by Katie Zaber
I don’t know what I saw. I don’t know what happened in Megan’s bedroom. I’ve said nothing. He will explain everything, to the last detail of what happened, including what he did tonight. He has power. Magic is the only explanation for how he fought off the tornado and darkness. He never hinted that he could perform spells. He marched past me like nothing affected him, as if impenetrable to the surrounding danger.
My patience has run out. Either he tells it all or we pack up and leave tonight. We won’t stay here for another night with a target on our backs. We should leave first thing in the morning. Rent a room somewhere in town and stay there until we sell the property. Travel to a big city on the coast where we can blend in with the masses.
After tonight, I think everyone will agree.
Chapter Fourteen - Megan
With utter disdain, Kevin glares at the man who treated him like a son. Beads of sweat trickle down his forehead but the room is cold; we never lit a fire. The muscles in his arms twitch from holding a tense posture, ready to fight. Uncertainty hides behind his eyes.
I’ve missed something.
Kevin sits on the wooden floor, his muscles bulging, legs trembling—he was this nervous the morning of the Fae blizzard. It’s not anger that fuels the uncertainty in his eyes, it’s fear.
Fear of Brynjar. What did he do to install terror into Kevin, make him think he would try to hurt us, or had?
I personally don’t trust Brynjar. He’s aloof and enigmatic. You don’t act secretive without reason. He must protect something important. I’m sure he built a world of lies to guard himself or his precious knowledge. I wonder what horrors and tribulations he faced when he wasn’t a soldier but was involved in the last Fae war. He never explained his position. He only danced around the subject until I passed out from his metallic medicine. I felt drugged, but my vision was normal when I opened my eyes. Upon awakening, I found the house in shambles. I was told I slept through an indoor tornado/earthquake. Brynjar’s treatment sedated me. I’m a light sleeper, snoring wakes me. I’m certain furniture flying around the house would make me jump out of bed, but it didn’t.
I have so many questions. Brynjar had better answer every single one. No more interruptions or delays.
Kevin, about to burst with pent-up rage, breaks the silence. “What the hell is going on?”
“Ask wiser questions,” Brynjar says.
“Who attacked Megan?” Dana asks.
“Which time?”
“Who attacked her and us each time?” Sarah asks.
“Fae blizzard, Fae in the alley, not sure who threw the light bomb, and a Mara.”
“The same Fae? What’s a Mara?” Sarah studies Brynjar. She hasn’t questioned or argued in weeks. There’s a spark in her eye, a flicker of her former self. She loved school. A good case challenged her, thrilled her. Her hands are folded up on her lap; they must itch for pen and paper to scribble notes. She kept notes on everything, reviewing them until she could recite the information in her sleep.
“First and second attack were Fae, don’t know if it was the same. Unsure why, but they want Megan. The third was a Mara. They haunt dreams. When did the nightmares start? What are they about? Maras leave clues as to who haunts the dreamer.”
“Someone haunts my dreams?” I ask, petrified that this could even happen.
“Haunted. It won’t happen again. Maras manipulate or read minds. Some can read the future by watching dreams. A Mara isn’t alive. It’s a shadow. The wind sent to spy for its master. It can’t cause physical damage, but can make you relive painful memories. They can induce the same pain sensation, but it’s not real.”
Someone violated me. They exposed my personal thoughts to a sick bastard. Dream manipulation. Mind control or hypnosis, an attack I didn’t think possible. I can picture my mind as an endless file cabinet, each file a cherished folder containing a memory. A shadow, a Mara, thumbs through them to find my prized moments. It took the ones I hold dear and morphed them into a twisted vision of torture.
Were my nightmares a distraction to occupy my mind while it went through all my memories? Humdrum and agony compose most of my life. What would someone want to know? What could it learn?
A chill travels down my spine. Some sick asshole watched my life like a sitcom while they pressed repeat on dream torture. They replayed the same awful, confusing dream over and over. Odd. I have no memory of a fire or being burnt as a child. I’ve burned my hand while cooking, but I’ve never been in a fire or any circumstance that scorched my skin as my nightmares did. Every morning, my body felt covered in blisters, head to toe. How did it make me feel something I never experienced? Brynjar said you only feel past sensations. Does he not know what Maras are capable of, or does something more powerful haunt me? How is any of this possible?
I look at no one. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t want to see teary, pitiful stares back.
“Since the first night Xander and Tristan found us. The nightmares always involve fire. My skin feels roasted when I wake. I swear there are blisters, but when I look, there’s only the lingering pain. The last two dreams, I was able to remember. My mom, dad, my sister Chelsea, and I had a barbeque. Dad, he looked like he would if alive. He wore a Grill Master apron with black sunglasses. Mom was in the pool and Chelsea relaxed in the shade. When my dad finished cooking dinner, I went to grab drinks. While I dug them from the cooler, the birds in the trees screeched. It took forever to get the drinks, as if ice encased the bottles. My fingers were red and numb when I finished. I stood and found nothing left. My old neighborhood was gone. Black and gray smoke and soot was everywhere. A big skeleton dragon made of smoke shrieked. It dove across the sky to attack me. I tried to run, but it was useless. The last thing I remember was I knew it would kill me. Burn me alive. That’s when I woke.”
I left out a couple unimportant details. The way my dad hugged me, how he smelled of his old cologne—a hint of citrus and pine. How my sister rolled her eyes as we teased each other. How healthy Mom looked, as if she were a whole person, not broken and blitzed. Things no one experienced or imagined since Dad’s death. There’s no need to depress them further. It feels immature and stupid to think about a perfect family that doesn’t exist.
Everyone stares frozen in horror. Tears fill Ciara and Dana’s eyes. Sarah stares, studious. Xander has a blank expression. Tristan too. Kevin is distraught. He knows how much my dad meant to the family. He knows how talking about them kills me.
Everyone remains motionless. There’s no movement or sound. Wax figures surround me rather than people, except Brynjar. His eyes dart feverishly around the room.
“Brynjar?”
His eyes twitch. No other motion. Nobody blinks. Nobody moves. They stare at me in some eerie, catatonic state. They sit frozen in complete silence. No one breathes. There’s no noise except my own.
“You, come with me.”
An unfamiliar soft-spoken male voice makes me stand alert. Hidden among the shadows, a tall man stalks into the room from the kitchen. At least a foot and a half taller than Kevin, his silver hair is tied back. It matches his cold silver eyes. A shiny golden torc circles his neck. He’s dressed in a uniform, a beige tunic and khaki pants. Strips of leather connect and secure a chest plate. A set of matching bracers protects his wrists to his elbows, leaving his hands free. The metal compliments his cold silver features.
“The longer you wait, the longer they suffocate.”
Dana and Ciara’s eyes are watering. Sarah looks lost in thought, analyzing my dream, picking it apart to discover a hidden detail among the nonsense. Tristan and Xander sit expressionless. Kevin looks sad. Sad my dreams haunt me. Sad they are about our family or because he has similar nightmares. Frozen in time, they appear unchanged except the emotion they emit.
Fear radiates from everyone instead of concern. Dread rolls off them like a tsunami as they sit still like helpless dolls. The only one that changed in the slightest is Brynjar. When he first asked me to recount my dr
eam, it worried him. Now anger emanates from his eyes. He’s the only one you can sense anger from and see it manifest in his face. No one can move, blink, or breathe, except Brynjar. His fingers gradually crawl up his coat, toward his inside pocket. Watching him is comparable to a movie in slow motion; it doesn’t feel or look real.
Shit, how long has it been? They can’t breathe. I can’t be the reason they die. They can’t suffocate. I can’t lose them, but they can afford to lose me. They can live happy lives. Grow old together, raise children, and live in peace.
“I’ll go, but I want to see them normal, safe.”
He nods a firm yes. Silver eyes burn into mine. “Come.”
I stare at my family. It’s an unconventional family by any means, but there’s blood and love. My eyes fill with tears as I walk to my captor, passing the people I love. All that matters is their safety. My life means nothing compared to them. I hope they pack their bags tonight and head for the coast. Go to one of the big cities far away from Capo. At least they will live. They’ll marry and have families, things I’ve never wanted. It’s an easy sacrifice.
“Show me,” I say.
“Take my hand first,” he demands.
He’s even taller close up. His hair shimmers like steel in the firelight. A scar runs down his face. It starts above his eyebrow, running diagonal between his temple and the corner of his eye to earlobe. It’s a clean, straight line, not jagged. His eyes gleam like molten silver—he’s growing impatient while my family dies.
Hesitant, because I know the second I take his hand, I seal my fate. Death awaits me.
My misfit family. I want to say goodbye but the words won’t come. I choke down tears. I don’t want their last memory of me to be my sobbing.
He holds out his long, outstretched fingers. I stare at them and then grasp his cold, clammy hand. This will end their pain and suffering. There is no second-guessing, no other option, no choice. I will always save the ones I love, at any cost, no matter the price.
The instant my hand touches his, everyone snaps into motion.
The men launch to their feet with a thud. Kevin screams no, an ax in his hand ready to swing as he runs toward the Fae. Tristan palms a knife, arches his arm to throw. Xander braces to charge at the Fae—without a weapon. Brynjar doesn’t move from his spot, but reaches into his coat pocket. Dana and Ciara cry as they sit helpless in horror. Sarah surprises me: Tears trickle down her face. Her mouth opens, a scream forms, but she vanishes from view before I hear her scream.
Chapter Fifteen - Megan
Fuck. My. Head.
One minute I’m begging for my friends’ lives, the next I’m waking up on a luxurious fur comforter with an intense migraine. I try to open my eyes, but the light blinds me. Lights, noise, and smells will only make the headache worse and induce gut-wrenching vomiting. My stomach twists. I dry heave, but nothing comes up. An epic battle rages in my head, complete with explosions and fireworks.
I’m at the point of no return. Even if by some miracle I was blessed with Advil, it wouldn’t matter. It’s too late to take it. I’d only throw up the medicine along with the water. I’ve passed the pinnacle point. I can’t change the outcome or make things better.
It’s too late. I’m completely screwed.
There’s only three reasons my crippled mind can guess and explain my capture.
One, they want information about Earth. I’ve been in Capo for about a month and have no clue what information they would want. Do they want to take over Earth and inhabit the planet, making native humans their slaves? In most sci-fi movies, the alien species want to take over our planet because their home world is dying. Is it up to me to save Earth? When they figure out I know nothing of value and won’t tell them shit, they will kill me.
I hate to admit it, but there is the possibility of me breaking under torture. No one has ever broken my bones for information. I can tell myself to be strong, don’t give up or give in, but I have never subjected my mind and body to suffer at someone’s hands. Most people want to believe they have the mental capability to endure torture, but when the pain intensifies, no one can say how they will react. Nobody knows their measure of self-control until pushed to the brink of death. It’s a daunting task. Yeah, I want to assume it’s possible for me to be that selfless, but it’s hard to know for a fact when a month ago, the hardest challenge my body endured was a daily workout and a diet.
It didn’t go well.
Two, they have me mixed up with someone else. Who do they think I am? Do they believe I’m the queen of Earth? I can’t fathom who they mistook me for. Maybe they hoped for a scientist or political figure, someone to blackmail Earth. It’ll disappoint them when they find out I’m nobody and no one cares about me except those who are already here. Then, they will kill me. Or do they think I’m some type of myth, which just seems insane. Wouldn’t I know if I was?
Three, they noticed I don’t belong in this world. However, wouldn’t they bring everyone from Earth? Silver asked for only me and no one else. To my knowledge, he left everyone where they were, but I may never know. They might be in other cells with migraines, unable to move. If so, I wonder if their beds are as comfortable.
Nothing makes sense.
All I know is that there’s little to no chance of escape. I’m trapped in a foreign place, surrounded by a different race of people with superior strength and speed, who have the ability to control the weather and perform magic—it’s hopeless.
How can fists beat magic?
Escape is pointless. I’m lucky to speculate while my brain throbs. There’s no possibility of a getaway if I can’t open my eyes. I must have hit my head on something hard, but I don’t remember what. I tried to say goodbye to my family, then woke up here. There’s no in between. Only then and now.
Goodbye family, hello migraine.
I’ve been kidnapped, imprisoned, and trapped without reason. All I keep thinking is I’m going to die. The anxiety brings on a panic attack, which debilitates me further. Before I realize it, I’m hyperventilating. Each struggled breath causes more and more pain, making my head feel like it’s about to burst. Now, I want to die.
I swear my eyes didn’t hurt nearly as bad as this, and I thought that they had popped.
Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
Meditation helps. It’s a challenge to clear my mind and concentrate on breathing, which is hard when faced with trivial bullshit, let alone the horrific, life-altering new problems I’m confronting.
Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
That’s why monks make a hmm or omm noise. It’s easier to concentrate on one thing rather than nothing. I once read it’s not important to think of nothing, but to stop thinking of what you can’t control.
Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
All of this is easier said than done. Most of the time when I try to meditate, I end up daydreaming, then I pull myself out of the daydream and try to meditate again, only to fall asleep.
Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
After what seems like hours, I can open my eyes. I shouldn’t stand yet. The second I go vertical, it’s going to feel like someone hit me in the back of the head with a brick. At least now, I can see my new jail cell.
Really, this entire world is my prison. It’s odd how a world can imprison. How something so expansive can confine. I was trapped on this planet with no chance to leave or see my family again. Now I’m in an actual prison. It’s a prison within a prison.
Although, looking around, I’m shocked that this prison is so posh. No steel bars, no chains, no guards, but they may have locked one of the doors.
The room is massive. It’s the size and height of the whole barn house, if not larger. The walls are constructed out of sleek, pearly white square stones that line the whole room. A picturesque painting of someone’s rendition of heaven engulfs the ceiling. Beautiful fluffy clouds painted in shades of white, pink, and light
blue float across. Each cloud shimmers, outlined in silver and gold. Life-size angels with amber hair dance, while others embrace their lovers. It covers the whole ceiling. Impressive.
The bed is no joke, the size of four king-size beds and I’m lying smack dab in the middle of it. Draped over the entire bed is a brown fur comforter. A pile of embroidered pillows lines the head of the bed, while extra blankets sit at the foot. The headboard sits under a large window. The door to the left of the bed may lead to a balcony. I hope the landscape hints at where I was taken.
Rolling over onto my left side, I see a glamorous spa area complete with an enormous clam tub. It looks real from here. I can see the ridges and grooves in the surface. It might be a cockleshell—white, cream, and brown on the outside, with various shades of bruised purple on the inside. I’ve never seen a cockleshell bigger than the size of my hand, but this is the size of a car. The bottom half is a tub while the open top half is a lounge covered in soft, sandy-colored furs. It’s a mermaid spa fantasy.
I roll onto my right side to find rows of clothing and accessories. There are aisles upon aisles of clothes. Bright colors, dark colors, furs, materials I’ve never seen before, shimmering clothes that float as if made from air, and shoes. Crazy high heels that would break my ankles in one step sit on the endless racks. Ridiculous stilettos as skinny as toothpicks with weird angles that look impossible to walk in and make me cringe at the thought of wearing them. At the end of the clothes and shoes is a reclaimed wood vanity without a mirror. The vanity itself has multiple drawers and shelves. What could be inside all of them?
Mom and my sister would love this room. They would never want to leave. It figures their heaven is my hell. Their paradise is my prison.
Why would someone imprison me here?
After what feels like another hour, my head can tolerate sitting up. Okay, my head doesn’t hurt as bad. It still pounds, but it won’t spike if I explore.