by S. J. West
“Now just be still,” he whispers in my ear. “This won’t hurt much as long as you don’t try to fight me.”
The words are anything but comforting. Owen brings my body closer to his, like he’s about to hug me. I feel more than see the right side of my body begin to meld with Owen’s left side, like two candles melting into one another. I grab him by the shoulders and desperately try to push him away, but the added pressure only causes me more pain.
“Stop resisting,” he murmurs, as though he’s receiving pleasure from the process.
My mind rejects what I’m going through. I feel like someone who’s stepped into quicksand, without anything around to use as a handhold. I don’t know what’s happening, and I’m not completely sure I want to.
His shoulders begin to tremble beneath my hands, causing my whole body to vibrate like a tuning fork. He finally starts to scream as loud as I am, and thrusts me away from him, causing me to fall ungracefully onto the ground. When I look back up at him, I see that half of his body is missing…the half mine occupied only moments before.
“What did you do?” he shrieks, like I should have all the answers.
My eyes feel like they’re about to bulge out of their sockets as I continue to stare at him, unable to move or even take a breath to fill my burning lungs.
Owen falls down on the one knee he has left, screaming in agony before exploding into a pile of black ash.
I hear the distinct pop of a Watcher phase in behind me. I assume it’s Isaiah, so I relax, comforted by the fact that he will know what to do next, because my mind is a maelstrom of confusion.
I finally find it possible to take a deep breath, but impossible to say anything to Isaiah, who is strangely silent and still behind me. I turn my head to look up at him.
It’s not Isaiah.
I scramble to my feet to face a Watcher I’ve never seen before. Everyone in America knows what the five Watchers who help protect us look like, and this one isn’t one of the five. I know what many of the Watchers from overseas look like, and can’t seem to place him as one of those either.
In the dim light of night, his pale face glows softly. His grey wool button-down coat flutters in the wind around his legs. Like all Watchers, he is handsome, but, unlike other Watchers, his face isn’t perfect. A deep scar mars his face, running from right above his left eye to below his cheekbone… an imperfection no Watcher I’ve ever seen has.
His eyes stare into mine for a moment before moving to the pile of ash still on the ground behind me.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Mason Collier,” he replies. His eyes slowly travel back to me. “More importantly,” he pauses, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes in on me, “what are you?”
