The Keeper's Heart

by Catherine Stovall

  The winds whipped their clothing and tugged at their hair, burning their skin as if being slapped. Amara fought against the invisible barrier, until they finally found themselves emerged in thick rolling waves of fog.

  Bringing the heart up to her mouth, she whispered, “Tell me your name, little heart. Show me what being held you within them so many years ago.”

  The heat from the gem was not hot enough to burn her flesh, but the warmth was like holding her palm too close to a flame. The warning bells went off in her head, cautioning her to pull away, but she held tighter. Slight tremors raced up Amara’s arm, and she clung to Marcus, intertwining her fingers with his.

  Through the mist, a shape approached—a tall and slim figure, clad all in black. For a moment, Amara froze in terror, fearing she had awakened the Reaper once more. She took a deep breath, preparing to plunge them back through the abyss in order to escape. However, the mists parted, and a beautiful woman came forward.

  Her hair was short, cropped at her chin, and platinum blonde. Dark coal liner rimmed her milk chocolate colored eyes and the skin of her long pale neck and shapely décolleté was as white as a virgin lily. Amara would have been envious, if she were not so afraid.

  The stranger smiled. “Greetings,” she began, but then the pleasant expression faded. “You are humans? How…peculiar. What are you doing here?”

  Amara tried to be brave, but her voice shook. “We’ve come for a trade. I’m no ordinary human. Until recently, I was a Keeper. I freed these young ones from their doomed fate, and now, I am seeking out the Weaver’s lair. I destroyed a Reaper, and I was rewarded with its heart.” She held out her hand and pried open her aching fingers to reveal the jewel.

  The woman hissed, “My heart! It can’t be. You belong in Sheol if what you say is true. Yet, you are standing here trying to bargain with me. I don’t know if I should be impressed or angered.”

  “Lady...?” Amara began, but waited for the spirit’s name.

  “I am Corinthia,” her curt tone indicated her impatience.

  “Lady Corinthia, we do not mean to insult you. I’ve come here to return this jewel. I ask for your help, but I do not intend to hold the heart for ransom. If you do not wish to help us, I will give you the heart stone and we will return from whence we came.”

  The woman’s right eyebrow rose, as if she were considering Amara’s words greatly. She paced back and forth in front of the motley group of teenage humans. “What are your names?”

  “I am Amara. This is Marcus, Anthony, and Desiree.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “I broke the law of the Keepers, but I did so out of love. I cherish these children, and if we are not successful, they will die.”

  Corinthia thought over Amara’s words as she continued to pace back and forth, her short hair bouncing with each step. Finally, in a twirl of her ebony skirts, she faced them once more.

  “A ruby is a symbol of the sun. It is considered to be the king of all stones in many cultures, and there are many legends about the gem’s brilliant and inextinguishable flame. As with all mystical and otherworldly beings, there are legends and truths. More often than not, these two things are so intertwined that no one really knows which is which. For Keepers, the ruby heart has a very specific legend and a true significance in their heritage.

  “I was taught, when I was first welcomed to the folds of the Parcae, that the Ruby contained the bloodline of humanity. Sometime, in some place, a human chose to pluck a rose for his beloved. When the thorns pricked his hand, he fought through the pain and retrieved the flower anyway. Handing his mate the rose, she too felt the sharp edge of the barbs.

  “The man took his woman’s hand, and they each inspected the other’s wounds. Both were surprised when blood trickled out of the flesh, for neither had ever been harmed before. They watched as the crimson liquid seeped down their flesh, merged together, and fell to the ground in a single drop.

  “That single droplet, filled with the love they felt for each other, fell upon a crystal stone. In that moment, the clouds above parted, and the rays of a perfect sun reflected down upon them. Blood, love, and stone merged together to create the most precious gem known to man—the ruby. From that day forward, a ruby was created with each new life that came to be. The beautiful gems developed deep within the Earth, holding the precious blood of life within its depths.

  “Soon, Earth’s population grew too far and too fast for the Creator to watch over all of his mortal children. One day, he took up the finest rubies in all of his kingdom, and he placed a drop of his own blood within them. The Creator sewed the hearts into the breast of the wisest women and men—the first of the Parcae and the original Weavers. He gifted them with the tools to manipulate the threads of life, and he guided them to a place where they could work in peace.

  “Then Cronus happened. He was a Weaver, a powerful one at that. He coveted his gifts and neglected his wards. He hated the Creator and wanted to rule over mankind as a god rather than be a simple servant. He formed a plan to steal the others’ rubies, so he could become as strong as the Creator and be the only being to control life and death. By manipulating such powers, he would be unstoppable.

  “The first body was mine, found in the outreaches of the caves where the Parcae resided. He had torn my heart from my chest and the gem cut away. The Parcae were terrified. Nothing so brutal had ever touched our small world before. Our entire existence was constructed around life and death, but within our ranks, peace had always reigned. They searched for the killer, but to no avail, and more desecrated bodies were found.

  “His plan was flawless, except he let his mad ego take over. The night Cronus planned to take the final life needed to complete his schemes, his victim surprised him. Rhea, Cronus’s own wife, had been the first to receive the Creator’s gift, and Cronus was sure her gem would be the most powerful. He knew Rhea both loved and trusted him, which made her an easy target.

  “That night, he slipped into their shared chambers and attacked her, but Rhea had suspected she would be a target. She had hidden a straw effigy of herself in their bed and stood hidden in the shadows. When Cronus crept in and began to stab the straw woman, Rhea drove a pair of cutting shears through his back.

  “Turning the lights on, she saw what she had done and ran for help. When she returned with the others, Cronus was gone. His blood had spilled all over the bed chamber, but there were no sign of where he had gone. They searched for thousands of years, seeking out the darkest and lowest places, trying to bring him to justice. Some believed Cronus had a partner that took the dead body away. Others believe he still lives and has been lying in wait for an opportunity.”

  “What a psycho.” Anthony shook his head, trying to comprehend the insanity of the story.

  Corinthia raised an eyebrow, but did not comment on the boy’s remark. Instead, she continued her tale. “The oldest of the Keepers, those original weavers of the loom and of life, went deep into hiding in an attempt to protect their heart stones from Cronus. The others were made to forget the location and were moved into the mists hovering around Sheol like a protective cloak.”

  When she paused, Amara asked, “Where did the original Keepers go to hide?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. Now, I tell you this in confidence, because if Cronus lives and would ever discover their whereabouts, he would be unstoppable. They never left Weaver’s Cave. They are still there, hidden and concealed. They simply slipped into their ethereal forms and became part of the world.”

  “But where is the lair?” Amara pushed, determined to learn the location.

  “Not where. What. The lair is the lowest levels of Sheol, silly girl. How do you think such a place came to exist? The place is laden with the blood of the Creator’s children. That taint is what drew in the demons and the darkness. It is the Keeper’s who draw the power and knowledge from the souls cast into the pits, turning the damned to useless wraiths. It is how they survive.”

  Amara shiv
ered. “They are like vampires.”

  “No, vampires don’t exist, dear.” Corinthia laughed and the sound was like sparrows singing—beautiful and melodic. “Now, you have what you have come for, and I do wish you well. However, I have waited longer than you can imagine to retire from this life as a useless spirit. The heart, if you please?”

  “How will we get to Sheol?”

  “That, young one, is not my problem.”

  Amara grudgingly held out the heart, offering it to Corinthia’s spirit. She gripped Marcus hand tight, and whispered, “Be prepared. As soon as the heart leaves my hand, we are going to go hurling out of here and back to the Earthly realm.

  The spirit smiled, her delicate fingers gingerly reaching out as if she were afraid the heart might be snatched away. “It’s been so long since I’ve held my heart. So many lonely years.” Her hand hovered, and she looked deep into Amara’s eyes. “Thank Y—”

  Her words were cut short as a shining blade cut down from her shoulder and out through her hip in a whistling blow. As a spirit, it did her no harm, but the sight was startling, and the action brought pure terror from the shade of the woman who had been so brutally murdered.

  Corinthia screamed, and the sound nearly brought Amara to her knees. The absolute anguish in the spirit’s voice sliced through the mists, parting the smoking tendrils as if by force, and revealing the wielder of the sword.

  Chiyo’s eyes locked on Amara, ignoring the screaming wraith. “I finally have you.”

  Amara tried to escape the mists, but her human condition slowed the transition again. Unable to release the others, for fear they may be cast into the abyss without the ability to control their destination, there was little she could do.

  Chiyo laughed triumphantly. “Seize them, and bring me the old one’s heart stone. The master will be pleased.”

  Whipping her head around, Amara could see the black forms emerging out of the thick haze, dozens of Apollumi soldiers. Hopelessly surrounded by the enemy and forced to cling to Marcus and her wards, she had only one choice­—surrender.

  Chapter 19

  What Strange Sheol is This?

  “I will come willingly. Please, let the others go. I am the one you want,” Amara pleaded with her captors, but her words fell on deaf ears.

  Rough hands grabbed her, bruising her flesh, and Amara had just a moment to glimpse the warrior who held her. A long white scar cut down over his left eye, rendering the iris white and milky. Without delay, the one-eyed guard, shoved a black cloth bag over her face and snatched the heart stone from her hand, his powerful grip the only thing holding her from being sucked out of the mists. The smell of sulfur clung heavily to the fabric, making Amara choke and gasped. Completely emerged in darkness, panic threatened to overtake her and visions of the Reaper rose up in her fear addled pain.

  Taking deep breaths, despite the intense odor burning her nostrils and eyes, Amara tried to move in compliance to the Apollumi soldier’s pushes and shoves. The sound of the others struggling, and Corinthia’s ongoing cries, rattled her brain.

  “It’s mine. Give it to me! You beasts! You murderers! You vile and psychotic fiends!” Corinthia demanded and begged, but when her attempts failed, she reverted to wailing like a banshee once more.

  Amara fought to raise her voice over the noise, despite the choking harshness of the sulfuric smell within the thick cloth. She instructed Desiree, Marcus, and Anthony, “Do not fight them. Go willingly.”

  The feeling of moving through the mists silenced her. The familiar weightlessness hugged her body in unknown space and substance as she tried to construct some sort of plan to escape.

  Think, Amara. They are taking you to the very place you need to be, so score one for the good guys. Now, are you going to get all four of you out of there in one piece? You’ve lost the heart stone, you have no powers of your own, and sending the others into the abyss would have been better than dragging them in Sheol—stupid hindsight.

  Their arrival hit Amara, a hard punch in the gut, stopping her from silently berating herself. The prodding of a sharp finger in her back caused her to blindly stumble forward, and when she heard the sound of groaning metal, she didn’t need sight to be able to tell they were at the gate.

  The guards chose that moment to free her and the others from their blindness. They tore the bag over her face away, and Amara cried out in pain as the one-eyed Apollumi yanked her hair out along with it. She glowered at the guard, hating herself for showing weakness, but hating him more.

  The massive, black iron gateway loomed over the smoldering brimstone road, a beacon of loathing to the lost souls condemned to perish there. Before it, a massive Minotaur stood on each side, their ebony horns so polished that the nearby pit fires reflected off the surface. Wide leather belts wrapped around their waists, below rippling abs. Long chains ran from brass hoops connected to the leather, and snarling hell hounds in their purest, evilest form pulled at the restraints at the end of each.

  Amara stared one of the devil dogs in the eye, and behind the putrid yellow iris, she saw hunger. With snapping jaws filled with multiple rows of razor sharp teeth, the creature lunged out at her. She could feel the beast’s wrath in its fiery breath and could smell blood and death each time it roared and spittle flew from its foaming mouth.

  They were marched in single file through the gate, a guard positioned in front and behind each of them to prevent communication. As they passed over pits of lava and fire, canyons filled with howling souls, and through thick crowds of mulling wraiths, the heat grew denser. The weight of it pressed against their human forms, making them stumble and sweat.

  Nearly too weak to go on, Amara looked back frequently, hoping she could somehow signal to the others that they would be okay. She wanted to reach out to them, take them into her arms, and help them to stand. With every backward glance, she saw them trying to remain strong, but faltering badly. Humans were not meant to walk the path of the newly dead.

  Amara’s tongue had swollen, her throat burned, her legs shook with fatigue, and her head spun. Yet, she pressed on; knowing that if she faltered, the others would as well. Each step brought about a new pain and a new horror.

  Desiree whimpered, unable to find the strength to cry. Marcus’s breathing sounded labored and harsh as if his lungs were collapsing. Anthony was mute and brooding.

  Finally, she broke the silence. Her voice sounded gravelly and wrong as she demanded, “Water. Give them water. If your master wanted us dead, we’d be wraiths by now. Give them water, or they will die.”

  The one-eyed guard jabbed her in the back again and growled, “Shut up and keep moving, troublemaker. Their lives are nothing to the Master.”

  “If they die, I will throw myself to the hellhounds or in the pits. You will have nothing then. Your master wants me alive, you must keep them as leverage,” her voice croaked and cracked, but Amara glared at the man in defiance. All the time, she hoped beyond hope what she was saying was true.

  The guard in front of her lost his patience. Amara’s head jerked backward as he wrapped his gloved hand in her long hair and yanked hard. She stumbled, her body unable to fight the sudden dizziness that sent her reeling to the ground. The hot brimstone scorched her clothing and heated her flesh, but as Amara fought to right herself, a heavy boot came down upon her chest.

  The guard, who still had strands of her hair caught on the spikes of his gloves, sneered down at her in disgust. “You need to remember who is in charge here, girl. I’ll throw you in the pits myself if I have to hear anymore of your demands.”

  Without another word, he reached down and yanked her up. Her shoulder screamed in protest at the rapid jerk, but Amara bit the inside of her mouth hard enough to make it bleed in order to keep herself from crying out again. The blood that oozed out from the jagged wound was a blessing, easing the dry layer of dust from the back of her throat.

  Amara was relieved when they changed their direction and headed for one of the many ebony doors hanging i
n rough hewn, stone frames to the right of the red rock walls. The guards’ paced quickened toward their destination, as if they were afraid to be delayed, and Amara felt an ounce of triumph. She may not have the physical upper hand, but the mental game was all hers.

  They were shoved through the door into a room that looked as if it were merely an overlarge hole chipped out of the side of a mountain. The walls were jagged rock and the gravel remains of the construction crunched under foot. Near the back wall, a small rock ledge jutted out. A stream of rust colored water trickled down from a small hole and ran over the ledge, where its efforts were collected into an old tin bucket.

  Old one-eye pushed her forward, but Amara shook her head, earning a growl from the Apollumi soldier. When she refused to budge, the other soldiers grudgingly allowed Desiree to drink. Amara had half-expected the girl to shy away from the filthy water, but to her surprise, Desiree scooped the liquid into her hands and drank greedily.

  Anthony and Marcus went next, and Amara could tell they were holding back from taking their fill. She refused to budge. Glaring at them, she shook her head and gestured back toward the bucket. Wanting them to take more, needing them to survive until she could find a way out of Sheol, she was willing to give everything she could.

  Marcus stared at her, anger and disbelief written on his face. “Drink, Amara! Quit being a damned fool! No one here needs to be a martyr!”

  His words ended with an ‘oomph’ as one of the guards hit him. His head jutted forward from the impact of the blow, and he stumbled, but his eyes never left hers. A mixture of rage and pleading danced in the sapphire pools as he mouthed her name.

  Amara gave in, went to the bucket, and knelt by its side. The red-brown reflection of her face in the water stared back at her, rippling with the lazy drops falling from the rock ledge. I look like a monster, her thoughts were idle and distant. I am a monster. The tepid water tasted of minerals and smelled worse, but the relief it brought as the liquid sloshed into her parched mouth was like pure heaven.