by Kade Cook
Reaching upward to touch the iridescent frozen dust, they jump and sway with the motion of her hand. The more she moves, the more they seem to react to her—drawing and transforming around her, filling the space with spectacular and chilling performances. The once warm meadow of coloured blooms, now bleached with white, is being summoned by Gabrian. Jubilant with her easy success, she spins—embracing it.
As she dances in the wild spectrum of the moment, Gabrian’s senses heighten in joy to feel each snowflake—every one singing to her in a different voice. Within the walls of white, dancing around, a mirage of colours edge gracefully toward her—intent on catching her attention.
A gift from the Ancients, she thinks, for her successes. A gift she must accept. It calls to her. It spirals and sparks in the distance, inviting her to accept its offering of life—free, alive with vibrancy. Its very existence is all for her—a gift to restore faith and strength.
And so she does.
RACHAEL, NOTICING THAT Gabrian headed to bed after lunch, does not question her decision. She knows how destructive her headaches are to her friend’s wellbeing, and seeing the slow deterioration of her health, a nap is probably a wise choice. But after four hours, she decides to check on her in case she needs something, like a drink or if she is hungry—to let her know supper is a little earlier than normal due to an invite from across the way. Old Blue insisted they come over to celebrate the beginning of the weekend with him and his crew.
Making her way up the twisty stairs, she feels the cool breeze as it comes in off the water, seeping in through the open window—nipping at her toes. Topping the stairs, Rachael spies Gabrian’s blankets astray on the floor and edges closer, tiptoeing lightly across the room to gather them and covers her back up—trying not to disturb her friend. Placing a cup of water on the nightstand beside the bed, she reaches down and tugs on the abandoned linen, laying it gently over Gabrian to save her from the chill.
GABRIAN SEES THE IRIDESCENT light gathering closer and closer until it is swirling right in front of her. Breathing in slow at first to savour every ounce of its exquisite taste, she begins to deepen her inhales, pulling in the colours with desperate desire. It is hers. It is a gift, and she accepts it graciously, deepening her draw, deeper and deeper—entangling herself within it.
RACHAEL STOPS HAULING at the bedding. A strange heaviness lunges over her, draining and pulling at her from the inside. Thrusting her hand out to steady herself on the edge of the nightstand, she staggers—lightheaded and weak—growing more tired every second. Her sight dims—dancing with white orbs of light sparking in the approaching darkness.
She stumbles to the floor, realizing what is happening.
Asleep and unaware, Gabrian is killing her.
IN THE FROZEN MEADOW of shimmering essences, flowing dark hair of a familiar woman floats in the icy wind, approaching Gabrian as she devours her gift from the Gods. The woman’s eyes flare with fear, her arm reaches out to touch Gabrian’s flesh. “Stop, Gabrian.”
With no recourse, her voice gets louder, “You have to stop, Gabrian. This light is not for you.”
FEELING THE SCRAPS of life clinging to her soul slowly failing, Rachael crawls up the side of the bed, grasping onto Gabrian’s arm and screams out with one last breath, “Gabrian, wake up.”
Hearing the voice finally sinks in, stirring her from her entangled world, and Gabrian’s lids open, blinking herself awake only to see her best friend’s body lying motionless on the floor beside her bed.
Lurching forward, and flinging the bed sheets across the room, Gabrian slides to the floor, quickly cradling Rachael’s body within her arms. “No, Rachael, wake up. Open your eyes,” she pleads, her own body beginning to rock back and forth, holding tightly to the limp corpse within her arms. “No, no, no, no...” she repeats, frantically rushing her fingers to push against the side of Rachael’s neck, searching for a pulse—some sign of life.
Beneath her touch she finds a beat, a final thread of life still fighting.
The floor beneath them shifts in a dizzying mirage. A low hiss bites at Gabrian’s ears as a dark mist seeps through the cracks in the floorboards—making its appearance, approaching them, and closes in—readying for frenzy. Gargons, Gabrian gasps, watching the toxins creep across the floor—the breath of death here to finish off Rachael’s final claim to life, moving in to feed on what is left of her essence.
Leaning forward, Gabrian pushes her forehead to touch against her friend’s—willing her lender’s gift to engage and return the life she just has stolen, but it refuses—corrupted by her own entanglement with the Gargons months ago, she is useless.
Gabrian watches, her eyes wide and unblinking, as the mist rises and takes form into skeletal forms of souls lost between worlds, vaporous creatures draped in ragged cloth—dark and tattered. They are here, manifesting beneath, and slithering ever closer—crawling on all fours over Rachael’s limbs, spewing out mouthfuls of spindly web that bore seamlessly into her flesh.
Feeling the hold she has on her friend slipping away, the magnitude of fear riling inside shifts and transforms into elated anguish, and Gabrian tightens her grip on Rachael. Squinting her eyes into mere slits across her nose, glaring at the nearest monster, she screams a throat-searing cry. Releasing the hatred outward, she pushes her own life force, her aura, out forcefully toward the darkness surrounding them. A violet hue crackles along the fringes of her violent strike of grey aura. Releasing one of her hands from the steel grip it has on Rachael, she raises it and tries to push back at the Gargons hovering over them. With another yell, her palms burst in pain—igniting into a blinding violet light, sending a hailstorm of purple fire sizzling across the ominous misty form and stalling its advance. The light rips through the haunting mist and the voyeurs hold—dissolving the entangled webs draining Rachael of her soul. Gabrian screams out again as another larger blast surges from her palm, throwing Gabrian and Rachael—flinging them backward hard against the bed, sliding everything behind the blast in the opposite direction—and finished off the marred remains of the Gargons, sending them to dissipate back into the world they came from.
Her extended palm burns and stings from her urgent demands, and she winces in the discomfort, but wraps her fingers back around Rachael, snug against her chest, readying for another battle.
Footsteps rumble from beneath and thunder against the winding stairs as bodies ascend. Familiar figures manifest from the darkened corners, rushing to the scene. Voices in the room lunge at her all at once, fading into a loud white noise as Gabrian rocks back and forth, struggling with her sanity and crying out for help—her face washed in tears. Trembling, her hands clutch tightly onto her friend and she begins to mutter incoherently—stuck somewhere between shock and terror at the appalling act of thievery she has just committed.
35
LETTING GO
THE SUFFOCATING STENCH still taints the salted air wafting in from the open windows around them, evidence that death’s scavengers have not long departed. Those who stand witness to the scene being played out in the loft are at a loss but the need to act is urgent as they take inventory of the drained life huddled within Gabrian’s arms, atop her lap.
Shane and Broghen rush to hover over the two girls—muscles tense and awaiting Ashen’s instruction. She hears soft whispers around her head but Gabrian does not respond to Ashen’s inquisitions, all she can do is mumble, drowning in the misery of what she has done.
“Gabrian, let her go. We have to get her to Ethan and Kaleb. You must let Rachael go,” Ashen pleads.
Not flinching in her grip on her friend, the logic of the words cannot find their way through the horror playing in Gabrian’s mind. All she can manage to do is sit—swaying back and forth on the floor, repeating her plea. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know. I am so sorry.”
“Gabrian, let her go,” Ashen says, her voice sounding with more authority. Reaching out and cupping the chin of the tormented girl, Ashen lifts Gabrian’s head, for
cing her eyes upward to make a visual connection with her. “She is slipping and we are running out of time.”
Gabrian’s eyes blink, registering the words...barely. The white cover of flesh resting around her knuckles regains their colour as her grasp releases from Rachael’s shirt.
Ashen looks to Shane and nods. He steps forward and slides his arms under Rachael and rolls her away from Gabrian into him, snug against his chest. He reaches out to Gabrian with his gaze and in the exchange, she sees him—her wide blurry eyes telling him to guard her life with his own.
He nods and ensures her with a jagged breath. “I will. It will be all right.”
She nods back and watery understanding bursts from beneath her dark lashes, running down the glowing flesh of her cheeks.
Rushing quickly to the darkened folds at the edge of the room, Shane slips his fingertips into the shadows—cloaking their bodies within the Veil in search of a miracle.
Ashen looks at Gabrian, who is still on the floor, her legs tucked tightly to her chest. She lowers down once more, resting her hand upon the exposed flesh on Gabrian’s arm, but it’s met without response. Ashen’s eyes flash, jumping up to meet the sea green flare of Broghen’s watchful stare then returns to focus on the distraught girl. “Gabrian, it is time to go. We need to find Vaeda and Orroryn.”
The clouds hovering over Gabrian’s hazy bubble clear enough for her to understand the command just given and the jolt of not going directly to Rachael’s side jars her awake.
“What? No! I need to go to her.”
“We will, I promise, but right now we have to let Vaeda and Orroryn know what is going on. And more importantly, we need to find out what really happened.”
Gabrian’s instinct is to stand her ground and demand to be taken to her friend but she knows there is nothing she can do for her. The weight of her guilt hits her like a truck, striking down any retort she might have used to claim her case. All her efforts to push back the thirsty demon inside had finally faltered and brought her to this moment. Her pride had kept her from asking for help and now her best friend may have paid the ultimate price for her selfish mistake. With this understanding, she concedes to her Elder’s request and pushes herself up off the floor. Catching a glimpse of her image in the mirror across the room, she sees what her claim has produced. While she reflects the image of perfection within its glassy portrayal, Rachael’s vessel lay only inches away from death’s door. She rips her eyes away in horror and cast them toward the other’s filled with shame.
“Yes, of course, whatever you want.” She inhales a deep breath, no longer searching for sustenance for her inner well has run over. She surrenders herself to the large Schaeduwe eyeing her—a hitch of caution in his eye, inadvertently placing his mountainous body between her and his mate as he reaches out to clasp his hand around her tiny wrist, preparing them for the jaunt.
The ultimate sins of her Fellowship have been committed and she knows there is no way she will come out of this unscathed. With her bowed head and her lowered eyes, she readies herself—completely willing to face the wrath of those hungry to punish.
36
FLYING UNDER THE RADAR
FEELING A COOL STING against his skin as the temperature drops and catching the scent of stale, lifeless air seep in around him, smothering out the aromatic smells roaming through his kitchen, Cimmerian stills his hands and looks up from his chopped green onions, gripping the red-handled porcelain knife tight between his fingers—a reflexive response to what disrupts his supper preparations.
“So, my suddenly sullen friend, how are you enjoying your quality time with our little vampire fledgling?” Adrinn settles his fleshless form upon the countertop in front of where Cimmerian has resumed his slicing and grins.
“I am not,” he answers, raising his brow and waves his free hand, shooing the unwanted pest from atop his perch with a shake of his head.
Adrinn shrugs his shoulders at his host’s dislike of his seating choice but slides off the surface, and stands, turning to gaze out the window, his mood slightly altered in response to the reply. “And why is that now? Do tell.”
Letting out a loud irritated sigh, Cimmerian slows his knife again and looks up. “Because, she is not here for me to spend time with.” And wishes he knew nothing of whom the phantom speaks.
Adrinn’s snooty smile vanishes as he wrenches his vaporous neck, turning ever-so-slightly to the side, so his glare peeks curiously at Cimmerian. “What do you mean she isn’t here? Where in the Realm is she?”
“In Canada.”
Adrinn’s brow twitches while his smoky hazel eyes remain focused on Cimmerian, his voice lowers drenched in irritation of Cimmerian’s vagueness. “Because...”
Setting his knife down, and reaching for the glass bowl resting to the left of his wooden cutting board, Cimmerian swipes the small cuts of onion into the container and places it to the side again, then prepares to slice into the sweet ripened peppers sitting within the bamboo bowl to his right.
“Because...” Adrinn hisses again, leaning into the cupboard’s surface, closing the distance between them.
He can feel the air around him thicken with the stench of Gargon toxin in Adrinn’s frustrated state, mostly because he isn’t jumping hoops to appease him. No longer able to stand the smell, Cimmerian stops fidgeting with his meal and looks up at the irritated Specter, slightly pleased at getting under its skin, so to speak. “Because she is no longer just a Boragen. She has managed to find a way to manifest yet another Realm trait.”
“Which is? Now come on, out with it, old boy—spill the beans, as I recall you have never had a problem keeping your lips sealed before.”
Cimmerian’s ebony eyes flare with Adrinn’s insinuation that he is a turncoat—a dark violet haze sparks to life at the center of his palms. Feeling the hatred return for the fiend pressing him, a growl rumbles from his throat as he reveals the girl’s secrets. “She has shown signs of having the gift of Isa.”
“There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he jabs at his host. “Now remind me exactly who that entails again. Living within the toxic realm of Erebus does have its disadvantages.”
Stifling down the need to throttle the annoying presence now sitting once again on his countertop, Cimmerian sighs and moves toward the sink to remove his hands of the scent of herbs and hopefully some of Adrinn’s stench as well. “Elder Ashen Gracie of the Ice fellowship.”
“Ah yes, Ashen. Lovely, I quite remember her.”
Cimmerian rolls his eyes and coughs in obvious irritation of the commentary.
“Hmm? Oh yes.” Crossing his legs and cupping his hands around his right knee, Adrinn’s arrogant smile returns. “Now, you were saying about the girl?”
Shaking his head, Cimmerian clenches his fists but continues just the same. “The Covenant feels that it is in the best interest of everyone involved that the girl is to stay with Ashen. One-on-one mentoring worked well with her and Ethan, so isolating her and allowing her to concentrate all her attentions on containing this task is pertinent.”
Cimmerian waits for an outburst about the Covenant involvement from his infestation but it doesn’t come. Adrinn remains silent except for the crackling of his dark smoky aura as it smolders around him. He slowly descends from his perch and slithers across the kitchen floor.
“What, no haughty retort?”
Adrinn’s eyes are pinched, focused on something not of this space—drifting far away in a place no hand can touch. His head tilts as if the words finally reach him and glances toward the question. “Hmm? Oh, no. Not at all. Quite the contrary, actually. I am just finding this new development to be quite interesting.” He rubs his intangible digits across the bottom of his jaw and looks away again, caught once again in some kind of trance. “Quite interesting indeed.”
“What is so interesting about that? I am sure that when you were...well, solid and here in this realm” —Cimmerian scans Adrinn’s translucent form and flicks his hands out at the lack of
it, still trying to figure out his odd delight with the information— “that you must have seen this before. Many of our younglings develop other gifts and traits different of their own Fellowship. This is mediocre at best.”
Ceasing his internal journey, Adrinn’s eyes rush to meet Cimmerian’s puzzled stare. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this so-called mediocracy, as you call it. Something tells me there may be reason to pay this some consideration.”
Turning his back to his unwanted guest, Cimmerian gathers other ingredients in need of chopping—happy for the distraction. “That is the last thing I want to do. Showing any interest in the girl will only cause more attention to come to me and I want nothing to do with that. After your little display and obvious intent to destroy any kind of peace in my life, once again, I prefer to slip completely under the radar—avoiding this girl like the plague.”
Slithering his way back around the counter, Adrinn heaves himself back atop the counter—aiding in his host’s sudden irritation. “Ah, my dear man, slipping neatly under is one thing, but completely disappearing is quite another.” His eyes flicker, a haze of gold burns at the edges of his black dilated pupils. “Let me put it to you this way—if you slip too far beneath the radar, someone might just notice, don’t you think?”
Releasing a deep sigh, Cimmerian knows he has a point but continues to stand mute.
“And, stepping out of character is the easiest way to get noticed.”
