A cruel smile plays at her Majesty’s lips but quickly vanishes.
Hello, child, a voice from within whispers.
The Queen splutters and coughs out her drink. Belitza ignores this, her eyes cutting across to the battlefield on the globe, which Saul has just disappeared on having approached the Marked One. The brawl overall is hard to keep up with since original marks are naturally cloaked on her Majesty’s globe.
Cheh-heh-heh-heh! The voice laughs mockingly. You feebly try to suppress me when you should simply admit that you are, child, on the brink of insanity.
I am not insane. The Queen replies indignantly. You are a mere hindrance when you make these sudden appearances. Enjoy your voice while you can, for you will be silenced in due time.
Ohh, such sudden confidence. But I assure you, a voice inside your mind does not bode well for the sane. You are fooling yourself, child. The whisperer cackles again.
The Queen ignores him.
“And how can we be sure Saul is capable of finishing the task?” she asks aloud.
“There is much at stake for him,” Belitza replies. “He has ill-advised hopes of replacing the third noble.”
“Ill-advised, indeed,” huffs the Queen, offended at the idea of demoting her favorite subordinate. “No matter. We shall see what’s to become of him after he has slaughtered the Mark.”
A silent, melodramatic sigh. You are in many ways just like me, the voice within her says viciously.
I am nothing that you are, she spits back. Nor do I seek to be.
All within the room — Shomari, Belitza, the dozens of Crewmen lining the walls — are oblivious to her internal conversation.
You are willing to go to any length to obtain what you desire. Willing to bid unnecessary killings. Willing to sever your soul to claim your prize. That is why you are like me, Zelly.
“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” The Queen’s outburst causes her to slosh champagne over her dress and suddenly the attention of every nervous Crewman in her throne room is on her. She turns back to the globe as if nothing occurred.
“Er, it is all thanks to that anonymous Waterperson,” Belitza continues. “Otherwise it would have taken weeks to locate him.”
“Y-yes,” replies the Queen, recalling the tip they received about a bubble travelling beneath the surface of the Water Forest.
Look how they see you. As a fool! Manic! They do not respect you. They do not put trust in you. The day will come, child, when they turn on you. Mark my word — Ohh, look who’s joined us….
A faint image grows in the center of the forest. The men fighting around what must be the Mark grow visible. Two of the Marked One’s followers stand in front of the still-blurry corpse, valiantly fighting off the remaining Crewmen. The New Mark’s body gradually solidifies in the center of the globe.
“This is it….” the Queen says more to herself. “Now perish!”
Shomari joins her side. Belitza further straightens her already rigid posture. There isn’t a soul in the room without muscles tense, breath held. All is silent as they await the face of their most recent threat.
Ah… That is him? Quite young from the looks of it. A gruesome killing, fitting of the crime.
The body rests, bloodied and crumpled, in a heap on the ground, and as it grows more pronounced, so do the prominent curves. A mass of light brown hair fans out around the soft, heart-shaped face.
Female? But that — that cannot be! She’s an abomination, she is!
“It’s a…woman….” breathes Shomari.
The rustling and whispers within the throne room intensify as everyone mulls this over. Never did they expect to look for a marked woman…. How unnatural….
The Queen rests her glass on her shoulder, a stream of bubbles trickling to the champagne’s surface. Her eyes narrow as she takes in the female form. The face defines itself as her life slips away.
“No. It’s a girl,” says the Queen in astonishment.
Do NOT ignore me when I speak to you, Zelly. No matter what sort of state I am in, do not —
The voice within is suddenly silenced as the girl in the globe, once again, disappears.
Chapter Twenty-One: Not of This World
She is blind and deaf and numb. No feeling reaches her, nor light or sound. It is with great effort that Margo pulls her mind back to consciousness.
Just know that I love you….
Her face pops in and out of focus. Honey blond hair, peridot eyes, quizzical smile. Go back to the pain, she said. The words ring in Margo’s ears on a continuous loop.
Go back….
She wishes to go back but to her sister, to Kylie. Margo can still feel her breath, smell the vanilla scented lotion on her skin. She was real, and she was here.
The tingling in her body creeps away from her fingertips, relieving the cold pit in Margo’s center. As her senses slowly return, Margo feels as if she’s resting between two swaying branches.
The stark blackness is suddenly interrupted. Body convulsing, she breathes in a ragged drag of air through raw lungs. The searing pain in her left side smothers all other senses, and she writhes.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Cameron’s arms cradle her tighter to avoid dropping her to the ground. “Margo, are you with me?”
The blood-curdling scream is coming from her own mouth, but Margo cannot control it. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
But she has to control it. She has to endure the pain a little longer….
“W-where…?” Margo croaks.
“Back to the Witch,” Cameron answers before she can finish.
She settles into his arms, working to not kick unnecessarily. Fresh, warm liquid gushes from her side. Every part of her is sticky with blood. Margo pulls her head upward — which manages to further tear open her abdomen — in attempt to evaluate the damage, but a hand presses down on her forehead, forcing her to rest on Cameron’s shoulder. The world spins around her.
“Don’t look,” warns Ian. Margo hadn’t noticed him running alongside Cameron. She also hadn’t realized that rain pelts down.
“The Witch?” Margo groans. “But…we’re….”
“Shush! We have to go back.” Cameron pants. His chest rises and falls roughly under her cheek.
His rhythm lulls her. The blackness slowly overtaking, luring her to its comfort. Her arms fall limp, bouncing with his every stride. The numbness creeps up her fingertips again.
“No, Margo!” Cameron shouts in her face causing her eyes to blink open. The pain engulfs her side. “Don’t give in! I can’t lose you.”
His pace quickens.
Margo clings to these words, which she realizes have meaning to her, too. She cannot lose him, either. Not after having lost her sister for a second time. She must focus, must remember, must hold onto him….
Her eyes shut tight.
“Margo!” he yells.
“Thinking of you….” she whispers.
He falls silent. The only sound is the pounding of his feet below, and Ian keeping pace at his side. Margo buries her face in his soaked shirt. She imagines the two of them in a happier place: standing waist-deep in the Hederman’s stream, his smile stretched wide, tan face framed with chocolate hair. The taste of his tongue against hers, the softness of his lips pressing against the contours of her jaw — anything to keep her mind busy.
“Almost there!” Cameron shouts.
The smell of the Witch’s bonfire wafts as they grow near. The scent has intensified since they left. Bursting through the trees and into the clearing, Margo’s face drops in terror at the sight ahead of them. The contents of the house are scattered across the lawn, and the small home is so engulfed in flames that it still burns violently in the heavy rains.
“Go!” says Ian urgently. “They can’t be far!”
They double back running along the overgrown path. The sharp sting of branches hits Margo’s arms; they are heading onto rougher terrain. On they press through overtly scratchy vines. When finally they break through the thi
cket and into a sparsely wooded area, Ian speaks up.
“We have to rest, man,” he shouts over the now shattering rain.
Margo slips down in Cameron’s arms. His chest muffles his tiresome reply. How long has he been carrying her?
Almost immediately he drops to the ground cradling Margo in his chest, rocking slowly. Ian paces the small area, muscles tight and alert.
“What did you do?” says Cameron sharply toward Ian.
Ian turns, infuriated. “What did I do?”
His cold eyes drop to Margo, who flinches painfully in response.
“How dare you look at her like that?!” The movement of Cameron’s booming voice tears her side again. “How dare you blame her?!”
“It isn’t her. It’s what she is.”
“What she is? She never chose to be this!”
“Did I say that?” Ian shouts back. “She’s marked. As in, a walking target. She might as well have a bull’s eye attached to her forehead. It was only a matter of time before our luck caught up with us.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Cameron, abashed. “We were careful.”
“Really? Frolicking off into the wood to visit the fairies? Creating bubbles on the Queen’s turf? The two of you on your little love-fest? I’m interested in seeing what not careful entails.”
“That…doesn’t mean that’s how they found us…” Cameron splutters.
“You’re careless! You should have never left with her!”
Cameron is yelling again. “She would have wound up dead the first night!”
“No,” says Ian coldly. “She would have just become a Water Spirit.”
Cameron’s muscles tighten, and he fights back the urge to spring due to Margo’s condition. “You —”
“Guys, please stop yelling.” Margo sucks in a painful breath.
Ian nods, carefully calming himself before dropping to his knees. “What now? She looks awful.”
“Would you just be quiet?” Cameron strokes Margo’s cheek. She shakes under his touch but cannot push aside the pain.
“I’m simply stating the obvious. Question is: what do we do next? The Witch — the only one who might have been able to stitch up those wounds — is out. So what now?”
Cameron’s face wrinkles in thought. His eyes suddenly widen. “Fairies!”
Ian stares blankly at him.
“Take her.” Cameron carefully rolls Margo into Ian’s accepting arms. Her side splits, even with his attempted ease.
Ian doesn’t speak. He simply falls into step behind Cameron, who hacks through the oncoming thick brush until they meet the familiar stream, set down about a four-foot drop. They jump with a showering splash. Ian moves spryly on the balls of his feet and hardly causes an increase in Margo’s torment.
“They aren’t far,” Cameron says. “They can help, I know it.”
A groan slips through Margo’s lips.
“Hold on, Margo.” Ian tries his best to calm her.
She looks up into his ink black eyes, which truly looked saddened by her condition.
“I don’t want you to die.” His simple, matter-of-fact statement reminds her of Kylie’s last words again. She can bear this pain if it means surviving for these boys.
The grand tree of the fairies’ lair comes into view, just as stunning as the night before. Perhaps because the rain darkens the air enough to still see the thousands of lights in its leaves. Cameron sloshes his way ahead.
“Fairies! Please, help!” he cries. “It’s Margo.”
A hundred glowing specks flit forward between falling pellets of rain. A group circle around Margo’s abdomen in a dizzying spiral of light.
Then they scatter with purpose. Between the trees, a lighted line of fairies hover silently. A pathway….
“Let’s go,” says Cameron, leading them to the first dot of light that passes over their heads.
*
In a rocking chair on the front porch, sits a rugged-looking man with a short, scruffy beard. He whittles while rocking back and forth in the creaky chair. It is early morning on Day Seven and the rain pours in full. Between cuts he glances east where he can see smoke rising several miles in the distance. It worries him, seeing what appears to be the aftermath of a battle so near his family. The man, who is called Axton, pops a pluriberry into his mouth before busying himself once more.
A fleck of golden light catches his attention. A lone fairy. He doesn’t much care for these creatures; they feel invasive. It flutters gracefully between raindrops.
Suddenly a dozen or so more flicker to life forming a line. Axton drops his whittling as he jolts to his feet. Blinking hard as if to cast them away, he stands staring into the soft grayish morning light. The lights shimmer back at him mockingly.
He stumbles into the house and frantically shouts, “Fairies! They’ve strung a line! It’s leading someone directly to us!”
A woman from inside shouts endless profanities in response, followed by a clanging of stoneware. The man posts up on the porch, bolts the front door, and retrieves his whittling knife.
Urgent voices chatter through the trees before he can actually see them — two young men and a limp girl in the taller of the two’s arms. Bleeding and near death. Both boys are soaked to the bone in both rain and her blood; they have taken turns carrying and nursing her. Her arms dangle in a corpse-like manner.
They look up, noticing the man or perhaps his quaint home. The smaller one runs ahead, his eyes sporting dark shadows and his long hair clinging wetly to his neck.
“We need your help!” he says. “She’s — she’s dying! Please, she doesn’t have much time!”
Axton’s eyes narrow, grip tightening on the blade concealed by his thigh. “How do you know of this place? What brings you here?”
“What brings us here?” the boy repeats aghast. “The girl! Look! Look at her!” He gestures to her just as the other boy catches up.
“Save her! Please save her!” he begs.
“How could I possibly save her? What makes you assume I —” His voice catches in his throat, for the etching on her dangling arms has just come into view. “Blasted fairies. Inside at once….”
He unbolts the door and ushers them in as the taller boy sings his gratitude. The room is plastered a pale shade of gray, warm wooden beams exposed on the ceiling and a table in the center of the room fully set for a party of ten. Seated at the latter is a translucent-skinned lady wrapped in a crocheted shawl the color of mulberries. She bounces to her feet at once.
“Who are these people?” she shouts. “Out! OUT!”
She catches sight of Margo and backs away, hands folded upon her chest.
“Ready the table,” says Axton as he holds the door ajar for the three strangers.
“Ready the…? Are you out of your mind?! Get them out! GET THEM OUT!” she shouts.
“This way,” he tells the boys. “Freya, get a move on! The table! Ready the table!”
With a grumble, she begins transferring goblets to the open shelves two at a time so as not to break them.
“For the love of God, Freya! MOVE!” Axton shoves everything from the table to the floor in two quick sweeps — silver, dishes, goblets, even the cloth itself.
“My things, my things!” Freya grasps her white-blond hair, knotting it up in her fists.
The boys quickly lay the girl flat on the wooden surface. Her face is colorless and eyes distant. The boy who carried her brushes her long bangs from her clammy face and presses his lips upon her forehead. The other boy cuts away her shirt, revealing the ragged puncture in her stomach.
“Her organs are severely damaged,” the long-haired boy says factually. “And she doesn’t have much blood left. She will need to sustain what remains.”
“Freya,” says Axton. “You have to do it!”
She backs away shaking her head. “My house, this mess. St-stuff is everywhere!”
He crosses over to her and gives her shoulders a hard shake. “Don’t worry about t
hat now. This girl needs you.”
“No…. No, no, no, no!” Her hands twitch uncontrollably. Eyes darting about the floor. “You know I can’t do that!”
“Her arms, Freya, look at them! She’s marked.”
“That changes nothing.”
“Don’t you want the best for yourself? If not for yourself then for your —”
She claps her hand upon his lips. “Do NOT say it!”
She crosses over to the table and bends down. The girl leans into Freya, possibly already feeling her soothing effects. Her golden eyes meet Freya’s ice blues. “If you tell anyone about this,” Freya says so quietly only the girl can hear, “I will cut out your tongue.”
The girl’s eyes widen slightly but she nods.
Freya plunges three fingers deep into the wounds. The boys shout protests, but Axton holds them back. The girl does not cringe away, but instead finds relief. Slowly, the wound knits itself back together. Freya inches her fingers out until nothing remains but a soft pink scar.
Instantly the marked girl sits up, though it is slow moving.
“Unfortunately, there will always be a scar. I cannot repair others as perfectly as I can myself.” She gestures to her flawless complexion. “And the blood cannot be replaced. You’ll have to wait for your body to create more.”
The three of them look to each other in confusion.
“What sort of power is that?” says the long-haired boy.
“The kind you do not get in Jamyria,” Freya returns.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Without a Plan
Falling to her knees, Freya rights unbroken goblets, carefully lining them up like emerald glass soldiers, and collects the silver nearest her, coupling them in a linear pattern.
Cameron gapes, Ian’s brow is knitted together, and Margo cannot help but to say, “Excuse me? Did you say your power isn’t from this world?”
Her gash is completely healed over. Not only that, but her insides are intact. She was a goner. Saul had ripped through organs, and now all that remains is a ragged pink line the size of a finger.
Freya’s hand freezes on a teetering glass. It rocks dangerously before she forces it flat on its bottom. “Your tone suggests you believe yours is.”
Jamyria: The Entering (The Jamyria Series Book 1) Page 24
