by D. Fischer
Like the whipplemonk, the Igna Elves blend with their surroundings. That’s this tribe; I’m sure of it. The Igna are the only Elves skilled with bows and arrows. They’re the hunters. Trained in distant accuracy and aim, they’re deadly with the weapons they strap to their back.
My eyes snap to a subtle movement within the branches. The change of wind causes an archer to shift his weight, which was resting, hidden from my view.
An arrow appears in my hand, its make of pure electricity. I lower my body, crouched, back straight and knees angled. Placing the arrow in the correct position, propped atop my finger, I slowly pull back the string with two fingers, resting the curve of my hand against my cold cheek. I blow out a breath through relaxed lips and loosen my fingers, releasing the grip. The string vibrates as Ire’s arrow whistles and crackles, soaring and cutting through the falling snow as though it doesn’t hinder a sure path.
My target drops from the tree, narrowly missing my arrow’s strike. Agile and graceful, he lands in a cat-like drop. Knees bent, back arched, his fingers steeple against the snow, his rump low to the ground, balanced. He tips his head up, hair whipping in the wind as he pins me with a deadly, daring stare. With elegance, like a panther who rules his jungle, he stands. His posture and movements are slow and confident. Skin as white as snow, he’s tattooed in black ink that matches the bark of the trees surrounding him. If he stood perfectly still, if the wind didn’t grab hold of his dark hair, I would never have seen him.
One side of his head is shaven while hair cascades down the other, reaching his thin waist. His ears point to an exaggerated tip, and horns in a variety of sizes halo his head. His eyes are large and almond-shaped, tilting at an angle like a feline, and dark around the rims. The dark skin around those eyes fades as it travels to the rest of his face, hiding the orbs within their sockets.
Now standing at full height, he spins in my direction. He reaches over his shoulder and grasps another arrow from the leather quiver slung onto his back.
“Igna,” I whisper like a curse, my top lip curled in a snarl. I tense my muscles and prepare to fight for my life.
He lifts the bow, the muscles rippling on his bare arms, and slides the new arrow in place. Holding his pose, those dark orbs bore into mine, unwavering and certain. Being his target, I recognize the concentrated focus, his aim sharp and intent as the tip of his arrow.
The elves are breathtaking creatures, their tall frames roped and lined with muscle. It’s their way of life – they live off this land and what it provides them. With that kind of survival and lifestyle, it’s prudent to have a physique able to withstand it.
His body is still and unbreakable, like cliffs taking the beatings of a remorseless ocean.
“Jaemes,” Erma commands, her tone exasperated and clipped. “Put down the bow.”
“Nuet neame isu-ate,” he mumbles in Elvish.
I stiffen and glare, not recognizing his words, but storing them away anyhow. The language is beautiful, silk, yet roughly clipped. My only knowledge of the basic and simple language is that many words hold double meanings.
Erma translates with a sigh. “He won’t until you do.”
“No,” I snarl.
He shifts his weight enough to set me on edge, and an arrow releases from Ire. Turning the moment it leaves my vicinity, his bow dances with his body, the arch of it blocking my arrow. It rebounds, hitting the tree behind him. The sparks exploding against bark distracts me, giving him time to release his own arrow. I duck and roll but not before the arrow cuts into my shoulder, creating a deep wound as it passes through.
We aim, firing at the same time, before Erma screams in frustration, throwing each hand at one of us. Like sound waves, her magic pulses from her palms, stopping our arrows and throwing our bodies into the air.
My back hits a tree trunk, the wind within my lungs expelling in a quick rush before I drop to the ground. I fling my hair from my face, spit snow from my mouth, and glare at Erma. Jaemes and I climb to our feet, weaseling from the snow drifts each of us landed in.
Erma huffs. The heat of her emotions is enough to prick my skin. “Enough,” she growls.
Jaemes keeps his attention settled on me as he speaks to Erma. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his words accented.
My eyebrows lift in surprise. I didn’t know elves knew English. I’ve only ever heard them speak in their own tongue, even on the battle field.
“That does not concern you.” She spins to him, her back to me. “You will take me to your council.”
“And the angel?” he spits.
Her fingers ball into tight fists, her patience wearing thin. “She will be escorting me.”
Jaemes’ eyes pinch, his posture stiff. I don’t believe him to move, until his lips part enough for a chirp to escape. Cocking my head to the side, I watch as the air quivers beside him. I’ve never been this close to an elf when it wasn’t a fight for my life. Most of them remain on the backs of their Matua, a skeletal two-headed horse, but I’ve never seen how the Matua are brought about. I assumed they were pets, of sorts.
The air thickens despite the chill, and the two-headed animal appears, snorting and pawing the snow. The breeze sends its scent my direction. The aroma is pleasing like a crisp fall night. It becomes abundantly clear elves conjure them, such as I do with Ire.
The matua’s long neck splits at the top, dividing into two heads that connect at the jaw. There is no mane but instead, vertebrae bones stick through the skin, creating flat horns. In contrast to the elves’ long-tipped horns haloing their head, the vertebrae along the matua’s neck are short, thick, and rounded.
There is no saddle situated along the back. A solid plate of bone replaces it, in the same shape and form. I marvel at the skin which holds no fur, the colors matching the elves’ camouflage as though they are one. My eyes skim to the tail, watching the wisps of smoke fidget, unaffected by the breeze of the blizzard. The beast is large and frighteningly so, the hoofs as bulky as a human head.
Sliding the bow up his arm and settling it in the crook of his elbow, Jaemes touches the muzzles of the matua with both hands. “I cannot guarantee her safety once we enter my village,” he warns, his tone lighter.
“I’ll take my chances,” I grumble. He talks as though I do not stand before him.
He swivels his head in my direction. “Do you come by arrogance naturally, or has your ego been boosted throughout time?”
“Jaemes,” Erma warns.
He dips his head, his arm swinging out in an exaggerated gesture as he bows. “As you wish,” he retorts sarcastically, lowering the bow over his head so it’s nestled along his back and chest.
Grasping vertebrae along the animal’s neck, he takes a step forward with a bounce in his pace, bends his knee last minute, and flings his body over the back of the Matua. There are no reigns to guide the animal, and as it begins to move in the direction of the village, I question how they communicate. Do they do so telepathically? Or is the matua and elf connected in a way I cannot understand. I refuse to ask. If I were to voice my questions, I’d have to talk directly to the elf. There’s no way Erma would answer me, not in close proximity of an elf.
There are four tribes of elves, each as deadly as the next. The Yoki are foresters who chop and collect wood, often building the ships and huts all tribes need. The Inga are hunters, gathering skins and meat. Uji Elves are fisherman, manning the clear ocean on the west side of the guardian realm. The gatherers and crop cultivators are the Kaju Elves, feeding the tribes with the grains they grow.
There is no currency among the elves, but instead, they trade their goods, disbursing and living in parts of the guardian realm that hold necessities to sustain their lives.
Each tribe’s tattoos are different colors, matching their trade’s surroundings, and a member from each tribe is elected into the Council of Four. They congregate only when needed or summoned. In this case, Erma is demanding a summons, but for what?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AIDEN VANDER
DEATH REALM
In the arena of the Colosseum, Corbin stands next to Kheelan. Behind them, I watch as Kheelan turns shade by shade, giving them beating hearts, making them human against their will. Their skin changes from transparent to pigmented. They don’t want it – they know if they die, they’ll be gone forever. It’s torture for them. They scream, beg, and plead with the fee, but to no avail. Some even attempt to fight back. The soft sand below our feet rises in puffs of dust as the vampires subdue the shades who do.
I rock my feet from side to side and let the small grains bury my shoes in hopes of rooting me to the spot. It’s a struggle to not show the effect their fear is having on me. It’s an untamable lust which grips my abdomen, threatening to wake the demon I am. But I can’t. I can’t show Corbin what I truly am. It’s a card which must be played by a careful hand and instructed by a calculating mind. No one can control me. The corners of my lips tilt. If he were to learn this . . .
I wipe the smile from my face and eye the back of Corbin’s head, my thoughts traveling to other matters while the innocent scream before us. It’s abnormal that I feel no sympathy. A part of me wants to, but I don’t know how. Emotion is a weakness that my third birth obliterated. The memories of them are easy to recall, however. It’s an oily slickness that was capable of breaking me. Even the ones that feel as though I were drowning . . . I remember them well.
The humans’ fear wafts my direction in puffs of smoke that only I can see. It’s taunting, like the scent of a turkey cooking in an oven on a Thanksgiving Day. I’m a starving demon, kept from a full feed for this very reason. Corbin knew I’d feed this day, and I also believe he knows I’m holding back from him. To attempt to force me to show him exactly who I am is a careful plan; I’ll give him that.
A woman, a shade, is dragged from the tunnel by two vampires, the sand engulfing her toes as she digs them in. She’s young, maybe in her twenties, with fiery red hair. I cock my head. She reminds me of Eliza.
Eliza, my mind whispers . . . The memory hovers inside me: the love I felt for her and the swell of my heart only by saying her name. It’s out of reach, and I’m reluctant to reach inside and grasp it. What kind of demon would I be if I let love rule me?
In the dining hall, the same thing happened, but it was strong. Like fear, I could almost taste it. It was a different kind of feeding, one which I haven’t had the pleasure of consuming, and one I knew only she could provide. It was different – it wasn’t substance but more of a vitamin I was missing. But as her fear grew in my vicinity, it fed me, squashing every chance I had at this new entre. No matter how hard I mentally tried, I couldn’t grasp it, test it, see what it was. Not while I was feasting. It’s my nature now even though I saw how much it hurt her. Tears shed from those eyes that once captured my soul. She had wiped them away with hands that once held mine.
I lift my arm and look at my palm, seeing the lines and texture, remembering what it was like, what I felt when it ran over her skin.
My subconscious whispers to me, You were meant to love her. My jaw clenches, and I drop my hand, squashing what I see as a weakness. I can’t. I won’t. I am more.
The woman is released from the vampire’s grasp and she drops to her knees. The fall is muffled by the sand, and her wrists are shackled behind her back with cuffs that seem as transparent as she is. “Please,” she sobs to Kheelan, her bottom lip quivering.
Corbin crosses his arms behind the slope of his back. In fear for herself, the woman tilts her head to the sky which holds nothing but the foggy mist I remember so well. What could she be looking for up there? A savior? There will be none for her. This is the last step to her end.
With only a thought, Kheelan begins the transformation. Her spine arches to an impossible angle, her chest bows, and her mouth opens wider than her eyes. Screams fill the arena, reverberating off the stadium as they rip from her throat. Spittle flies from her mouth, dribbling to the sand, and her face is pinched, contorting in an unimaginable pain.
I twist my midsection and observe the rows and rows of climbing seats, distracting myself from the growing weakness inside me. I doubt any shades will fill them, but from what I’ve gathered from conversation after Eliza fled the dining hall – this is going to be entertainment for the sadistic minds. Demons and vampires will fill those seats, feeding from terror and leftover blood while a battle ensues across the sands.
Her scream reaches to a new pitch, animalistic and agonizing.
Another fee is to arrive soon; Sureen of the dream realm. I’ve heard she has a few creatures of her own she plans to transport. I can’t imagine what a dream realm would hold when it comes to a capable warrior, but Corbin is giddy about it though tight-lipped.
I look back to the shade, my perusal boring. The solidity starts at her fingers, raising to her arms, her neck, and her face. The process is quick and surprising. I remember the feeling of my new heart beating within my chest. I remember the process. I remember the agony.
Regifting life should be a lengthy process, but as soon as it starts, her screams reaching a pitch that offends my ears, the process is finished. Her breaths come heavy, and her shoulders rise and fall with effort, her lungs refilling with oxygen it needs to feed the new blood pumping in her veins. Her head droops with exhaustion, red hair cascading in a curtain and hiding her features.
Feeling weak at the knees, she needs the vampires to hoist her up by the elbows.
“Where do we put her?” the blonde vampire hisses, his tongue snaking out to lick his bottom lip.
Corbin turns to Kheelan. “This is the twenty-fifth shade you’ve turned, Kheelan. I believe you owe them the fulfillment of your earlier promise.”
Kheelan’s greasy hair sways at the ends as he rakes his fingers over his scalp. “Very well,” he mumbles, waving a hand in the air.
The woman doesn’t see it coming. I knew she wouldn’t. As her head dangles from her shoulders, her exhaustion too great, the vampires take advantage. Not that she’d be able to stop them.
In a blur of speed, one vampire is at her back, and the other is at her front. They open their mouths wide, exposing fangs, and strike like a snake, teeth searing into flesh with fascinating ease.
“When does Sureen arrive?” Kheelan asks, watching the vampires grip her skin, their nails digging in. Their claws puncture her, blood welling around their fingers. She struggles at first, like a baby rabbit caught in the mouth of a cat, and then begs in unintelligible whimpers, her hands pulling at their arms.
“After the wedding,” Corbin murmurs, consumed with the sight before him. I imagine he doesn’t get to witness this often.
He peeks to Corbin. “And she’ll bring them?”
“Yes. Their hearts already beat in their chests.”
Blood pours from her neck as they feast, their actions animalistic. It trickles down the slope with sluggish speed, pooling at the hollow of her collar bones. The iron scent wafts its way to me, and I shift my weight. If I can smell it, so can the other vampires.
I barely have time to finish the thought before more arrive. They bite into her wrists, her thigh, hissing at one another to feed their hungry bellies. Her moans fill the silence, and the beasts drink their fill. Eyelids fluttering, she raises her gaze to mine. I hold it, watching the light leave her eyes, fading faster than the beats of her new heart.
KATRIANE DUPONT
THE TWEEN
I step through my portal and check over my shoulder, watching it swirl into a smaller circle before it disappears altogether.
It’s hard to breathe here, like the air is too humid. I swivel my head, taking in my surroundings.
Dead, gnarled trees, so tall I can’t see their tops past the fog that dips and sways like an ocean. Brittle twigs and dead foliage crunch beneath my shoes when I begin my hike.
Placing my hand on the bark of a tree next to me, I slide my palm over it, feeling its rough texture. This forest seems so deceased. Is it meant to be t
his way? It’s almost like they hover between life and death – a transition of sorts. And then it hits me – this isn’t the earth realm, nor the death realm. This is the tween: the transitional space before the death realm. It’s meant to ease, and create a sense of calm, neither of which I’m getting from it.
I close my eyes, chastising myself for the stupidity I’m showing lately.
As my skin prickles with goosebumps, my spine quakes with shivers. It’s freezing here, and I shouldn’t dawdle. If the sandman was eager to reach me, to beg me to save Dyson and the others, then time must be a factor.
My feet are obnoxiously loud with each footfall in this quiet, dead forest. I cringe with each placement of weight. Gritting my teeth, I force myself into a faster speed.
I don’t know much about the tween, but there has to be an entrance to the death realm somewhere. Some sort of portal, maybe, similar to mine. I want the hell out of here.
The farther I go, the more the blanket of fog thickens along the bed of the forest. I trip over something solid, a hard object I can’t see in this sea of moving white mist, and I grit my teeth once more, paranoid it’s a monster lurking under the fog. I concentrate more on walking, feeling with my toes against the soles of my shoes while I sneak along. My shoulders bunch on their own, my emotions feeding tense muscles.
Despite the cold, the air here is thicker, heavier, and smothering. It’s like the midsummer humidity but with a wintery, hefty bite. My foot steps on a rock, and I wobble before placing my hand on a nearby tree to catch my balance. Curiosity overcomes, a momentary weakness in my striving to continue. I bend, dip my hand through the fog, and grasp the object. It looks like the earth realm’s rocks.
A breeze, out of place and certainly not nature-made, tickles along my neck, followed by a ragged intake of breath. I freeze. The goosebumps raised against my skin harden, bringing the chill to my bones. My heart thuds in my chest as another breath tickles the back of my neck.
