The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance

by Aaron Patterson

  I could explain none of it, and I kept coming back to those five cursive words in that note. The killer had written, “I know what you are.” I thought about change, and about Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, which we covered last year in school and I read pretty much under protest. I wondered what I was changing into. I shivered, thinking of giant insects, of superheroes, of enshrouded dead Victorian worlds built on the words of Bram Stoker.

  I drove home trying to unravel these dark riddles, thinking of vampires. At a stop light, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I heard a faint, giggling laugh and saw a presence in my mind’s eye shaking its head. It was like a mentor or teacher who had just suffered hearing me say an incredibly naïve thing about silly old legends.

  I could feel this presence in the car with me. I got the sense that it had been with me since forever, that it had only just now allowed me to take notice of its presence, and further that it didn’t care how I felt about the situation one way or another. I was stuck with it. It stretched like a cat on the back seat of my mind, curled up and fell peacefully dormant.

  The light turned green and I drove on.

  I had to laugh out loud; I was a little hysterical. “Airel,” I said, avoiding my eyes in the rearview mirror. “You are going completely bonkers.” I had a new friend. An imaginary one. Oh, yay, I’m five again. I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted this or not, but I had a strong feeling I didn’t have a choice about it.

  CHAPTER XVI

  I WOKE UP SOAKED in my own sweat and gasping for air, feeling like I’d been drowned and then resuscitated. I remember thinking, The boundary line between the real world and the dream has been breached. I was freaking out; it was like I actually died. I looked at my clock. 3 a.m. I felt really gross.

  What is it with me and the butt-crack of dawn lately?

  My head was in a vise, pounding. I could feel every nuance of every beat of my heart as well as its aftereffects in my circulatory system. With every heartbeat, an evil hand twisted the screw and my headache worsened just a little bit more. I stumbled to my bathroom, being careful to leave the light off. It would be unnecessarily painful. I needed some Advil, a cool rag on my face, and—ew—fresh pajamas. Ones that aren’t soaked with sweat.

  I pressed a wet washcloth into my face, rubbing my temples. I looked at my dark reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t see any cause for concern. Whatever was wrong was on the inside.

  I felt a little better after washing my face, but I was still dealing with a rampaging headache. I took a couple of Advil from the medicine cabinet and tossed them back, taking a long drink of cool water. I then refilled my glass and took it to my bedside table.

  When I had changed into my ugly backup pajamas, I sat down on the bed and reached for my glass of water.

  When I picked it up, it shattered in my hand.

  I gasped. Shards of thick glass drove into my palm. I dropped the remains in shock. The jagged heavy base hit the carpet with a thump, and I bit my lip hard to keep from screaming out loud.

  Blood ran freely from two major cuts in my hand. They looked deep. I started to get woozy, but forced myself to keep it together. Don’t pass out, Airel. You’ve got to stop the bleeding. I jumped up, dodging the broken pieces on the floor, ran to the bathroom holding my bleeding hand, and got to the sink just in time to catch the first drips before they hit the carpet.

  I turned on the cold water. It stung, and I winced in pain as it flushed out the wound. Blood pooled in the sink. All I could think was that I would need stitches and that life was going to suck real bad for the next few hours, and then the next few weeks as I slowly healed. I pulled the largest pieces out with my fingers, but there were a few that I just couldn’t get to. Though I could be brave, I wasn’t that brave.

  I found some gauze, cotton balls, and sports tape under the sink and wound everything around my throbbing hand, making a bandage that looked like something out of one of Dad’s war movies. Not the best, but at 3 a.m. I wasn’t about to wake my parents—at least not now that I had things under control. I just needed a stiff upper lip and time to heal.

  I made sure the bathroom didn’t look like a crime scene and then began cleaning up the wreckage by my bed. Now I had to deal with sleep loss, a splitting headache, and the rhythmic throbbing of my poor hand. I had no idea what I was going to tell my parents when they saw my enormous gauze mitten. And what would Kim—Miss Talks-a-lot—think?

  I lay down and tried to be calm, wondering what I was going to do with myself, what was wrong with me.

  In the back of my mind, my new friend whispered unbidden, “Why did the glass break?” That was a good question. In fact, it was the question, at least in this moment. It hadn’t been one of those thin cheapie glasses. It was heavy, thick. I could have tossed it across the living room and it wouldn’t have broken—it would have left a dent in the wall. And yet I had shattered it without even trying.

  I growled, staring up at the ceiling. “This is how I spend my nights now,” I muttered. “Horror show, sweat bath, migraine, my own surreal episode of The Incredible Hulktress Meets CSI, and then … back to bed.”

  But those words echoed through my throbbing head: “Why did the glass break?”

  That’s when my injured hand got a mind of its own. At first it was a little tickle, a slight discomfort. That gave way to a deep itch and the sensation that something was moving around inside my wounds, like there were worms crawling around on my skin beneath the bandages.

  I jumped up and turned on the light, ripping the tape and bandages off, horrified that I was infected with something. What I beheld was more alarming. The cuts were closing up, little fingers of flesh reaching across the divide and weaving themselves together, mending the damage. They left no scars.

  Impossible.

  I turned the palm of my hand up toward the light, my migraine now forgotten and as good as gone anyway. There was nothing. My hand was fine. But there was something gritty and shiny on my palm. After a closer look I realized that my body had rejected the tiniest shards of glass that had been embedded in it, the pieces I couldn’t get out.

  I looked at myself in the mirror over my dresser, watching one eyebrow cock itself upward like an impish puck. “That’s very interesting,” I whispered.

  Then I did something I still don’t believe I had the guts to try. I reached into the trash can, withdrew a dagger-like chunk of the broken glass, and held it up in front of my face. There, between the mirror and me, was a moment like ripples in a pond. The girl in the mirror looked defiant and brave, I felt scared but impulsive, and the shard of glass exuded wickedness. Now I know what it feels like to be completely crazy.

  I laid my hand palm up on the top of my dresser. I grabbed an old T-shirt from the drawer and bit down hard on it. I raised my right hand as high as it would go and then stabbed the glass knife into my palm. I screamed through clenched teeth into the T-shirt.

  Blood.

  Both hands were now badly cut. My right palm was sliced to ribbons where I had grasped the weapon, and my left was pierced, the glass stuck through it into the top of my dresser. Blood pooled onto the wood. I managed to stay on my feet, looking at my hands, hoping I wasn’t actually insane.

  “What have I done?” I prayed that I wouldn’t have to wake Mom up and ask her to rush me to the emergency room for … for stabbing myself.

  I stood there staring at my gaping wounds as they oozed. But then the itching started again, and it was like watching the invisible hands of an expert surgeon reorganize the twisted remains of my tendons, arteries, and whatever else was in there. It itched like nothing I had ever felt, like my hand was tearing itself apart as it put itself back together. I watched in awe as everything was placed in order and healed. My skin perfectly knit itself without leaving a trace.

  Except for all the blood.

  All I could think about was the chorus to this song. All it said was “stupid girl” over and over.

  Okay, so I heal quick. Really quick. Wh
atever this newfound talent was, and however amazing it seemed, it didn’t keep me from getting sick, though. Maybe I have a brain tumor or something. I’d read about that sort of thing happening. People became gifted in weird ways as a result of a trauma and then it turned out they had a baseball-sized tumor in their brain. And a month later they’re dead.

  But what had happened to me? I couldn’t remember any recent trauma. I thought there had to be someone who could help me, someone who knew what I was going through. Then I thought about the possibility that something had been done to me to cause all this. Maybe when I was an infant, They—the infamous They—had injected me with a super drug, some secret government project trying to create human weapons.

  “Seriously, Airel?”

  I felt a shiver run up and down my spine. It sounded like feathers rustling, or pages turning in a book. I got that same feeling I’d had on my way back from Dr. Gee’s office. That other voice, my inaudible helper—okay, my imaginary friend—the thing that wanted to help me was getting restless, sighing impatiently as if it wanted me to figure these things out a little faster.

  I closed my eyes and listened. All was quiet, and in the back of my mind I heard something like a rumor, like the beginning of an ancient, barely-remembered story being told without words.

  CHAPTER XVII

  1250 B.C.—Arabia

  KREIOS LAY BY THE fire, watching it reduce down to coals, the light casting an amber glow on the hard-packed walls of his kinsman’s house. His mind lingered over the things he had spoken of with Zedkiel, avoiding conclusions.

  His brother had mentioned a secret city two weeks’ journey into the west, where the Arch race was building a new permanent habitation out of stone and granite. No mortal man knew of its existence—it was a place where he and his kind could perhaps start again, unharried. He remembered living in a city much like this, but that was an age ago. That was time out of time. He allowed his mind to sojourn through those memories as he drifted.

  It was now very late. Nothing moved.

  A dark shadow invaded, soundless and cold in the room. Kreios awoke when he felt it, becoming alert without opening his eyes, taking care to keep his breathing pattern from any change. He was a combat-hardened warrior; any sleep he took was both sound and light. The slightest sound out of place was enough to wake him fully.

  He waited, unmoving, probing the room patiently. Now he could hear movement, scuffling. The heat from the Sword under his arm confirmed the danger he felt.

  Cracking an eye, he observed. Through the light and heat of the fire, he saw a figure cloaked in darkness, a long, haggard robe draped down, dragging on the floor. Kreios’ hand, already upon the grips of his sword, moved slowly, wrapping around it, enclosing it like a band of iron. Every muscle in his body made ready. You will only have one chance. Make this count. Kreios could feel the demon drawing on his life force.

  In a single blur of speed, Kreios jumped to his feet, unsheathing the Sword of Light. The dark intruder screeched in pain and hatred as blazing light filled the room. Kreios expected that this evil Brother’s proximity would give him but a moment, that its sucking draw upon his strength would sap him quickly. But as he made ready to kill, an unexpected sensation interrupted his attack.

  The Sword.

  Kreios felt his weapon resisting the drain of the demon. The Sword restored him, renewing him, and he regained what had been stolen as energy returned and redoubled, flowing up through his hand, his arm, flooding his heart.

  He betrayed his pleasure with a faint smile.

  Then he beheld a second black figure stepping from the next room. His eyes narrowed. I shall begin this fight by ending it. Quickly, he swung the Sword and split the midsection of the closest enemy, spilling its bowels onto the floor.

  Before it could roar in pain, he had spun fluidly, moving the Sword back into the attack, arcing low, tip grazing the stone floor, coming back around at shoulder height. He was poised; he did not hesitate. With this backhand swing he removed its head clean, watching its jagged sword clack to the ground, its body crumpling in a bloody heap.

  Kreios immediately felt a surge of power from within, and his birthmarks began to glow across his arms and chest as if on fire. Now for another.

  He turned and closed with the second intruder quickly. But as Kreios drew back to strike, the savage beast plunged a crooked black dagger into his chest. He growled in pain as the blade fouled him, his thoughts turning to his precious daughter in the next room. As he fell to his knees, stunned, he prayed desperately for her safety.

  No words passed between the two enemies as they stared at each other. Kreios still held the Sword in the vise of his grip as it flamed brightly, the white light revealing the hideousness of his enemy. It was profane, pathetic. A dirty, waxy hood concealed its face, revealing only the glow of eyes within, eyes fueled by the fires of hell. The beast unhanded its dagger, leaving it jutting from Kreios’ chest, unsheathing and raising its wicked black sword high overhead to finish its foe.

  It tensed its festering body in preparation, but then it retched abruptly, black liquid, like pitch, gurgling up from its throat. Its black sword fell, clanging to the floor. Its mouth drooped wide, and in the light of his Sword, Kreios beheld the tip of another bright blade penetrating from the back of its head, now protruding from the gaping mouth of his enemy.

  Zedkiel. Kreios pulled the black dagger from his chest and turned it on its master, burying its smoking tip within the folds of the robe of the demon.

  He rose up, ignoring the pain shooting through his ribcage, and swung the Sword violently across its neck, severing the head. The demon fell dead. Tacky black blood spilled from its body.

  Zedkiel put his foot on the head and pulled his sword free, standing over the lifeless form with contempt. He turned to Kreios. “You are wounded.” He leaned in to examine his injury.

  “He missed my lung. It hurts, but I can already feel it healing. I shall be whole by sunrise.” He grimaced. “Thank you.” He struggled to remain standing. He placed a hand on his kinsman’s shoulder, leaning on him for support.

  Kreios wiped the blood off the Sword, sheathed it, and slung the scabbard over his shoulder, keeping the sword snug against his body.

  Zedkiel placed more wood on the fire, which then began to roar lustily. Then they began to cut up the demon flesh into pieces so the remains could be burned. Even in Zedkiel’s village, where the people were less cold to their kind, precautions had to be taken. The world under the sun wasn’t yet ready to have certain terrifying suspicions confirmed.

  Kreios could not help but feel his peace stealing away—something was amiss. He could not identify the source with precision, but something was wrong. All the pieces on the fire now, he walked out the front door and looked up at the clear night sky.

  The air had a bitter quality. The sulfuric stench of the fuel now burning on the fire did not help matters. He listened for the sound of horses. Maybe he would be able to discern, by straining his ears, the approach of a Brotherhood battalion coming to finish the job of the scouts. The village still slept and did not know what had just transpired.

  It was better that way.

  “I believe they only sent two of them,” Zedkiel said from behind, standing in the doorway. “It might have been an easy kill for them if not for the Sword you carry.”

  The night was still and calm, completely clear. The stars illuminated the valley in resplendence; it reminded Kreios of another age. He did not like knowing that he had brought the demons here. His personal menagerie of problems did not belong to Zedkiel. In his haste to save his daughter, he had risked the whole family, possibly the whole Arch race. “I fear you will have to move away from Gratzipt,” he said. “They know you are here now. They will send more.” Kreios knew Zedkiel would refuse, but he was compelled to speak his heart no matter what.

  “I cannot remove us from this life; we cannot rebuild again, not now. Maria might not endure it, especially now that she is so near to giv
ing birth to our child. We have a good life in our little village.” He was quiet; the moment became heavy. “No. We will wait and set snares to protect ourselves. With you here, with the Sword … our strategy can be adjusted. We do not need to run.”

  Kreios said nothing. He was sure Zedkiel saw how the decision to stay would rain down hellfire upon an innocent village, the price of ignorance, proximal punishment for the inconsideration of angels who provoked battles with the Brotherhood.

  He shook his head and turned, walking back into the house. Kreios knew his kinsman would not listen to wisdom just now, so he decided upon silence.

  He decided to check on his baby girl.

  Kreios found Maria sprawled crookedly across his brother’s bed, blood matting her hair to a wound on her head. “Zedkiel.” He called out as he ran to her.

  Zedkiel came quickly. Maria groaned when they sat her up. She had suffered a blow to the head, and she was woozy for a moment. Then she gasped and her eyes flew open; she looked around the room frantically. She began to sob, moaning, and then buried her face in her hands. Kreios understood. He began riffling through the furs, pulling them back, looking for his daughter.

  She was gone.

  Maria sobbed and looked up at him, grief in her eyes. “They took her. There were four of them. Two came for you, and the other two took the child. They might have killed me, but they took the baby when they heard you. They struck me and I fell …” Her eyes were red and puffy, her face wet with tears.

  Kreios looked at Zedkiel, whose face was the picture of rage. Kreios wanted to scream. He wanted to spill blood.