by Casey Lane
“No,” he said flatly. “Then I’ll stay.”
“I was already prepared to die. And I don’t know where to go from here anyway. It has to be you who goes.”
“It won’t work,” he said, grabbing my hand and starting to run, pulling me along even as I attempted to pull free again. “It takes the Hood to activate whatever is supposed to save us.”
I used the power of my hood to send a small shock at him, blasting his grip off my arm. “Come back for my hood. It’ll still be here. Now, go!”
Then I ran back deeper into the forest, before he could protest, rushing right into the path of the Big Bad. It came into view, a huge beast covered in oil-slick black fur, running on four paws with fangs jutting from its open mouth. If I weren’t so angry, it would have scared me to death.
But I supposed death would have to come another way.
As I collided with the monster, all I could think about was my mother. This thing, this creature, had taken her from me. It had ended her life and snuffed out her light.
I reared back and landed a fist on the thing’s snout. I had never felt power like the energy that burst from my fist in a buzz of red. But it didn’t have much effect. The beast stumbled back a little, but then immediately after lunged toward me, claws swiping and fangs snapping.
My red energy sphere roared back to life. It kept the thing out, but I could tell from the way it flickered and shuddered every time the monster threw its furry body into it that this defense wouldn’t last long.
I needed to think of something else. Otherwise, I would end up ripped into shreds like every other girl who had tried to finish this mission.
Glancing up, I saw a low hanging branch. I had always been good at climbing trees. If I could get up there, then this monster might very well be at a disadvantage.
But to do that, I’d need to let this sphere down.
Taking a deep breath, I counted the beats of my heart and timed them to the monster’s movements. As he rushed toward me, ready to slam into the sphere again, I let it down and jumped.
Landing on the monster’s back, I used it as a springboard and leapt toward the branch. I held tight and climbed up into the tree.
I was so quick, so agile, that this was a synch.
Unfortunately, it came very easy for the monster as well.
It was right behind me, so close that I could feel it’s breath at my heel. A huge force hit against me, and I fell back, hitting branches on the way down. The monster must have caught me with one of its paws.
I turned, crashing hard onto the ground, flat on my back.
The monster seemed to smile as it hovered over me. And then it leapt from its spot in the tree right toward me.
I took a deep breath, ready to be torn apart and join my mother in the Great Plains. The monster dove toward me, its fangs and massive body looming over me, bringing certain death with it. And all I could do was wait. All I could do was pray.
Then, like a bolt of lightning coming from the Great Plains themselves, a wooden spear collided with the beast, knocking it off course and piercing its huge chest.
It yelped as it landed a few feet from me, shaking hard as it tried to dislodge the spear.
Turning back, I saw Hunter standing there, his body sweaty and his hands grasping a second spear, ready to throw.
“To the end,” he said. “I told you I was here to the end. Now if you care about me at all and don’t want me to get killed, then we really need to go.”
Turning back, I saw the wolf had finished the job of dislodging the spear. It was on its feet, rushing toward Hunter.
The sandy haired man threw another spear. Its aim was true, but the beast wouldn’t be had again so easily. It leapt into the air, letting the spear pass by harmlessly.
Hunter turned to run, the beast in pursuit, and I leapt to my feet to follow. Hunter wouldn’t be able to outrun this thing. Even I couldn’t have done that, and I was twice as fast as him with the hood on. If it’d been a reasonable approach, I would have run with him to begin with! What was he thinking?
But despite finding his choice foolish, I wouldn’t allow this man who had given so much for a cause to die needlessly, especially while trying to protect me.
With thoughts of my mother floating in my head, I hurdled myself forward. My back ached and my body screamed for rest, but I didn’t listen.
The sun was quickly setting, and if we didn’t get over that hill before it happened, it wouldn’t matter what sort of abilities the hood afforded me. One hundred hoods wouldn’t have been enough to save us from a full on pack of beasts.
The monster was gaining on Hunter, but amazingly, I seemed to be gaining on the monster. Perhaps it was my stubborn nature or perhaps the last bit of magic material had a touch more potency to it. Whatever the reason, I bridged the gap rather quickly.
As if sensing me, the beast turned on its paws. It snapped at me with huge, drooling fangs, but I ducked. Letting instinct take over, I threw an uppercut into its gaping maw.
It winced with the force, enough to take down a mountain. Before it could regain its composure, I leapt atop its heaving back.
Wrapping too strong hands around its neck, I squeezed, obstructing the windpipe until I felt the airway cut off.
It gasped for sweet oxygen as it whipped around. With another buck, it knocked me off its back. I hit a tree, hard, snapping it in half and sending the trunk falling to the earth.
Spinning on the ground, I managed to narrowly miss being crushed by the tree. But looking at the splinters of wood gave me an idea.
I looked up to find Hunter over me. He had a shard of wood in his hand, aiming for the monster. He threw, but the beast wasn’t playing around anymore. It knocked the wood away seamlessly.
It ran toward us, and standing and running toward Hunter, I created another sphere. This one didn’t encompass us, though. It encompassed the beast, along with half the broken trunk.
“What are you doing?” Hunter asked me, breathing heavy.
“What you told me to do,” I answered, focusing in on things. “I’m finishing this.” I swallowed hard. “And I’m commanding it inward.”
I twisted my hands, forcing the sphere to do as I asked. As I contracted it around the beast, going as quickly and as savagely as I could, I heard its bones snap painfully. It roared in agony, as it contorted into unnatural shapes. Then, when the sphere was no bigger than a child’s playtime ball, I split it in half.
The monster yelped in pain, and then, as its body tore apart along with the sphere, it made no more sounds. It would never make a sound again.
“That’s for my mother,” I said, letting the corpse fall to the ground without ceremony. Then, looking over to Hunter, I added. “Doesn’t look so big and bad now, does he?”
Epilogue
The sun was almost gone in the sky, so we didn’t have much time. Still, something inside of me was holding me back. Leaving these woods meant knowing there was more than the Clearing. That my entire life had been built on a lie. But it also meant a chance at saving my family, and knowing that no other girl would ever have to go through what I went through, what Annabeth went through, and what my mother went through.
That was more than worth it as far as I was concerned.
“What do you think it is?” I asked, holding Hunter’s hand and standing at the top of the hill that would lead us into the outside world.
“No idea,” Hunter said, his voice as full of amazement as his face was.
I could see it in his eyes. He never thought we’d make it this far. Something inside of him told him he was going to die, and he stood by me anyway. Even with the outside world at hand, he turned back for me.
And that was sweet, because I didn’t need him to believe in me. I needed to believe in myself. He’d taught me that, too.
A warm thought passed through my mind. It took leaving my entire world behind for me to realize how much I had to live for, and it took saying goodbye to my family to find someone e
lse who would do anything for me.
“Whatever it is, I bet it’s amazing,” he added, squeezing my hand. “Are you excited?”
“I’m worried,” I said. “I hope that, whatever it is, it’s as great as everyone is hoping it will be.”
“You got this far,” he said. “If anyone can save us, it’s you, with or without whatever’s rumored to be in Grandma’s House. We’re going to be okay.”
“You know what?” I said. “I believe that. I really do.”
He turned toward me, blinking at me with bright eyes. “You’re more amazing than anyone could have guessed,” he said.
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips against mine. The electricity that passed between us surprised me at first, but it didn’t take long for me to lean into it.
And it felt damn good.
“We should go,” he said as he pulled away from me. “You have a community to save.”
I smiled, still feeling the tingle of his kiss on my lips. There was more to him than just a pretty face, and right after I saved everyone I knew, I was going to learn it all.
We headed down the hill, out of the woods and into our future. For the first time in my entire life, was met with the outside.
“Are you with me?” I asked, smiling up at him.
“With you?” he asked. “Until the end.”
To get a FREE full-length book from Kressley and Hamilton, visit http://www.rebeccahamiltonbooks.com/free-books
About the Author
Conner Kressley is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author, an avid reader, and all around lover of storytelling. When he's not writing, Conner can be found in the back roads of Georgia watching old movies, geeking out over books (comic and otherwise), and planning the next of his (some would say way too frequent) trips to Disneyworld. He also loves nature, stories where people are running for their lives, and all things "Southern.”
New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton lives in Georgia with her husband and four kids, all of whom inspire her writing. Somewhere between using magic to disappear booboos and sorcery to heal emotional wounds, she takes to her fictional worlds to see what perilous situations her characters will find themselves in next. Represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA, Rebecca has been published internationally, in three languages.
www.beccahamiltonbooks.com/
A Fistful of Stars
A short story from the Throne of Oz trilogy
By Cameron Jace
Prologue
Glendale, Los Angeles, California,
May 5, 1919
Frank L. Baum, the author of the Wizard of Oz, had only a few breaths left in this life. Yesterday he had suffered a stroke, one that had almost guaranteed his death in a day or two. But dying was the least of Frank’s worries. Not only did he pride himself with a lifelong legacy of stories he was about to leave behind, but also with a beautiful family that surrounded him by his deathbed.
His wife was the closest to him. She’d been the perfect partner in a semi-perfect, but fulfilling, journey. She’d loved him dearly, stood by him in his darkest hours, and given him children he’d have died for. Most important of all, she’d witnessed the inception of Dorothy Gale’s stories and how they took America by a tornado from day one.
Frank had loved her in return and never lied to her — except once.
It was the one lie he regretted as time went by. It seemed the right thing to do at a certain time. Now that the years had passed, and he was dying, he needed to confess to her — and the world — about the truth of who Dorothy Gale really was.
Frank asked his wife to summon the Chronicler, a young man whom he would trust with the one secret he’d kept for so many years.
“Are you sure you want to meet the Chronicler?” His wife mopped his sweating forehead. “The doctor said you should rest. That you’d better not talk much.”
Frank coughed. Indeed, he shouldn’t have been talking, but he had to. If truth and death had anything in common, then it was inevitability: sooner or later they happened, whether you liked it or not.
“I understand there is something you need to tell the Chronicler, but I’d prefer if you rest.” His wife continued.
“We both know I’ve got little time left.” Frank said.
“Don’t be like that. You’ll be all right.” Her eyes exposed the contrary thought in her mind, though.
She knew, the same way he did, that he only had a few hours left. Frank had been in a coma all day. He’d just awoken, repeating the same phrase, over and over again, ‘I’m not ready to cross to the Shifting Sands.’
“Did you just say the Shifting Sands?” His wife said.
Frank nodded reluctantly, as if worried to the spill the secrets on the tip of his tongue. Every devoted reader of the Wizard of Oz knew about the Shifting Sands, a deadly desert that surrounded the fictional Land of Oz. A desert that every Munchkin feared and every child was curious about.
Except Frank never said much about it in the books.
A knock on the door announced the Chronicler’s arrival. Frank’s wife glanced at him and immediately understood. Frank wanted to be alone with the man, at least for a while.
She nodded agreeably and kissed him on the forehead. “Call for me if you need anything.”
She turned to leave and let the Chronicler inside. A young man with long hair, carrying an oversized book, a quill, and bottle of ink. He looked more like a book keeper than an autobiographer.
“Ma’am.” He greeted her with a nod and a tip of his hat.
She greeted him back and closed the door behind her, then waited by it in case Frank called for her.
“I’m ready.” The Chronicler told Frank as he pulled his sleeves back and prepared to write. He was a practical young lad, and of few words. That was how he documented people’s last words. Time was ticking. The Chronicler was competing with death itself.
“What would you like to tell me about, Mr. Frank? Am I here to chronicle your biography?”
Frank shook his head. “You will not need that quill.”
“I won’t?”
Frank pointed under the bed. The Chronicler bent down and took a peek beyond castles of spiderwebs that crawled over a set of vellums. Old books, almost battered, threatening to dissolve into the sands of time very soon.
“I’ve already written all of what I need to show you,” Frank announced. “I did it a long time ago.”
“Then why am I here?”
Frank’s eyes widened. He tried to prop himself on his elbow, but failed. The Chronicler craned his head, in case Frank’s voice would give up on him. “You’re here to witness the greatest secret in American history.” Frank said.
The Chronicler said nothing. Those were bold words, said by an author who’d written the first authentic American fairy tales in history. Before Frank L. Baum’s Wizard of Oz, children’s tales were only like those of the Brothers Grimm, and had been imported into America from Europe like the wine smuggled daily across the borders. The story of the tornado in Kansas, the story of the young American girl living with her foster parents, and the journey to Oz had all been allegories of the American daily life. Even the land of Oz itself, divided into four quarters, the Gilikins in the north, the Quadlings in the south, the Winkies in the east, and the Munchkins in the west were a subtle nod to America’s four corners and the different behaviors and morals of the people who lived in each region.
It was a fascinating tale, full of secrets, allegories, and hidden meanings. But only a few people ever noticed that. The same way it had been years ago when people believed the Brothers Grimm fairy tales were children’s book when they had never been meant to be like that.
But the Chronicler wasn’t here to judge. He just wrote what people told him and published it.
“I’m listening.” He told Frank. “What is this ‘greatest secret of American history.’”
“Two parts.” Frank’s economic approach to his words worried the Chronicler, who prayed the man wouldn’t die
soon before he passed on his secret.
“The first?”
“This isn’t America.”
The Chronicler resorted to silence again. Part of it was patience, allowing Frank’s words sinking in – and in case he hadn’t heard him right. Another part was contemplating Frank’s sanity. It was common for people to lose it on a deathbed. “By this, you mean what exactly?”
“This,” Frank coughed, pointing out the window. “This America isn’t the real America.”
The Chronicler coughed in return. He wasn’t sick, but wanted to make sure his words came out loud and clear enough. “Are you saying America failed to become what you had in mind for a homeland?”
It wasn’t an unusual question. In fact, after years of slavery, blood spilling, gold digging, endless conflicts and confusion about who America’s real natives were, the question had been on tip of everyone’s tongue. It’d been a great place, and promised to rise to its zenith, but in the beginning of the twentieth century there had always been doubts about the morality of how this land had risen.
“No,” Frank said. “I’m talking about the Other America .”
“The Other America?” the Chronicler leaned back in his chair. Frank was most probably hallucinating.
“The one America that has been sucked into a tornado.”
“Oh.” the Chronicler said. “Is that so?”
“Which brings me to the second part of the secret.”
“All ears, Frank.” the Chronicler skeptically played along.
“Dorothy Gale.”
“The girl in the Wizard of Oz book?” the Chronicler was just making conversation. In 1919 everyone knew who Dorothy Gale was. Frank had created America’s most beloved girl character of all time.
“She is real.” Frank said.
