Angels and Magic

by E. J. Bennett

  "The mind knows what is coming. It speaks to you through dreams. Heed their warning young one or suffer the consequences," the old man says in a daze, the whites of his eyes standing out, his words slow and chilling. I look away to hide my nervousness from him.

  Thanking him, I near enough run for the exit, colliding with what feels like a brick wall. My body shoots backwards, hitting the ground hard. Pain shoots through my back like a tidal wave, the air forcefully knocked from my lungs. Painfully, I pull myself to my feet, rubbing my sore hands on my jeans.

  A large man with broad shoulders and a body like a giant stands sneering down at me. Hollow eyes that seem to sink into his face look mean and calculating. They bore through me like laser beams locking onto their target. The smell of garbage and death assaults my nostrils, making my eyes water and my stomach churn.

  His clothes are dirty and wrinkled, like they belong on a wasteland site. He wears the appearance of a biker, rough and ready for a fight. His appearance alone sets off warning bells in my head.

  "What have we here?" he hisses like a snake. My knees tremble slightly at the sound of his voice.

  Another man joins him at his side. He is just as bad as the first, only smaller. His pinched face, dull brown hair and beady eyes remind me of a little field mouse.

  Panic sets in. My mouth becomes dry, my body immobile. My heart jumps into my throat causing my stomach to do somersaults. The way they are looking at me tells me I am in trouble. Their body language suggests they are looking for a fight.

  "What do you want?" Stuttering, my words fall on deaf ears.

  The first man, who I have decided to call Hulk, grabs me by the scruff of my hair tilting my head back. He sniffs loudly grunting like a pig.

  "You smell sweet, intoxicating. A little taste won't hurt," he purrs in my ear.

  The smell of horse manure makes me gag. The taste of vomit enters my mouth. I grit my teeth against the feeling of spewing. My body becomes like a lead weight as fear takes over.

  His iron grip holds firm as I begin to squirm and struggle. The book lays heavy in my hands. With as much force as physically possible I lift the book, hitting him between the eyes. The impact vibrates through my hands. The force or maybe shock loosens his grip allowing me to wriggle free, losing a large chunk of my hair in the process. My scalp burns and stings like it has come into contact with boiling water.

  Darting for the door the smaller man catches my wrist yanking me towards him hard, and the imprints of his fingers linger with a dull ache. I crash into his chest causing pain to run down my cheek and my neck to fling back.

  His eyes turn a startling red, glowing and mocking me. My nightmares have become reality.

  I am officially crazy.

  My head begins to spin as darkness hovers over me threatening to pull me in.

  Shoppers saunter by, not a care in the world. No one notices what is taking place looking straight through me like I'm invisible. Trying to gain their attention, an ear splitting-scream leaves my mouth. I thrash and claw at my opponent to no avail.

  "You can't fight us little one," he spits, snapping me out of my daze. Adrenaline courses through my veins as fire burns within me. The need to fight and stay alive takes over. Picking my knee up, I thrust it between his legs.

  Dropping to his knees freeing me in the process, I deliver a kick to his head with a deafening thud.

  Hulk darts for me. I move to the side, but I am too late. His fist crashes into my face, a sickening crack sounding in my ears. The force sends me reeling backwards, causing me to fall with a thud. My head hits the floor. Agonizing pain shoots through my nose as blood bursts forward. A dull ache in my head makes things look fuzzy, everything spins.

  Before I have time to get up he picks me up like a rag doll and launches me into the air. I sail at a rapid speed before hitting the glass panels. The sound of glass breaking and cracking fills the shop. Agony tears through my body as glass rains down on me.

  Small, sharp and jagged pieces embed into my forearms as I protect my face bringing forth needle-like stabbing pains in the inflicted areas.

  The scar on my right palm starts to tingle and vibrate causing goose bumps to rise on my body. Shivers run down my spine, a feeling out of place for what is occurring.

  Firm hands pull me to my feet. My legs are weak and trembling, barely holding me up. With one fluid motion, my head whips to the side as cold steel hands graze down my neck. My energy slowly dwindles.

  "I am going to enjoy this," he gloats, his slimy tongue trailing along my cheek to my neck, making me gag, leaving a wet trail like a snail.

  "Is this a private party? If so, I am assuming my invitation got lost in the post?" A masculine voice, calm and collected, steals his attention. I recognize the voice but cannot place it. Something buried within me stirs.

  "Chris, haven't you got innocents to save or something?" Hulk's words are laced with venom. Releasing his grip on me allows me to look at the familiar voice.

  Standing just a few feet away, I cannot recall the man. I would not have forgotten someone like him. Yet he seems familiar.

  Leaning on the doorframe, his arms folded over his chest, his foot tapping in what looks like boredom, his baby blue eyes radiate anger, shooting daggers at my attackers.

  He is drop dead gorgeous, the most handsome man I have ever seen. With almost black hair cut into a military haircut, sharp and chiseled facial features with a well-defined jaw and shoulders that are broad and masculine like someone who looks after their body.

  "And miss all the fun?" he says, pushing away from the doorframe whilst staring my attackers down.

  "Chris, this is not your concern," the little man hisses. Seeing my chance while they are distracted, I edge away from them a little at a time. When I am a few feet away, I run as fast as my injured body will allow.

  Within the blink of an eye, the man they call Chris pulls me towards him before pushing me behind him as the other two men shoot forward.

  My breathing becomes erratic and irregular forcing me to take deep gulps of air.

  The ground begins to move underneath me. Piercing pains attack my skull forcing me to my knees. Everything starts to spin. Darkness creeps forward, pulling me under until everything turns black.

  Chapter 3- Chris

  Rushing over to Kayla's limp form, a lump forms in my throat. With a quick inspection, I find that she is still breathing. Sighing with relief, I notice how battered her body is.

  Her face is covered in scratches and the first signs of bruising. Her soft lower lip has a small cut, her nose crooked, obviously broken. Her lower face is covered in dried blood, her arms no better, small and deep cuts cover her pale skin, some still with sharp pieces of glass embedded, glinting in the store lights.

  Careful not to hurt her more than she already is, as gently as I can, I pick her up cradling her in my arms like a baby. Cursing my sister under my breath, I telepathically send my siblings a message.

  "Car now!" the thought, sharp and harsh, realization that we have failed our mission dawns on me. My sister has become too cozy playing best friend. She has let the true meaning of why we are here slip away.

  Holding her close, we vanish from the spot appearing in the back seat of our car.

  James appears in the driver's seat. Concern flashes in his eyes, mirroring my own.

  Gently I lay her down on the back seat placing her head in my lap. Misty appears in the passenger seat, a loud gasp escapes her mouth, followed by a series of emotions filtering across her child like face, shock, alarm and disbelief. Finally sorrow settles over her facial features.

  "I-I am sorry," she stutters, tears falling from her eyes. Her tears do nothing to my emotions as they usually would, too angry and aggravated to care.

  "Let's just get out of here. We will talk about this when we get home," James the peace maker, distracts me from the onslaught of insults I was about to throw my sister's way.

  The car shoots forward and out of the parking lot wit
hin seconds. Looking down at Kayla's sleeping form, I feel the familiar warmth in my palms as a faint blue glow forms.

  I glide my hands over her body, healing her wounds. I leave the bump to her head and the fingerprints on her wrist. My anger begins to rise again.

  Pulling up outside the house, both Misty and James disappear.

  Great, I guess I am the one to tell her foster parents that their daughter has been attacked.

  Getting out of the car I scoop her up in my arms and proceed forward. Her intoxicating scent of jasmine and grapefruit drives me insane. I have not been this close to her in over a decade, but never the less the same instinctive smell still lingers.

  My breath hitches, my heart speeds up as she takes hold of my t-shirt in her fist, snuggling her face closer and deeper into my chest, causing me to stop in my tracks. Taking steady breaths I knock on the door.

  David, a tall well built man with mucky blond hair opens the door. Shock and bewilderment evident on his face, seeing his sleeping daughter in my arms, pushing the door open wider he motions for me to enter.

  "Clara!" He yells, panic lacing his voice.

  "What happened?" he asks his voice accusing. Footsteps echo on the tiled floor, until an elegant woman comes into view. A gasp escapes her. She raises her hand to cover her face, terror and guilt flashes through her eyes.

  "W-what happened?" having trouble getting her words out, as quiet sobs leave her mouth.

  My mind racing, thinking of what to say, what fable I can come up with, I decide to stall. My mind comes up blank.

  "Is there anywhere I can lay her down and I will explain", my voice sounds more confident than I feel.

  "David, ring the doctor," Clara says, on the borderline of hysterical.

  "There is really no need, she looks worse than she is, just shock mainly," I jump in, natural instinct of not getting authorities involved taking over.

  David glares at me, before indicating to the stairs and proceeding up them. I follow behind.

  At the end of the hall he stops outside the last door and enters. Clara rushes to pull back the sheets, as I gently lay her down.

  David motions that I follow him out, Clara closely behind me. Taking one last look back, I follow. We stop in a cozy living room. Taking a seat on the worn beige sofa, David does the same sitting across from me, whilst Clara stands in the door way, anxious to get back to her daughter, but wanting to hear what had taken place.

  "What happened?" David's words are harsh and demanding. They ring through my mind, as I scramble to come up with a lie, a believable one at that.

  I hate to lie, but the truth is more unbelievable anyway plus telling the truth would have major consequence that I am not willing to face.

  So I give them a lie, about her being robbed and Misty ringing me for help. It is the best I can come up with. Today is the day Belinda is coming for her update, unlucky for us her granddaughter has just been attacked.

  Chapter 4- Kayla

  Stiffness takes hold of my muscles like I have not moved in days. Dead weights hold my eyes shut. Forcing them open they sting from the light. I begin squinting and closing them until they become adjusted to the brightness. I finally manage to open them as dark spots blur my vision.

  Inflamed dry lips crack, as my mouth opens a little. My throat is parched and sore. Soft music plays in the background and looking round, my room stares back at me. Pain shoots through the back of my skull as I pull myself into a sitting position.

  Soft teal walls, a pine dressing table my beauty products neatly line my desk in an orderly fashion. My bedside table greets me with a glass of water.

  The cool liquid soothes and eases my throat. A slight headache begins to form bringing forth recent events, another nightmare, different, but a nightmare all the same.

  The scary thing is I cannot remember getting into bed. I remember shopping with Misty. I was in the book store, the creepy old man.... My mind is blurry like a fog has covered my thoughts. The creepy man is the last thing I remember.

  The door creaks open. Clara waltzes in, pulling me into a bear hug. Tears well in her eyes which causes them to glitter. Why is she sad, I hope there has not been an accident? Fear grows in the pit of my stomach at the thought.

  "We were so worried, are you hurt?" Pulling back, she examines me. Her eyes roam over every inch of my body.

  Confusion settles in.

  Why would I be hurt?

  "I'm fine, Clara, why would you think that I'm hurt?"

  "You don't remember what happened yesterday?" Her eyebrows rise, concern and worry etched on her face. My stomach drops and my heart leaps into my throat, causing a lump to form. Biting my lip, I hold back the tears that threaten to spill. Red eyes flash in my mind as my nightmare comes to the forefront of my mind.

  Checking my body over there is no pain or any evidence of the attack. My heart settles and my nerves die down.

  Raising my hand to wipe the sweat that has gathered on my head, I freeze. There, staring at me, are imprints of fingers left behind by the small horrifying man. It makes no sense. There must be a simple explanation.

  "You were robbed. You hit your head pretty hard." She casts her eyes down as I catch a glimpse of sorrow and guilt lining her usually bright hazel eyes.

  That makes sense. People get robbed every day. The red eyes linger in my mind. Two horrid looking men flash in front of my eyes. My mind is just turning my ordeal into a nightmare mixing reality with my terrifying dreams.

  "I'm fine. I remember two men grabbing me. I must have hit my head and blacked out," I say, trying to convince myself more than Clara. "How did I get home?" Bright blue eyes belonging to a handsome young man takes the place of the horrid men with red glowing eyes. The memory of my savior was still vivid in my mind.

  "Misty's brother brought you home. He was a delightful young man." Her eyes light up as she mentions Misty's brother. Clara thinks everyone is delightful, she can see light in anyone.

  I have never met any of Misty's family, nor have I ever been to her house. Her home life has always been secretive. Whenever I ask her about her family or anything personal she is always guarded. She chooses to be at mine a lot; we have had countless sleepovers or just hung out together and she's like a sister and best friend all rolled into one.

  I have never pushed her about her home life as I figure she must have problems at home and that she will tell me when she is ready.

  To hear that her brother brought me home is a shock. I did not know of any siblings.

  "I will get David. He will want to check you over." Sighing, she stands, giving me a small smile as she leaves. Knowing Clara she will be blaming herself for the robbery.

  David comes in moments later, his dirty blond hair falling into his eyes. Walking slowly to my bed he perches on the edge. Nothing ever happens in our small town so when something does, it is kind of a big deal. The robbery is no exception.

  "You gave us quiet a scare, kiddo," He says, his voice showing the stress he has been under. David checks my vitals and tells me to let them know if I need anything.

  David is kind and thoughtful with an easy going personality which makes him easy to talk too. He can also be a bit of a goofball but he has a heart of gold.

  Clara and David are every bit the dutiful parents always making sure I have what I need; they have always made me feel like their own, loving me unconditionally even with all the problems and mystery I have brought them. They are my world, two people I know I can always count on.

  The next two days I'm on bed rest, taking it easy and although I am physically fine, my mind runs wild.

  Did I dream the red eyes?

  They plague my subconscious appearing every time I close my eyes.

  Quick, rotating masses of thoughts whirl around my head like a whirlpool. Words and emotions all swirl together like conflicting currents tumbling and swirling, twisting and pulling in a downward spiral. Any chance of holding onto one thought is dragged and sucked away by the vortex leaving be
hind two blood red eyes.

  Nothing makes sense. I cannot think clearly. Everything about the attack lacks order, making it difficult to understand.

  I have come to the conclusion that it was just a dream, a series of thoughts, images, events and sensations that my mind has made up. It is not real.

  There is also the strange sensation around my scar on the palm of my hand. I don't know how I got the scar. It has always been there, but the memory of the sensation delights me for unknown reasons.

  Isolation gives my thoughts more time and room to wonder so I decide to go back to school.

  Clara and David do not think it is a good idea, playing the overprotective parents both wanting me to take another day to recover from my ordeal. But I fear I will go mad.

  ***

  Tuesday morning I walk through the school doors. Disappointment quickly sets in. Misty is nowhere in sight. She always waits by my locker every morning without fail. I can't remember a morning Misty was not there.

  Slamming my locker shut with a bang that echoes down the hall turning the heads of fellow students, I make my way to first period.

  Misty never shows; countless phone calls and texts never answered.

  It is so unlike Misty.

  The day goes by slowly. Thoughts still plague my mind. Misty's absence causes worry to take over my emotions. With the final bell, relief washes over me. The day has been lonely without Misty for company, making friends has never been one of my strong points. Besides everyone thinks I am strange, I am just the girl with no past.

  ***

  Entering my home, tension lays heavy in the air like a dark cloud hovering over the sun, blocking out its warm rays. There is something not right, I can feel it. The smell of vanilla and lavender invade my senses. David hates the smell of lavender. I take small steps and peak into the living room.

  An elderly lady in her late fifties to early sixties sits on the worn beige couch her legs neatly crossed at her ankles, her back straight and her posture graceful. She looks like someone of importance. She has light blond hair, with glints of white piled at the top of her head in a bun, cream trousers and crisp white blouse topped off with a beige suit jacket that matches her trousers her face perfectly made up. Striking blue eyes bore into me. I begin to fidget.