Rift

by D. Fischer

  Kat’s head whips back like she’s been slapped. I open my mouth to protest that it isn’t necessary, that I can do without them, but quickly snap it shut. Again, Erline is right. I can’t continue to protect properly without them, and according to Jaemes, their absence makes me half a warrior.

  My shoulders droop. This is a favor I don’t deserve.

  “There’s a battle coming,” Erline continues before Kat can abruptly decline. “We will need every advantage we can muster.”

  Lifting a hand, Kat roughly rubs the wrinkles lining her stressed forehead with the tips of her fingers. She nods behind her palm, lowers her trembling hand to her cheek, and gathers the necessary moisture.

  “Kat,” I defend, shaking my head. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Of course, she does,” Jaemes barks. “You are useless without them, and I’m tired of intervening in their absence.”

  Looking only to me, she holds her hand out in front of her. Her eyes harden like she’s tucked away her true feelings, and the muscles twitch around her eyelids with the effort to keep them hidden. “I will,” she says, her voice thick with the beginnings of anger. “They’re right, Tember. We barely made it out of there alive. If you would have had your wings, you could have saved Tanya and Jane. I won’t make that mistake again. I won’t be unprepared, and I’ll be damned if I lose another.”

  I gulp at the memory of Jane and Tanya, overtaken by hungry beasts.

  She lowers her voice to a deep and dark husky tone, one I’ve never heard her use. “I refuse to be half of the team we could be. This is only the beginning. We can’t have you half the warrior. Now, lift your damn shirt.” She eyes my shirt, knowing full well it’s one I’ve borrowed from her but says nothing to that front.

  Jaemes chuckles beside me, an unpleasant sound in the heat of the moment. “Does this mean I can no longer call you my mascot?” he asks.

  I call him a colorful name in response, but it only widens his grin.

  “Do it,” I tell Kat drily, if for no other reason than to smear the grin from his face.

  Gathering the hems at the back of my borrowed shirt, I turn and fully face Jaemes. The cloth is stiff from dried blood, and a few specks of the Death Realm’s sand dislodge from the stitching and ping against the floor.

  I shimmy the cloth up to my shoulders but leave the front lowered to cover my breasts. Jaemes had made his feelings known. He doesn’t find nudity charming. It’s a conundrum since he and his people barely wear any clothes themselves.

  Jaemes’ arms are folded, a smug smile slanting his lips. He baited me with his goad, but I already knew that before I turned to face him. His pointed ears jerk, tangled in his nest of black hair discolored by clinging dust.

  I smirk as I gingerly lift the rest of the cloth over what’s left of my wings. “Nice hair,” I tease.

  His shoulders bob in a shrug. “Trying something new.”

  Kat gasps and curses in French when she sees what’s left of my wings. “Christ, Tember,” she mumbles. Her bare feet make a sticky sound as she closes the short distance to me. It takes a moment for her to do anything, and this reluctance causes me doubt.

  A finger trails down my spine and over the space on my shoulders where my wings once sprouted. I hiss between clenched teeth. It doesn’t hurt, but I can feel the chill as the tears from a dragon trace the unhealed wounds. Though guardians heal quickly, the severance of wings do not. It’s a visual reminder of what was sacrificed.

  My shoulders hunch forward on their own accord, and my skin rips along my back, splitting to make room. Feathers tickle the flesh at the small of my back as they grow.

  I look to Jaemes between the curls obscuring my vision. He tilts his head. “Black?” he ponders, scowling.

  A warmth leaks through my veins, and goosebumps rise over my thighs. My balance wavers as the additional weight is added to my backside, and my arms sway to center my gravity, dropping my hold on the shirt.

  “It’s done,” Kat whispers.

  “What’s black?” I question Jaemes.

  He nods to my wings as I test their strength, fluttering the extra limbs. They’re heavier than I remember my first set of wings being.

  Standing fully upright, I peer over my shoulder and watch the feathers grow their last inch. I twirl and examine with speculation. Their feathers are black instead of the traditional white, and each constructed one perfectly matches the other and shines in reflection from the stars above. I reach back, touch one, and my face drops in awe.

  “They’re hard,” I comment. “Like metal.” But it’s not metal. It’s different, flexible yet sharp like knives.

  Erma gapes in disbelief, reaches forward, and strokes the tip of her fingers along my wings. Kat’s fingers rhythmically tap her lips, her elbow propped and supported by her arm tucked around her waist, and Jaemes rocks on the back of his heels.

  “My stars,” Erma breathes.

  “What does this mean? What went wrong?” I ask, spinning in full circle.

  “I don’t know,” Erma mutters.

  I stop rotating, close my eyes, and take a deep breath to temper the anxiety. Will I be able to take flight with these?

  “They are weapons,” Erline says with pride. A ghostly beam tugs at the corners of her lips when I snap my eyes to hers.

  “Weapons,” I repeat, the word rolling across my tongue as though it’s the first time I’ve spoken it.

  Indeed, they could be weapons. The white wings may be more flexible, but this metal substance would surely protect against any object from an assault behind. I flex them, displaying their width, and curve them to fold around me. Immediately, I bask in their glory with a gasp of surprise. There’s enough space in here to keep another safe as well.

  It’s a shield.

  Ideas and scenarios pop into my head, ways I can use them to my advantage. Tucking my wings to my back, I’m promptly reminded of the innocent victims on the floor as their bodies come back into full view. My gaze lingers on their slumbering forms.

  I point. “What do we do with them?”

  Erma blows out a breath, fanning her red ringlets, and turns with her hands on her hips. “Erline is right. They can’t stay here.” She looks to me, swiveling her head over her shoulder. I make my way to my creator as though she beckoned me forth, and Jaemes tags along with me.

  She continues. “Since the two of you left, there’s been talk about an uprising. I have no idea how they plan to do it, but this is hostile ground, Tember. You - none of you - can stay here until it’s sorted. The rift between us all cannot be our center focus.”

  I nod, fully agreeing with her. We have larger issues across the realms than a few who disagree with the rumors slithering through my home. The gossips may be warranted and held in truth, but this won’t stop a retaliation, I fear. Favoritism is their chief hypothesis, and there will be no swaying those opinions until the dust settles.

  This also explains why Erline is here - to add extra protection for her sister fee. The angels wouldn’t dare uproot their creator with two powerful beings roaming the halls. If she’s here, matters are far worse than Erma is portraying.

  Turning to Erline, Erma taps her chin and then flicks her eyes to Jaemes. “The tribes?”

  He sucks in his lips and tightens his crossed arms, releasing his lips with a wet pop. “I’m not sure -”

  “It’s worth a shot,” I blurt before Jaemes can completely decline. “There isn’t anywhere else in this realm more safe than your tribe. We need the protection of warriors. Surely Mitus will allow it.”

  He is, after all, hoping Jaemes and I will continue to work together, to show the elves and the angels that history doesn’t have to repeat itself. We can work together to protect this realm, and the elf leader knows it. He’s a good man, a kind elf below an intimidating exterior. He may not have used as many words to portray his complete approval of this arrangement, but I did witness the twinkle of hope when we last met under the tent which gathered all four trib
e leaders. None of them were welcoming aside from Mitus’ reserved judgment. I was made to parade my severed wings then, too.

  “Tribes?” Kat asks. She frowns, following Erma’s speculative gaze to Mitus’ youngest son. “What are you?”

  I click my tongue. Do I introduce her to this tyrant? “Katriane, this is Jaemes, an elf of the Igna tribe. He is one of the many sons of their leader, Mitus, head of the tribe’s Council.”

  “Elves are real?”

  Jaemes inclines his head, a bow of respect. “Dragon,” he greets.

  Kat exhales. “Don’t bow,” she grunts quietly. As a distraction, she angles herself to look upon Dyson. A mix of emotions crosses her face, a blossoming spark in the air, peaking my interest.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods. I don’t believe her. The gesture was automatic with no truth or thought behind it. What is she keeping to herself now?

  “Are we ready?” I ask the group instead of further pressing Kat. If she wants, and when she’s ready, she’ll forgive me for my wrong-doings enough to trust me with her troubles.

  Kat holds up a finger smudged with dirt and dust and jabs it in Erline’s direction. “Since you owe me a debt you’ll never be able to repay, I’d like to call in a favor.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. You don’t ask for favors from the fee, even those who manipulated you to do their own bidding.

  “Oh?” Erline quirks an eyebrow. “And what is this favor?”

  “I want answers,” Kat growls. “Real ones. Not the wooly crap you keep pulling over my head.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KATRIANE DUPONT

  GUARDIAN REALM

  Firewood sizzles, and embers pop inside the hole in the ground of the Igna tribe’s village. The hole is surrounded by a layer of quickly melting snow, the heat too great for the fragile crystals to withstand. Taunting memories of orc roars and demon screams echo within each glowing log, the battle on continuous repeat like a song I can’t get out of my head.

  In my mind, the hole itself represents the Colosseum, a barrier to keep the rage: fire; and the wood: victim within. I can’t seem to keep the fresh memories at bay. The Guardian Realm is far from the dark creatures of that tragic event, but they’re still with me nonetheless. The fire plucks the recollection of it and those I willingly chose to burn alive.

  It’s some time after we arrived in the tribes. I had already attempted sleep in one of the teepees quickly erected by the elves who weren’t eager to do so. They weren’t happy to see us here, and many had raised their voices even after Erma put her foot down with her almighty magic. However, my dreams were realistic, death after death, making a restful sleep impossible. I gave up soon after, venturing to this hole, and erected a fire on my own with a simple flick of my wrist. The display had shaken some of the neighboring elves, but for the most part, they had to work hard to pretend I didn’t exist.

  Tethered to posts outside my neighboring tee pee, their dog-like creatures have their eyes glued to my every twitch or subtle shift. They don’t trust me, and if I cared enough to guess, it’s because whenever I stare at them, they sense the dark tendrils gripping my heart and fiercely growl their warning in return.

  They don’t look like ordinary canines, but they do sound like them. The absence of eyes doesn’t stop them from assessing their surroundings, either. Their forms waver, ghost like, as if time exists differently for them. A lime-green-tinged aura surrounds their blurry outline, a constant distraction.

  A small part of me desires to run my fingers through it just to see what it feels like. Is it airy? Or does it defy logic and have a more solid texture despite its looks?

  No lips hide their sharp, imposing teeth, and a glow from inside their throats brightens the snow beneath their paws when they open their mouths. Each muscle is impressively defined with the absence of fur, and they jolt in surprise when I scratch my chin, testing their tentativeness. Their nostrils and ears are large like pigs and twitch when I do so. I suppose they have to make up for their lack of sight somehow with other heightened senses.

  The creepy canines shift their heads from me to something behind me gimping in the snow, a slight limp in the gait.

  “Kat?” A voice booms though it’s meant to be a whisper.

  The tone is deep. I know exactly who it is, but my shoulders tense anyway. I’m also not sure if I want any company.

  Sandy shimmies between the narrow space of the log I’m sitting on and the teepee’s animal skin wall flapping in the brisk wind behind me. His new shoes - also animal skin - break the snow’s thin caps, crunching the barrier. He sits beside me, gracefully bending despite his obvious leg injury. The bandage around his arm gleams in the fire’s light.

  The sandman had fought hard. I’m not surprised to see him alive and well. He’s proven his worth in more ways than one. This sandman is probably one of the few who can take care of himself.

  I don’t answer my new companion with any sort of greeting though he has yet to look at me expecting one. Instead, my eyes remain on the dog-like creatures and my focus on the echoing memory of battle inside the fire.

  “Prenumbras,” he conveys, pointing at the canines. “Nasty hunters, they are. They are blind, similar to bats, but sense by auras instead.”

  Interesting, I think to myself. And useful. It is said aura’s can be felt from an astounding distance, and their color depicts the being’s nature and intentions.

  Instead of peppering him with questions about the beasts, I remain quiet and still.

  Around us, the tribe bustles from teepee to teepee, working to accomplish their daily tasks. They have extra mouths to feed, and their displeasure is evident when they slam pots on solid boulders acting as tables and flick glares our direction when they believe us unaware. I can feel their eyes like daggers flying in our direction, but at this moment, I couldn’t care less.

  The sandman and I both lost Gan. Even though we didn’t like him, the cruel death he had endured shouldn’t be subjected to anyone. The way he died, the tragic occurrences we had to go through to get here - it’s something neither of us wants to voice.

  And the others - the humanized shades still on the Death Realm, stuck in their cells - what will become of them?

  I know we aren’t the only ones plagued with the memories, but it’s different for them than it is for us.

  Dyson will be fine - he’s seen battle, he’s seen death. With shifters, it comes with the territory. The sandman and I have not. At least not to this magnitude.

  And myself? I was never meant to be the bloodthirsty beast that had come over me. I’m ashamed to have allowed it. Even now, I can feel the evil rooted at my core, orchestrating the hums of battle cries. It’s what this feels like, its frigid fingers like a vice around each chamber, pulsating my heart to the same tune. It’s ensuring I don’t forget it’s there, what I’m capable of, and a constant reminder of how far I’ve gone.

  I can feel the sandman’s heart as well, and Dyson’s too, their lives now ultimately tied to mine. If I die, they die. I wonder . . . if my slithering madness continues to consume, will it take them next, a plague to the mind? Goosebumps riddle my skin with pricks and tingles at the thought. This is yet another thing I’m responsible for.

  Blood. Screams. Death. Bones poking through skin. Flashes of things I want nothing more than to forget surface, and no matter how much I try not to, a smile spreads across my face, victory in an evil’s eye.

  Uncomfortable with my increasing dark vibes and wicked grin, the sandman shifts in his seat. “Your thoughts will drive you mad, Katriane DuPont. You must cap them.”

  “Too late,” I hiss, hushed, my concentration moving from the canine creatures to the fire.

  An ember pops from the orange glowing wood, floats above its prison, and travels with a new gust of wind into the forest of snow-capped trees. It’s a breathtaking contrast - the bright orange and the stark white.

  With envy, my gaze follows the dips and sways, its bre
ak for freedom. The smile drops from my face as the ember twinkles its last and disappears, snuffed by the cold.

  Freedom is but a hope, I realize. Is hope truly so far out of grasp that the guilty can’t reach it?

  A snowflake glides to a rest on the tip of my nose, pulling me from my thoughts. I grip the blanket tighter around my shoulders and tilt my head to the sky overtaken by tree branches canopying the village.

  We’re deep in a forest, surrounded by an elf tribe I didn’t know existed. The constant revelations are exhausting, and my rattled brain can barely keep up. There is not one but four tribes, each having their own purpose, I’m told. Four tribes I knew nothing of until now.

  I raise my voice a notch above a hushed whisper. “On Erline’s realm, nobody knows this place exists.”

  The sandman scrutinizes me from the corner of his eyes. “Humans are unaware of all beings outside of their own reality, though they speculate and consider the possibilities.” He pauses, letting me digest this. “Myla was created by a seed of life and a seed of death. It is why she was a dragon with tears to heal and fire to kill. These are the tales which cross to each generation in our realm. Tales are often lost over time just as the witches’ power has depleted over time.”

  Sighing deeply, I slouch forward. “How did everything go this unnoticed for so long?”

  Swiveling his head and squaring his jaw, he considers me fully.

  I continue. “There are legends and folklore in books and movies, but they’re nothing like the creatures around us. This is reality, and the lives the blissfully innocent are living are built on ignorance. The humans I can understand, but how could everything I’ve discovered on my own be lost to an entire generation of witches?”

  “The elf tribe did not want to be involved with guardian duties aside from their own realm,” Sandy answers my unasked question. “Choosing to not interfere will have this result.”

  I mull that over. Is it racism keeping them away? Or is it egotism? I suspect a bit of both by simple observation.