A bagel with cream cheese and a glass of orange juice. The coincidence escaped him, that he ate this every morning for breakfast and there it was in this strange room. She stepped away, surrendering, afraid to frighten him—a trapper not wanting to scare the bunny.

  “Where am I?” he said.

  “Where were you going?”

  He eyed her with suspicion. His stomach overpowered his sense of wariness. Base instincts compelled him to reach for the tray. She crossed her arms, fingernails polished red, watching him keep the lounger between them.

  He snatched the plate like a runaway child. His head filled with chewing noises as he attacked the bagel. A pleasant grin rose on the horizon of her eyes.

  “This is my favorite room in the morning, when the sun is just about to rise. You know it’s there, promising another day, a harbinger of hope.”

  Her toes wiggled against the hardwood. A thin orange slice peeked above the sharp horizon, setting fire to the water. It glittered in her eyes.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  He wiped his mouth and considered lying about why they were on a course for the house on top of the cliff, how they were just looking for a place to fish off shore. But he knew nothing about fishing to even make it sound feasible. It seemed a lie wouldn’t work if he did.

  “My dad was out here.”

  She was looking at him in the window’s reflection like a parent who already knew the answers and was just giving him a chance to confess. Or lie.

  “Why are you here?”

  He cleared his throat. “Where’s Rachel?”

  “She’s at home.”

  “At home?” He dropped the last bite of bagel. Why am I still here? “Is she safe?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do I know?”

  “I am honest with you, Grey Grimm. Perhaps you can do the same.”

  She knew his name. Of course she knew his name. He was at the gate a few weeks ago; they’d called his dad.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “What do I want?” Her cherub smile flattened out. “You have trespassed upon this property twice. You recklessly brought your friend across the water, where you both would have died. This is all fact, Grey. It is truth. It is not what I want that is the question. What do you want?”

  It wasn’t clear what she was asking. The question was simple, but it was multilayered. What did she really want to hear? A thrill of hope sprang inside him, a hopeful twist that all his dreams would come true. You’ve passed the test. Welcome to the Maze!

  “You know why I’m here,” he said.

  Her smile found him amusing. She approached with soft steps. She reached out, delicate fingers trickling down his cheek. He pulled away.

  “You were drowning before we found you, Grey Grimm.”

  The sun rested just above the horizon. Her complexion glowed. She poked his ribs and he winced. A hot flash filled his head. He instinctively moved closer to the waterfall wall. Adrenaline drove his heart into passing gear. Cool air drifted from the trickling wall, a humid breath on his neck. He swallowed hard, working up enough courage to leap.

  “You’re the Maze,” he said.

  She didn’t react. Anger, agitation, or impatience could be hiding beneath her smile, but he saw no sign of them. She stepped back and looked toward the lake and the rising sun. A ripple of tension rode across her shoulders.

  “And what do you know about the Maze?”

  “Everybody knows about it.”

  “What do you know about it, Grey Grimm?”

  He had the major competitions memorized, had seen the most gruesome deathmatches, knew the names of all the repeat victors. Even watched most of the lesser known games, the ones not promoted but equally gruesome. But that wasn’t what she was asking.

  What do you know?

  He told her about the invitation on the refrigerator, the weekends his dad drove out there, the way he tracked him, the money he was spending, the scuba gear he was using. All the while, she listened with her back to him.

  Her hips swayed in the white dress. The sharp outline of her body, the indention of her belly button, the snug gap between her thighs rigged him in place. The water wall wet the hair on the back of his head.

  She leaned into him.

  “How do you know?” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your name,” she said distantly. “The day, the time. When you wake in the morning, how do you know who you are?”

  She turned her head, searching. The conversation had taken a hairpin turn and he sailed through the guardrail. She lingered, sweetly. The early morning kissed her cheeks, her shoulders. She hugged herself.

  “What you see, hear, taste and smell. What you feel. Your senses are the windows to reality. You flipped your boat last night; you
plunged into cold water. You clung to the edge, the feeling deserting your fingers, your toes. Your ears were ringing. Your reality was very different than it is now.”

  She gestured to the window. “Do you trust your senses?”

  The memories of the past twelve hours were coming together like foamy trash clinging in the river’s current. There was some semblance of the events—launching the boat, the cliff, the spill—but the memories had gone through a blender and poured back into his head.

  His throbbing head.

  “Where’s Rach?”

  “She beat you to it, Grey Grimm. She dropped into the Maze an hour ago. You’re late.”

  “What?”

  His hand slipped down the waterfall wall. He staggered a step. The woman caught him before he crashed. He shook her off; the robe pulled off his shoulder, bunching around his arms. He slid away from her until the glass wall was at his back.

  I never should’ve brought her.

  She began laughing, hiding behind her hand, red nails fluttering across her cheek. Grey pushed into the corner, where the glass met the opposite waterfall wall. The back of his robe grew heavy with water.

  “Grey, stop,” she said.

  He felt himself sliding to the floor, water draining beneath him, pooling between his thighs.

  “Shh-shh-shh.” She squatted near him, gently stroking his bare foot. “She’s not in the Maze, Grey Grimm. Your girlfriend is safe. She’s at home and perfectly fine. As if none of this happened, she’s asleep in her bed.”

  “What?”

  “I was teasing you. But that is what you think, correct? That there is a Maze in this house?”

  “My mom knows where I went. She’ll come after me.”

  “Of course your mother will. She loves you. We would expect her to do so, but you’re not in any danger, Grey Grimm. We saved you from drowning. We’re not keeping you here. You are free to go.”

  “Why am I still here?”

  “I apologize for the starkness of my teasing, but life can be uncomfortable, can it not? When you seek adventure, you risk falling. You may be hurt. There are things out of your control, the laws of physics, gravity. The lake cares not if you are young or innocent, whether your friend is involved. It will drown you. There are prices you pay for living. Fair or not, they are paid in full.”