by D. Fischer
DISOBEDIENT
Book Two of
RISE OF THE REALMS
D. FISCHER
Disobedient (Rise of the Realms: Book Two)
Copyright © 2018 by D. Fischer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any printed or electronical form, without written consent from the author. This book is fictional. All names, characters, and incidents within are pure fiction, produced by the author’s vivid imagination.
This book contains adult content. Mature readers only. The author will not be held responsible if a minor reads this book.
ASIN: B07B7CVP9H
ISBN-13: 978-1987705317
ISBN-10: 1987705319
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Epic
Everything in this book is fictional. It is not based on true events, persons, or creatures that go bump in the night, no matter how much we wish it were…
To my husband and two sons, who believe in my dreams and love unconditionally. If it wasn’t for them, my world would be absent of hope.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
PROLOGUE
“A child, who is not embraced by a village,
will burn it down to feel its warmth.”
– African Proverb
AIDEN VANDER
THE VOID
There’s a space – a void – between all connecting realms. It’s where nothing can fit, and everything has a place. It’s where no senses exist, yet I feel it there, scarcely out of reach. This is where I am. That’s where we are. We are nothing, and we are everything.
Floating to unknown destinations, passing by other lost souls who sail with no purpose, I hear them whisper, moan, cry, but I can’t reach out. I can’t touch them, comfort them, bring peace to whatever is left of their souls.
It’s impossible – it should be impossible – that I tingle. Every inch of me ripples with a prickling, uncomfortable sensation. I can’t see. My mind can’t focus on any one thing. I’m nowhere and everywhere, expanded in a time - a place - that doesn’t exist. That shouldn’t exist. But it does.
A small part of me, the part that grasps this as my new reality, wants revenge. If I could, I’d rip that Fee limb from limb, but even if I was whole, I know I’m no match for him. I have seen his power – he brought me back. He had made my heart beat again, caused blood to flow through my veins and warmth to heat my fingertips. I had felt my veins pulse through my neck with an unrelenting fear.
Life shouldn’t be that way. Death shouldn’t be that way. Once someone is dead, they shouldn’t need to feel fear anymore. They shouldn’t be re-given life. Death is death – the end of a cycle and the beginning of a vicious circle of potential regrowth.
There’s no place for the twice dead.
A sob escapes my nothingness. Where am I?
Images of my life, both as the living and the dead, flick through my mind like shooting stars across the expanse of a black sky. I can’t grasp the images; I can’t hold onto them for more than a few seconds. It’s torture… the consequence I pay for doing nothing wrong.
This is the eternal punishment I don’t deserve. But, I’d do it again. For her.
CHAPTER ONE
KATRIANE DUPONT
MYLA’S PAST
The sun sets in the west, rays of pink and gold painting the clouds as a masterpiece no artist’s genius is capable of capturing with a few strokes of a withered brush. But at this moment, one mastermind attempts, his uneven, wooden easel rocking against the dirt with each sway of wind and bump of his wrist.
He is set up not far from my cell beneath the gallows, his left side facing me, his paint brush in hand, and smudges of color covering his bare left cheek.
Observing the barren trees, he angles his head, licking the corners of his lips, attempting to take in the full glory of the view before him. Is he really seeing it? Is he seeing the beauty of what is before him? Or is he simply there to capture something he struggles to scratch the surface of?
I can relate to that. That’s the story of my life–not understanding circumstances I’ve been dealt but trying to live through it anyway.
I breathe deep, watching him as he concentrates, his tongue flicking out again, licking his plump bottom lip this time, and coating it with a fine layer of saliva. He has not a care in the world. Or maybe painting is his escape from it. Maybe he has problems, and he came here for peace. This sublimity may in fact be his escape from the ugliness inside of him.
The sun colors the barren branches, illuminating the grooves of each chunk of bark and every flaw in its grain. A wooden swatch is tucked in his elbow, dotted with different colors of paint. He dips his brush, choosing a color I can’t see from where I sit. The bristles swirl and sway to the artist’s demand, a slave to a fist, absorbing the liquid of his choosing. He lifts it to the easel, and drops of gold drip on his tattered shoes. With a careful flick of his wrist, he strokes a strip of bland gold onto a blank canvas.
I watch him for a while, attempting to capture the beauty of his time, trying to see what he sees while I’m reminded of my circumstances.
This is his time . . . not mine. I’m stuck here, my back slumped against the cold bars, clothed in Myla’s dress, wedged in Myla’s time. All around me is a reminder of my failures.
A chilly breeze wafts between the bars, tickling the back of my neck. My skin pricks with goosebumps, and I attempt to soften them by rubbing my hands against my arms.
All those dreams of a damsel being rescued by a handsome prince are fairytale garbage. When it is needed most, no one will be there to aid me, exactly like Myla.
I gulp, swallowing nothing within my dry, parched mouth. Myla’s dead.
Every breeze that blows through my bars smells of horse manure and human waste as the dark thoughts churn in my head.
People pass my iron cage, their capes or dresses billowing behind them like clouds of mist. Some throw half eaten apples, aiming perfectly to fit the fruit between the bars before they thump to the ground at my feet. They laugh, sauntering away as if they’ve provoked a captured monkey set here to torment for their amusement. I’ve been the laughing stock of the village all day, my execution scheduled after dusk.
Mistakenly soiling my face in a layer of grime, I scrub my hand over the sensitive skin, leaving behind smudges that I quickly dismiss. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.
Corbin has yet to show, and I doubt he will. He abandoned Myla, his own wife, when she was hung for saving the village. What would be any different in the case of my execution? I’m nothing to him.
If he’s off trying to find his daughters, he best not attempt. It’d be a waste of time. I don’t know Erline well, but the feeling is growing that if she wants to keep something hidden - like dirty little secrets and lies - then she will. Nothing will keep her from doing it.
In my opinion, which doesn’t seem to be a popular one of late, it’s the ultimate deceit, pretending to be some
thing or someone you’re not. Erline’s lying to herself, hiding her alternative motives for self-serving reasons, purely to please her own agenda. I’ve had some time to think about it, stuck here in the gallows with nothing to do but ponder the previous events that ultimately lead to my demise. My death. Soon, I will die. That has yet to settle in. I have yet to accept it. I’m here, sitting in the dirt, my heart beating in my chest. The oxygen enters my lungs, and my chest rises and falls. I exist. How could I go through an event that ends everything I am? How can one living thing exist and then suddenly cease? The thought displeases and disgusts me.
My conscience bucks against the idea that a life can easily be winked from existence by a simple command, a pull of a trigger, or the tightening of a noose. One minute, I’ll be there, breathing, living, and the next, I’ll be gone. The thoughts rumbling in my head will stop, along with the flow of blood in my veins. My body will be a shell, a cracked nut, hollowed by greedy fingers. I sniff and rub my nose with my wrist. More importantly, how can someone so easily end someone’s existence as though it doesn’t contribute to the circle of life?
I roll my stiff neck, trying to dispel my focus to simple and easy distractions. It doesn’t work though as I ask myself: Will I even go to the death realm?
Time travel wasn’t something we learned inside the coven. I didn’t even know it was possible, but here I sit, in the dirt, watching a man from the 17th century try to make something out of himself, his paintbrush his muse. I don’t know what will happen to me if I die in a time that isn’t my own.
Maybe that’s what I need – a muse. I chuckle to myself. The painter squints over his shoulder, a scowl furrowing his brows at breaking whatever sliver of futile concentration he’s clinging to. I look away, the smile still plastered on my lips, the slight breeze chilling my teeth.
I’m losing my mind. The stress is causing me to have inappropriate reactions to ridiculously terrifying situations. Who knows? Maybe this is an appropriate reaction to an impending death. I wouldn’t know.
The only thing I can think of that comes close to a muse is an angel. An angel, my angel, sent me here. Someone who’s meant to be divine, to watch over those who cannot protect themselves against the grave vulnerabilities of the mortal world, and she, herself, became the very thing I needed protection from. I was too blind to see it. Maybe I didn’t want to see it. Maybe I wanted someone, something, to believe in and call my own. It’s no secret that I’m a lonely fool.
My jaw ticks of its own accord, fury driving the motion.
Cutting her wings was a good choice. She’d be a better fit in the demon realm among those who enjoy terror and manipulation – those who specialize in it. She seems to be a master in that area.
I shift my foot and a puff of dirt rises and tickles my nose. My legs are falling asleep. The nerves ripple a painful tingle beneath my skin and the muscles beg to be stretched.
I paced for hours last night, trying to work around how I could possibly live, knowing anything I do will alter the future. Once my ankles grew swollen, I sat and since haven’t moved. My stomach grumbles, and my mouth is dry as the dirt below me, parched from lack of water.
A mound of feces lay off in the corner from previous captives, most undeserving I’m sure. Flies buzz from pile to pile, their flight slowing with impending death. I wrinkle my nose every time the breeze carries the stench my direction. I don’t dare go myself. Besides, I heard that once you die, you expel all waste from your body. Choosing to go out with a bang, I’ll leave them a mess to clean up after they’ve snapped my neck.
Metal clinks and jingles from off in the distance, and a whistle passes lips I can’t see. I startle, my head tilting up to stare into a periwinkle sky. The sun has plunged over the horizon, abandoning me and the stars. They twinkle overhead, seeming brighter tonight than they normally would.
That will be my last sunset. The beats of my heart are numbered.
The painter is long gone. Grooves in the dirt are etched where the pegs of his easel had dug in. I didn’t even hear him leave. Did I fall asleep? Was I so lost in my own reflections to watch the sun’s final rest?
Footsteps grow closer, the whistling changing tune to an uneven-pitch. Torches glow over the dead leaves littering the ground. The new light reflects on their dry and crumbled silhouettes, casting large shadows against the dark, silent, and morose trees.
A hand curls around the bars before the body comes into full view, a wicked grin matching the face with evil eyes.
“Petite sorciére,” he states in French. “Your time has come.”
I swallow, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, my heart pumping in my chest, and blood roars in my ears.
I’m not ready for this.
TEMBER
EARTH REALM
Kat looks peaceful, tucked under her blankets, the hems pulled to her chin. My lips twitch when I remember a story the earth realm has about a princess placed under a sleeping spell. Kat used to watch it when she was nothing but a few feet high, sitting cross-legged in front of a box that flicked bright images across a glass screen. Perched on a tree outside her living room window, I would watch her, chuckle when she giggled, smile when she twirled to the soft instrumental music. I envied her innocence.
Unlike that precious little tale, Kat has no prince to rouse her and no kiss to wake her from an eternal slumber. It’s at this moment that I truly see Kat for what she is.
A coven-less witch, no family, no lover . . . She’s alone, powerful, and without guidance. I was sent here to do just that while gently discovering the truth. Instead, I manipulated her. I bent her to do as I wished, and she had no idea I was doing it because she craved what I provided – companionship.
I wonder what she speculated when her dreams morphed, blending with Myla’s memories. In these few short days, Kat hasn’t spoken a word about them.
Guilt rides my back. It seeps through my ribs and wraps my heart in a constricting vice.
I snap back to reality as Corbin bends, his torso looming over the bed. He reaches and slides the back of his hand against her dusky pink cheek. It’s an affectionate touch, one I wouldn’t have believed to come from Corbin. I expect her to twitch, to wrinkle her brows, but she doesn’t – her slumber is too deep.
Erline struggles to contain herself, whether in a jealous rage or hatred, I cannot tell. Her jaw ticks at a frantic pace, and her body is rigid as stone. The vibes wafting from her are not of the friendly sort.
“Pick her up, Demon Creator,” Erma barks behind me.
I frown, the skin pinching on my forehead. Erma never behaves this way.
Corbin shifts his head, swiveling in slow motion, and raises a silent, perfect eyebrow. “Pushy,” he tsks. “And rude.”
With gentle ease, he lowers her purple comforter, exposing Kat’s body wrapped in cotton, cherry-patterned pajamas. Sliding one hand under her neck and the other under her knees, he lifts with ease as though she’s nothing but a feather.
I watch him with interest as he drinks in the sight of her like he’s trying to remember every detail, the perfections and flaws. Or maybe he’s recalling memories that are forming in the past. What I would give to learn of those memories. He hasn’t been forthcoming as the new memories form. Whatever reason he regards her, it causes me to pause, rooting a seed of suspicion.
Corbin is a self-centered fee, the most absorbed as they come. Perhaps more so than Sureen or Kheelan. Like his demons, he enjoys the mind games, the twisting of stories, and acting as though life is a puzzle piece of his own construction. I shouldn’t expect more from the creator of terror and demonic activity.
Spinning to face us, his scent wafts in my direction. It’s an alluring aroma, tinged with sulfur. He steps forward, his large shoe creaking the wood boards below our feet. “Who would like to direct this band of misfits?”
Erline pushes past me and places herself in front of Corbin. Her body refuses to touch mine as she passes, and it’s then I understand how upset she trul
y is with me. She doesn’t have to be. No one can be more of a critic to this angel than me.
I can’t see her face, but her shoulders are bunched, pulled back with stiff posture. Such a challenge in the stare she’s surely giving him if Corbin’s face, alight with delight, is anything to go by. The skin wrapped around his eyes is that of an internal jest.
“Erline,” I begin when it doesn’t look as though she plans to move. “Erline, we must get going. If we want to save Kat . . .”
Corbin’s bottom lip pouts with a mocking quiver. “Yes, Erline. If you want to save Kat from a most certain and agonizing death, we best move forward with our half-witted plan.”
Erline’s fingers curl into her palms, and she huffs, the breath passing through her teeth like a kitten hiss.
Attempting to not roll my eyes, I scratch the back of my neck and urge once more. “Erline, you have to touch him – to touch all of us – if we plan to go.”
We don’t have time to dig deeper into Corbin’s agenda. We don’t have time for childish, petty behavior. Digging up the past isn’t in our plans. We must move onward and bring that sliver of the past back to us.
Erline lifts her hand, uncurls her fist, and rests her palm on Corbin’s elbow. Her touch is light, narrowly connecting to the long-sleeved button-down encasing his arm. Erma, with a level of maturity she’s always shown despite her obvious displeasure, reaches to grip my hand while grasping Erline’s.
The wind trickles in from seemingly nowhere, smelling of fresh, wet earth. It howls through the short hallway and enters the room. It’s gentle, caressing, before picking up pace with vigorous force. Papers fly from the book shelf; the clothes whip inside the closet, dangling from their hangers, and the blinds sway back and forth with such strength – I fear they’ll become weapons once unhinged from their hold along the wall. The room begins to blur, my body being tugged this way and that, and my eyes sting enough for them to be forced closed.
