by R.K. Ryals
~Bezalial~
The dark enveloped us as he laid me gently down on my bed, his jacket falling around us in a strange but comforting cocoon of warmth. He lifted his head weakly. It was almost as if whatever edge I’d seen in him earlier had been filed away, the danger no longer quite so suffocating. He looked younger now with his eyes downcast and hooded. I put him, like Damon, at maybe twenty years of age. They looked so much alike. Damon Craig? This couldn't be Damon.
“Why?” he asked me quietly, and I frowned.
“Why did you do it?”
“Whaaa…” I began as he lifted his gaze.
His eyes were old. There was no other way to describe them. And considering my love of words, I could have tried. It was as if the dark, coffee colored depths had seen more than I’d ever hoped or even dared to see. I shook my head.
“I don’t understand."
He stared at me a moment in silence, his gaze moving slowly along my face until my cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Never had I been scrutinized so intensely. And then he sniffed, as if testing the air before lifting himself away from me. His hand swept through his ebony hair, and I almost felt the agitation coming off of him as he drew himself up.
“Of course you don’t.”
He paused a moment, his fists clenched as if prepared to hit something but too afraid to dare.
“And I let my guard slip,” he murmured as I watched him pace.
My body felt funny, fuzzy still, and I curled up into myself. Why was he here? What was he talking about? He turned and gave me one last look before moving to my open bedroom window. Had we come in through there?
“You've grown, Dayton. I never suspected . . . unfortunately, you’ll see me again.” I heard him say as part of him exited through the opening. I fought hard to sit up.
“Who are you?” I managed as he disappeared.
“Marcas.” I thought I heard him say into the darkness.
The name tore through me. Was this the man who was stabbed in my vision? Once again, I faded out of consciousness. It was welcoming.
I was cold next I woke. The curtains of my bedroom were billowing out from the breeze outside. I had a sudden, faint recollection of a bar, my aunt, a young man with his mouth covered in blood. I tried rolling over, but my body hurt.
“She did well,” a voice spoke suddenly from outside my closed bedroom door. It was a deep voice, rough and monotone. It made me shiver. Was that what had roused me?
“What does this mean for her?” I heard someone ask, and I fought not to cry out. Aunt Ky! I wanted to ask her to come fix this! To tell me what was going on! But no, I couldn’t trust her. I had never been able to. Something nagged at the edge of my memory, and I fought to remember.
“She is the Chosen, Kyra. It means a good deal.”
“She won’t be hurt?”
“She will end a war,” the man replied cryptically. “She will bring him to me. I can no longer influence her thoughts. That fact alone proves she’s tied to him now."
Kyra said something then. It sounded concerned, but the blackness was once again beckoning and in its depth one word circled out of the gloom. Marcas.
