Disobedient (Rise of the Realms: Book Two)

by D. Fischer

  My gaze tips to the weapon in his hand. His lengthy fingers grip a long, wooden handle, and a chain attached to the top, dangling a spiked ball inches from the ground. It looks heavy . . . an omen of a painful, blundering death.

  “Beasty,” a high-pitched male voice babbles.

  I spin to the voice as the people part and look toward him. The owner sways, rocking back and forth while seated on the floor. The man’s arms envelop his calves in a tight vice. I recognize him immediately. Anger rips through me like heat rolling from a blazing oven. I take a step forward, my hands balled into straining, tight fists.

  “You!” I shriek. The sandman places a cold palm on my shoulder, stopping me. “You’re him. You’re the peeping human who got Myla killed.”

  “Easy, dragon,” the sandman rumbles. “His name is Gandalf, and her discovery wasn’t his fault.”

  “I know his name,” I snap.

  Gandalf shimmies his rump along the floor, his back hitting the pristine, white, stone wall, and the edge of his head bumps the weapons. The metal swords sway as he curls in on himself. Peeking over his hairy forearms, he cackles an inhuman laugh. “End-inning.”

  I cock my head to the side, my hostile emotions fleeing as fast as they came. He rocks, tucking his face back inside his arms and chanting the same word. He’s insane I realize. A small part of me finds glee in that.

  I look up and glare at the sandman. Though his height is intimidating, I’m directing my outrage and tension on the next available person. “What do you mean it wasn’t his fault? How long has he been here?”

  “A long time.” The sandman glances over his shoulder to Gandalf. “I was forced to place a false dream upon him, creating suspicion in hopes he’d expose Myla.”

  A lightbulb goes off in my head. “He didn’t die in the past, Sandman. How did he get here?”

  “Corbin and Kheelan,” he mumbles, his jaw ticking.

  “So, her death is your fault?” I cross my arms and cock my hip. He inclines his head. My anger deflates for reasons I can’t fathom. My heart has a soft spot for my sandman, and I’m not sure why.

  Huffing, Dyson spins to face me, cutting off our conversation. “You might be too late.”

  I untuck a hand and wave it in the air, swirling it in the space around us. “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

  He glares, his lips tense. “Do you fully understand what we are walking into?”

  “Sure, I do.” I nod once. “Our death.”

  TEMBER

  GUARDIAN REALM

  Erma paces the office while rubbing her arms. The action is becoming repetitive as her stress level rises. “I will go retrieve Katriane,” she mumbles, her voice weak with the weight of the situation.

  My attention is still glued to the chair Corbin sat in. He disappeared shortly after dropping his one and only smug secret. He enjoys his mind games, his trickery, and disappearing in a timely manner, leaving behind chaos and fear. It never fails.

  Jaemes shakes his head. “You will do no such thing.”

  “You must stay here,” I add and then frown, finding myself supporting Jaemes’ statement. I shake it off and continue. “There will be repercussions for what Jax and Dena witnessed. You need to address the angels. Discuss with them what you have discussed with the elves. Ease their worry and get them on board. Your job is to protect this realm. You let me care for my charge.”

  Jaemes places his hands on his hips and slightly bows to whisper in my ear. “Our charge.” I purse my lips and pretend as though I didn’t hear him. It’s better this way, to refuse to encourage him and instead, think of him as a fly on the wall, bothersome and intruding . . . something to squash with the heel of my palm and watch in satisfaction as he plummets to the ground in a crumpled heap of guts and twitching wings. I allow a small smile.

  Erma scratches her scalp and rakes a hand through her hair, snagging at the ends. “This is a disaster.”

  Jaemes nods. “A swirling mess of doom and gloom.” Standing beside me, arms crossed over his chest, his feet wide apart in a confident stance, he adds, “I trust the Wingless Mascot’s assessment. The arrogant fee is untrustworthy, and so are your angels. You must stay. I will go, retrieve the dragon, and save the day.” He looks to me, sweeping his stare from my head to my toes. A nostril flares. “Tember can help . . . maybe.”

  I roll my eyes and throw my hands in the air. “I can’t do this.” I whirl to Erma, raising my voice. “I can’t work with him!”

  Jaemes swivels his head back to me, one side of his face pinched with a smile of satisfaction for ruffling my non-existent feathers. “If I would have known I’d be escorting a toddler prone to tantrums, I would have brought a rattle to distract you from potential meltdowns.”

  My nostrils flare. If looks could kill . . .

  Erma takes a deep breath and rubs her temples. “Do we know why she’s in the death realm? How she arrived there? What her purpose is?”

  “No,” I grumble while keeping my eyes on Jaemes. Before he had me riled, I had been questioning that myself. I cannot fathom the logic behind her actions.

  “Then go,” Erma says, exasperated. She rolls her delicate hand in the air and dismisses us without another look. “Be discrete; do not get caught.” To the left of Jaemes, a portal forms in the shape of a brilliant yellow orb. “I won’t know if you land in his dungeons. Hide your natures.” She turns, glaring as she catches our eyes. “If either of you kill one another, I’ll dangle the survivor in the East Ocean and summon Corbin’s Pyrens to feed from your toes.”

  Jaemes leans to me once more. His silky black hair falls loose from behind his shoulders and sways in the small space between us. “Interesting imagery,” he murmurs. “I haven’t had a conversation with the octopus-headed fish people in a while, but I’ve never asked them if they enjoyed the flesh of an angel. Perhaps . . .” I swing my arm out, punching him in the abs. My fist might as well hit a brick wall.

  Unaffected, he straightens his posture and raises his voice as though what had transpired between us never happened. “Shall we blend in by our wit? Tember’s personality may be transparent, and certainly as dull, but it does nothing for our solid form,” Jaemes adds.

  Erma bites her bottom lip, growling with scarcely contained exasperation. “Go!”

  *****

  Exiting the portal, Jaemes places his hands on his hips and swivels his body to get a full view. The trees look lifeless and brittle, crooked yet tall. I’ve never seen trees like this. A thick fog blankets the ground and the branches above our heads, obscuring any view we could have for a sky and possible vegetation.

  “The Tween,” he declares, and whistles in awe.

  “Very observant,” I mumble.

  He turns, his eyes bulging. “Tember? Is that you?”

  “What?”

  “I –” he stutters, placing his hand over his chest. “You look odd dressed in sarcasm.”

  Pressing my lips, I run my tongue over my teeth and stretch my neck. “Ironic. You’d think someone who speaks only sarcasm would recognize their language when spoken.”

  He tilts his head back and laughs, throaty and deep. “A battle of wits it shall be.”

  Taking the moment, I twist my torso, stretching my spine, and swinging my arms, preparing for a hike. I don’t know how long we’ll be in the tween, but hundreds of years of experience has taught me to always remain limber. Jaemes blows out a slow breath, impatient as he waits for me to finish.

  I plod onward, my shoes crunching against the tree’s bark cluttering the soft ground. “How about we play a game? Hmm? Let’s see how long you can remain silent.”

  “Now that just hurts,” he huffs, traipsing on a twig and snapping it in two.

  “Then my job here is done.”

  Snorting, he retorts. “A mascot’s job is never done.”

  “Right,” I respond dryly.

  We hike in silence for several minutes, studying the eerily quiet forest, our bodies tense and rigid. It’s nothing lik
e the guardian realm where life happens so vibrantly; it’s difficult to miss. Here, nothing exists. The fog swirls against our ankles, the chill tickles our arms, and the crunch of dead wood fills the silence. We should have nothing to fear, yet loneliness emits in the absence of life.

  The distress soaks through my pores and creeps into my bones, making me regret my inconsequential game of attempted retribution. I applaud him for his efforts, and I’m shamed he’ll be victorious. I cannot stand the silence any longer. “Tell me about yourself,” I demand.

  He chuckles. “It’s exactly like a wing-woman to be alarmed enough to lose at her own game.”

  “Do you ever stop?”

  “For you, my shadow, only this once.” He huffs, stepping over a rock’s jagged edge which pokes above the fog. “I’m the son of a chief.”

  “I already know that.” I take a moment, chewing on his lack of words. “You hide behind your sarcasm, but there is more to your story than you care to share. You’re overlooked, aren’t you?”

  Hearing his smacking lips, I squint at him, distractedly ducking to miss a low branch. “Are you calling me an underdog?” he asks. “I believe those are your shoes. My feet wouldn’t fit.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “Deflection?”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say,” he tsks, wagging a finger at me.

  “I’m not a nice person.”

  “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?” He puckers his lips “You are comparable to an Oxtra let loose in a village.” I shake my head at the mental image of the large creature they use to pull wood, wreaking havoc through their feeble teepees. I grab what I can from his words and the ones he doesn’t say. There is more to this elf than meets the eye, and I’m making it my mission to discover what’s behind the mask.

  I drop the subject and ask another question. “Do you think this experiment will work?”

  He hoists his leg over a log, fallen from one of the dead trees. The trunk is split, the remains abandoned to the forest floor. Something large hit this tree to cause such substantial mutilation. “This one?” he gestures with his hand, pointing to me, then to himself. I nod my head and he shrugs. “I suppose we will know if we don’t kill each other first.” Tilting my head, I acknowledge and agree.

  “There,” he points, cutting off my thoughts. Ahead, the swirling fog dips from the trees and raises from the forest floor, creating a wall of billowing clouds. “That’s our entrance.”

  “How do you know?” I ask, watching the fog dip into itself.

  “Do they not teach you anything in angel school?”

  We reach the wall and he runs his hand through the fog, testing it, feeling it. “Wingless women first? Can’t have the hero dying before the rescue is attempted. It’d brand a deprived tale.”

  “Coward,” I mumble under my breath. I search the wall, inhale through my nose, and skulk through.

  The fog licks my skin, tingling, lighting it afire, beating against it. My heart thuds in my wrist, heightened by the assault. This wall is an entrance for the dead, not the living. My breaths come in harsh wheezes as the fog dips inside my nostrils, filling my lungs. It doesn’t hurt – I don’t feel pain - but if I don’t move, I’ll die.

  Gritting my teeth, I push forward, my arms swaying as I blindly feel around. I’m not willing to wait and see how it spits me out. I have no plans of dying here today. A scream rips through my hoarse throat, my eyes pinched, and I use all my force to shoulder through. It’s like wading in a tar pit.

  My foot lands on blessed solid ground, and I stumble against white stone. As soon as I catch my balance, I wipe my hair from my face with an annoyed swipe. Jaemes exits with grace, barging as though the portal was nothing but descending stairs. His bow twirls within his in hand as he surveys the new landscape. His face holds such seriousness, a profound edge, and it transforms his features. It renders his witty personality unrecognizable, replaced by the determination of a warrior.

  I bend, placing my hands on my knees, heaving heavy breaths, and looking up at him through my fallen, disheveled, brunette curls. Did the fog not affect him the way it did me?

  I study his steel features, this new expression, and it takes a moment for me to understand why he lifts his bow from a dangled angle. A flexible twist of his narrow hips, the ripple of bicep, the stretch of defined abdominal muscles . . . he reaches over his shoulder, grasping an arrow from the leather quiver against his back. In one swift, fluid motion he settles the arrow between agile fingers, pulls the string back, and without aim, releases it with precision. It feels almost slow motion. My hair brushes my cheek as I turn my head, following the arrow.

  A male vampire hisses, deep and feral, before the arrow imbeds in his chest with a wet thud. The force of the impact is strong, sending the vampire into a stone wall behind him. He screeches and clutches at the wood, ripping the fabric of his shirt and scraping at his chest. His skin peels and flakes, like a freshly baked croissant, until he’s nothing but a pile of black ash along the stone floor, and the arrow settles on top of it.

  Hissing comes from my left, and I twist, spinning on the balls of my feet. I call upon Ire as a hoard of vampires speed our direction. Their arms pump at their sides, and their feet blur as they run, the group traveling as one. The familiar weight of wood settles in my palm, crackling to life against my curled fingers.

  In his native tongue, Jaemes curses next to me. He bends his knees, ducking to the ground, pulls the string, and releases another arrow. The string vibrating as the arrow whistles, departing from his bow. I follow his lead, picking off the vampires one by one, until only a few are left.

  They gather speed and one slams into my shoulder, popping the joint. Her mousy brown hair obscures my vision as we drop to the ground, my back hitting stone. We land with a thump and tiny stones dig into the exposed flesh of my hip. She falls on top of me, and the breath leaves my lungs in one rushed wave. The female’s hissing turns feral and spittle splashes against my cheek. Her hair tickles my skin as I hold her jaw with a tight grip, inches from my neck.

  Screaming in fury, I wrap my leg around her calf and pull, twisting my torso and flipping us over. I grip her neck and slam her skull into the stone, the rock cracking under the force. Her teeth crunch inside her mouth, her limbs flail in surprise, and her scarlet eyes roll. Black sludge seeps from the fresh wound, mixing with her hair and puddling around her head like a halo. She’s not dead yet, though I marvel that she isn’t.

  I look to my left, Ire laying not far. Holding out my free hand, palm up, an arrow appears, forming the long shape of crackling blue electricity. I curl my fingers around it and raise it above my head, gathering strength in my biceps. With a scream, I embed the arrow in her chest.

  Quickly, I scramble from her torso as she combusts into quick, consuming flames. Her screeches reach above others, and I turn to the next, catching Jaemes in my peripheral vision.

  For a moment, I marvel at his hand-to-hand combat. He’s fluid and graceful like a cheetah taking down his prey. His limbs are formidable weapons, fatal as his aim. He bends, ducking from the swipe of his opponent, and slams his shoulder into the vampire’s abdomen. Each movement he makes is quiet, subtle, and effortless. Elves are legendary for their grace in combat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  DYSON COLEMAN

  DEATH REALM

  The crackling electric gates retreat with a pop, and we stand, staring at open space. My heart constricts in fear amidst visions of my red, hot blood splashed and steaming across sands that victor no champions. No one moves. No one breathes. Our bodies are rigid, our minds focused on our last and final rest while a crowd watches the life leave our eyes. Their cheers will be the last thing we hear as we stare, unseeing to a foggy, dejected sky.

  There’s no place for the twice dead.

  I swallow thick saliva, wishing not for the first time in any of my lives I could go back in time and correct every mistake I’ve ever made. I would have done things differently, loved with my who
le heart, devoted myself to the right crowd, walked down the correct path . . .

  It’s the tunnel to our death, the parade to our expiry. My heart pumps, fluttering butterfly wings, and blood rushes, heavy, to my face. Tears prick my eyes, memories held captive within their liquids, and my cheeks burn with regret.

  Kat looks at me over her shoulder, her face carefully blank.

  “Grab a weapon,” I whisper to the group. “Anything. Grab anything.”

  Snapping from my stupor, I go to the wall, hobbling on numb legs, and wrap my fingers around the hilt of a sword at the same time Kat does. Our fingertips brush, a stroke of heat, a caress of clarity . . .

  I tuck my chin as an odd sensation overcomes me. It multiplies, and the cheers from the crowd filtering through the tunnel, the stone walls, and the shadows from the one glowing candle, fade. It’s a zone, a spotlight, held only for one.

  My lips part, and I swallow once more, my Adam’s apple straining against the tense muscles of my neck. It’s a feeling I can’t place, a mental touch – an internal nudge – a flooding emotion that has no one word to supply a definition. It starts at our fingers, traveling up my arms in sprawling heat, and wraps around my chest like the comfort of a lover’s embrace.

  My wolf stirs from the buried position he’s placed himself in, curious, observing our brushing skin.

  My heart fills, heavy yet captive with the consuming emotion. I lift my eyes to hers, holding them, refusing to blink for fear it’ll be the last time I ever see their shades of brown and gold flecks.

  I brush my knuckle against hers once more, feeling the last stitch, an invisible knitting of my heart, mending the shambles of my broken life. I am the cloth, and she the seamstress. What is this?

  Mate, he declares inside me, standing on all fours. His posture is certain, unwavering. I bite the inside of my cheek.

  Shit.

  “You okay?” she asks. The specks of gold in her eyes sparkle as she double blinks. Did she feel it too?