by D. Fischer
The house is warm, safe. It’s Myla’s home. This is the place she slept, gave birth to her girls, and created a family. This is where my heritage began. And it was ripped from her by a single rope and an angry mob that couldn’t accept they were saved by someone different than them.
I lean my back against the doorframe, my breaths come heavy. My head thumps against the wood as I thrust it back, holding back a scream of anger.
A tickle on my cheek causes my hand to raise and scrape at it. I pull it away when I feel wetness and hold it in front of my face. My fingers are soaked in my own tears. I bet I was the only one to cry for her.
How could they be so cruel? Myla had saved them from the largest horde of vampires I’ve ever seen. Without her, they’d all be dead, and this town would be forgotten. She saved them, yet, they’re too blind to see it.
I sniffle and glance around, wiping my nose with the heel of my palm. The girls are gone. No doubt Erline has already come to collect them, stuffing them away and burying the secrets. The angry side of me begins to blame her for not saving her only daughter. If she loved her so much, why couldn’t she do more? I understand the fate of the witches was what started this whole mess. Or perhaps, she allowed her daughter to die because Myla wished it. Puzzle pieces aren’t fitting together, and it’s beginning to piss me off that I’m left in the dark.
A glint above the fireplace catches my eye. Since the room is so dark, I automatically fumble for a light switch before I realize what time period I’m in.
Hysterical giggles leave my throat followed by a scoff of ignorance. It sounds foreign, something that would never come from my own mouth. Perhaps I’m in shock.
I quick search for a candle, which isn’t hard to find. My fingers fumble aimlessly on the short table next to the door before they touch the cold brass of the candle holder.
Glancing at the windows, I look for peekers before lighting a small flame in my hand. To my surprise, the ball ignites. A small part of me thought Myla’s powers, and the dragon, would have died along with her. Maybe she was talking to me after all.
I don’t feel the dragon in me, not like I did when I shared my body. Could it be that we’ve mended, molded, into one being? Time will tell. For a split moment, I fear the dragon may be gone, but the flaming ball in my hand tells me to think rationally. I wouldn’t be able to conjure it without a spell if I were but a simple witch now. A small tendril of relief eases my aching heart that I still have a small piece of her left behind for me to call my own.
The ball hovers before I settle it on the wick. Picking up the candle holder, I swing back around and step over to the fireplace, determined to find what caught my interest, if anything for a distraction.
Above the mantle, a piece of metal décor adorns the shiplap wall. I lift the candle higher to get the full view.
It’s a half moon, exactly like my ex-coven’s crescent. However, there is one difference. There’s no strike through it. Perhaps . . . perhaps, the strike is symbolic.
From what I remember in our lessons, Myla was the first witch to be executed. A long line of daughters followed. Could the strike stand for that? A strike against inhumanity? It’s probable. No one actually knows what the strike means, but none of them witnessed what happened, either. How did her legacy carry on with no one left to voice it?
My eyes close as understanding hits me like a boulder. Bending to the fireplace, I rub my fingertips in the soot before standing once more. I hesitate before lifting black soiled fingers to the metal half-moon. In a slow swipe, I create the strike meant for the crescent.
Time travel works in mysterious ways. Is it a coincidence I was brought here? No. Coincidences are for those who don’t want to believe that everything is connected. They fear the truth and create the excuse. The truth is simple: one fate is connected to another’s. To some, that’s scarier than death itself.
“Who are you?” a male tenor rumbles behind me.
I scream, the unexpected intrusion skipping beats within the chambers of my aching heart. My body jumps and spins in mid-air, a flaming ball at the ready before it soars from my hand, straight at the unexpected visitor.
The man ducks and the flickering ball flies into the wall, igniting it with flames. He stands from his crouched position and waves an arm, the flames disappearing before my eyes. I glance from the fully repaired wall, to the man, my fried brain acknowledging that this isn’t a human that stands before me.
Corbin straightens his back before crossing his arms crossed over his chest, a feral glare contorting his face with unvoiced reprimand.
He eyes the next flaming ball in my hands, watches it lick my palms, cackle and sizzle, before his eyes lift back to mine. He’s just as handsome as I remember from Myla’s memories and seeing him across the street from my shop. To be here in person, to be standing this close, I’d be lying if I said goosebumps didn’t raise over my skin.
I close my palm, the fire extinguishing within it.
“Kat.” I clear my throat. “My name is Kat.”
He snarls like a rabid dog, his white teeth shining in the candlelight. “What are you doing in my home, Kat?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TEMBER
EARTH REALM
I pace the living room, certain I’m wearing the wood floors thin. Checking the clock again, I turn and walk the length once more. It’s past the normal time Kat wakes. Her alarm has chirped and silenced three times. The store is due to be open at any moment, and Kat has yet to wake.
Growling under my breath, I uncurl my arms from around my torso and stomp down the short hall to Kat’s room. The door is left open from last night’s visit, so I don’t bother with Earth’s modesty of knocking before entering.
I stand inside her doorway. “Kat.” She’s in the exact same position as she was last night. “Kat,” I say a little louder.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch or budge. Her eyelids don’t even flutter. I cross the short distance to her and grab her shoulder, saying her name once more.
As I’m shaking her, panic begins to curl my insides. My hand moves from her shoulder to the pulse in her neck, my fingers trembling until they feel a steady beat. I blow out a pent-up breath I didn’t notice I was holding.
“Kat!” I scream. I curse in every language I know. Did something go wrong when Sureen took away the sandman? The words she mumbled before she disappeared . . .. Did she do something to Kat?
I pace the bedroom this time, keeping a constant eye on Kat while forming a frantic plan. My mind is jumbled—nothing makes sense except that I’m the root cause of this.
The sandman was right—this was a selfish act. How can I call myself an Angel when my acts aren’t pure?
The only thought in my head that makes any sense is: How do I wake someone under a Fee spell?
AIDEN VANDER
THE TWEEN
Thick, unnatural fog, so heavy I can’t see through it, threatens to consume me. If I were still breathing for the sole purpose of oxygen, I imagine it’d be nearly impossible. It bellows and sways, obscuring the view of what’s behind it. There’s no smells here, nothing to grasp for evidence.
Where am I? How did I get here? I stuff my hands into my pockets. I lower my head, seeing nothing but the cold, twirling fog, trying to remember. My eyebrows knit together in concentration.
I hear the breeze play with trees, the sound unmistakable. Am I in a forest?
“Hel—?” I hear a voice call, the tone so frightened, so eager for answers. I frown, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me—if this is all but a dream.
A twig breaks and I blink. “Hello?” the voice calls again—a caressing, quiet voice.
Slowly, I lift my head. The fog has parted, creating a path to the woman walking toward me from the other end. My eyes lock on hers and she stops in her tracks. Her fearful face scans my body and I remain still as they wander.
She’s beautiful. Her skin a delicate cream, her slender body only covered with a large, hole
y, graphic T-shirt. The red hair on top of her head stands out, even through the fog. My eyes travel to her bare, shapely legs.
I blink, remembering my purpose. Eliza, Jane’s daughter. Her oncoming death, the blood, the horn . . . it passes through my mind like a movie on fast forward. My jaw flexes with the urge to protect her. She doesn’t deserve for her life to end at such a young age. She doesn’t deserve that kind of death, but it’s one she’ll have to endure. I can’t stop it. I’m but a simple new shade. My only purpose is to cross her over, just as Jane did for me.
Her eyes return to mine, confusion wrinkling her forehead, but curiosity swivels her head slightly to the left. The harsh edges of my eyes soften, sympathy panging inside my chest. My lips twitch as I fight the urge to tell her what all this means—the dream she’s in, the fog, the place she’ll die. She has no idea, just like I didn’t.
Her eyes flick to my twitching lips before she shakes her head.
Thick, plump lips form words. “Who are you?” she whispers.
I stop ticking my jaw, tilt my head to the side, and part my lips slightly. Her voice, it’s delicate . . . like a song. It stirs something inside me, something I never knew existed, and shocks me to my transparent core. It’s a feeling I thought movies over-played, yet, here it is, consuming my insides like the fog around me.
Shoving away those thoughts, I consider how to answer her question without frightening her, without making her feel insane.
She starts hyperventilating. A few sharp intakes of breath and her hands fly to her throat, fighting for air. I’m not sure if it’s a real panic or if the lively fog is too thick for her to breathe. Or maybe it’s the dream pulling her out?
My first time dreaming of Jane and the place of my death wasn’t a frightening one. It felt so real, but I had convinced myself it wasn’t. I remember that feeling of being pulled from our place of visit in that alley. It’s like a rope tightening around your torso, tugging and pulling, cutting off the passage of air.
Sorrow fills my heart and my eyebrows scrunch. Our time is coming to an end before it even starts. But . . . I know . . . I know without a doubt, I’ll see her again. I swallow. I have no way to save her, no way to make it not happen.
I’m only a shade . . . a ghost.
It makes me question . . . who designs life and who assigns death? And how do you stop that certain fate?
DYSON COLEMAN
THE TWEEN
Jane releases a sigh. Her breath gushes past her teeth and her body sags with relief as Aiden crosses to bring back her daughter. I step back and place my hand on her shoulder, my lips tilting in my one-of-a-kind sideways grin. Anything to ease her troubled heart. “Time works differently there. He’ll be back before you know it.”
The slight tendrils of fog sway this way and that, floating between our legs like it’s another guest in our small group’s rebellious mission. I suppose it is. It’s the Reaper’s Breath, its own entity.
Just like others from the Earth Realm they say they could feel how cold Reaper’s Breath was in their dreams. It surprised them that they could no longer feel the expected chill once they became a shade. It grows in the Tween, obscuring their view from taking in too much at one time. Each time they visit the Tween, Reaper’s Breath shows a little more, easing the transition.
I see Jane nod, but my focus is on the swirls of cold I can no longer feel. It mimics that of the Death Realm. Its reason for being is not to provide warmth and comfort, but preparation for the Death Realm itself.
The fog blends with our transparency, a marveling sight in such an area where beating hearts don’t exist. As it licks my skin, it’s hard to distinguish between where my body ends, and the fog begins.
I watch a second tendril float up the trunk of a tree, fitting in between the grooves of the jagged black bark, and slithering an indirect path of its own. The tree trunk a solid structure, dark brown, while the fog is thick but transparent and white. Tangible density versus abstract sparsity. The color and consistency is such a striking contrast. Beautiful, almost.
It astonishes me how Reaper’s Breath can be in many places at once, separating itself for any purpose it sees fit. But as each tendril goes about its own individual task, the Reaper’s Breath is still one being, one mastermind.
I suppose that’s a blessing, that there’s always a piece of it floating close to Kheelan. If the creature were constantly gone, running its secret ‘errands,’ Kheelan would become suspicious, ending our plan before it can even begin.
Tanya sniffles. The sound breaks me from my thoughts and I shift my head to her. “He’ll be back,” I repeat, my voice a mumble of distracted reassurance.
She tilts her head up. There isn’t a sky in the Tween. The only thing visible is the fog and eerie, unmoving, dead branches.
She blinks away tears before returning her eyes to mine. “You’re really a wolf-shifter?”
My lips tilt down and to the side in a sympathetic expression. I understand the reasoning behind her sudden change in subject. “Yep.” I pop the ‘p’ like my old pack mate, Brenna, used to.
Sorrow rolls through me, gripping my chest like a vice and momentarily consumes my thoughts before settling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy weight. I’ll never see her again. Any of them. How am I supposed to find peace in death when life still haunts me?
It’s not like I’ve had much of an adjustment. Heck, my wolf still barely acknowledges his existence, retreating to such a dark place that I’m finding myself forgetting that he’s even there. He’s a ghost inside of a ghost.
“That’s . . .” she pauses. Using the edge of her pointer finger, she catches the stray tear trickling down the slope of her cheek like a snake slinking across a desert sand. “I still don’t know how I feel about all this.”
Jane takes the few steps to her, folds her in a hug, and cradles her head on her shoulder. Her fingers fumble with Tanya’s strands of hair as she shushes her. My throat constricts. It’s two mothers finding comfort in the only way they can. I have no such luxuries.
“When did you die?” I mumble. I study the length of her body, looking for any signs of her demise.
Regrettably, I don’t know Tanya well. Actually, I don’t know any of the folks in the rebellion on a personal level, not to the extent that I should.
Every day we discover new shades wanting to rebel against Kheelan and his unjust ruling. He, and his vampires, enjoy their little “games.” Kheelan believes himself fit to do as he pleases, no matter who it affects or how. When you’re as powerful as a Fee, it makes sense that it goes to your head.
We haven’t figured out how to uproot him yet, but I imagine the root of the solution is related to the problem itself—the reason the realms are shifting, blurring. Something is bending the rules. I’m grateful for it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to find the cause. It’s a tricky game we’re playing, one that will surely come to a swift end. If I could find what’s causing it, it stands to reason that maybe I could use it to my advantage.
Tanya lifts her head, glancing over Jane’s shoulder. “A few weeks ago, maybe? Time passes so differently here. It could be longer.” Jane pulls back from the hug. “I’m not sure.”
“How did it happen?” Jane whispers.
Tanya blinks, her eyelashes dewy. “Heart complications during surgery.”
Uncomfortable silence stretches on, none of us knowing how to comfort something that was destined to be.
I shuffle my feet, shifting my weight. “Look, we don’t all need to wait here. You two head back. I’ll wait for them.” Jane turns around, opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. “Maybe prepare their rooms? It may be best if they have a moment to adjust first.”
Jane sighs and nods. “Come on, dear.” She holds her hand out for Tanya. “Let’s leave Dyson to it.”
They give me one more look before glancing at the spot Aiden left. “Go on,” I gently nudge.
Together, they walk in the direction Tanya and I tr
aveled from. Back to the Death Realm, back to unjust treatments.
Once they’re out of sight I blow out a relieved sigh, my shoulders sagging from their uptight position. Grief had overtaken me when I said Brenna’s favorite word. It consumed me. Swallowed me whole. Sending them away was more for me and less for them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELIZA PLAATS
THE TWEEN
Fog. White, misty fog. It swirls around my ankles, around my torso, around my head—smooth, thick curls, twirling themselves around me, welcoming me into its cold embrace.
My head swivels from side to side. My heart beats at a rapid pace. It’s a flutter at first until I can feel it pound in my chest. I place a hand over my heart, ensuring it doesn’t march through my ribcage.
Where am I?
I place a foot in front of me, and then another, and another. My footfalls disturb the curls of fog, swirling it in new directions. It folds me in, seeps through my skin, my muscles, my bones. My stomach heaves.
A train track comes into view—a slight relief at the sight of such a familiar object.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
I turn around, my breaths coming in harsh gasps. Mist forms past my lips and mixes with the white fog, mingling and churning.
“Hel –” I stop. I see him. Someone’s there. The fog parts, leaving a path.
Standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, a dark hooded sweatshirt conceals his face, and his feet bare, he remains a statue. Out of place. Too still to be real.
His face is tilted down, the hood from his sweater hides all but the bridge of his nose and the edge of his chin. He’s broad, his sweater almost too small for his shoulders.
My eyes fall to his hips, to his thighs. I gulp, my heart thudding for a whole new reason. I recognize this man—that sweatshirt, those jeans, that build . . . I had just declared him dead.