The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance

by Aaron Patterson

A formal dining room was through the next set of arches, with a glass and silver chandelier hanging from a forty-foot ceiling. The room had to be seventy-feet square, with an enormous dark granite table in the center that could seat over a hundred guests.

  Okay, so this dude is excessive. I still don’t like it. But the grapes were good. So I ate them. I finished the last one, wandering back through the kitchen and across the ballroom. On the other side was a study, if you could call it that, with leather couches encircling a stone fireplace that was forty feet tall. A mantle held a few books, a quill pen, and some other stuff at about head height. A hearty fire was leaping in the grate, lighting the space happily.

  Bookshelves were stuffed handsomely full on every wall. I couldn’t resist scanning the spines for titles, seeing some I recognized, and a lot I didn’t. Some looked so old I was afraid to touch them. I felt as if I had spent too much time already, so I left that room and moved on.

  I found myself standing at the head of another long hallway, this one aglow with wall-mounted torches and curving to the right so that I could not see the end.

  I stopped and listened to see if I could hear anything, but all I heard was the faint popping and crackling of torches. As it was on the second floor, there were doors on each side of the hall about every twenty feet. I opened a few and found that these rooms were clean and used, or at least ready for use.

  I couldn’t help wondering if my kidnapper had many guests. Was he a partier or something? Yeah. This place is party central. Did he have people over to dance the night away in the great ballroom? What was he doing, flying them in? Somehow I didn’t think so, but it was strange that he had all this space for a single man. I guessed wealth just made people eccentric. Which is polite for really weird.

  Toward the end of the hall, I found another staircase leading down. Unlike everywhere else, it was pitch black. An earthy smell wafted up in a draft of cold air. I wondered if it might lead to the outside, and if so whether or not it would end under the waterfall. I didn’t want to find out. My nerves were shot. Besides, in front of me was quite the curiosity. It was a tall and wide double door, filling my end of the hall like a sleeping dragon.

  I didn’t notice how large the corridor was until I stood in the shadow of those gigantic doors. They were made from huge slabs of wood, carved and inlaid with bronze and gold, forming the image of an angel fighting a beast with two heads. It was stunning. The sword in the angel’s hand looked like there was light bursting from it, and each ray was accented with silver and glass. At the top, the two doors arched toward each other and met in the middle. Big black pulls stood like hands at about shoulder height for me.

  I stood in awe, unable to move as I studied the engraving. It was indeed very beautiful, but it was unnerving at the same time. I wondered who had done the work, but had no illusion as to whom this room belonged.

  The killer. He had no name to me. I figured he fancied himself a scholar of history or something. Maybe he brainwashed himself into thinking he was doing the world a favor by taking girls and doing God knows what to them. I had a feeling in the back of my mind that my conscience, and maybe even She, did not approve of what I was about to do.

  I turned the large handle, pausing to gather my nerves, then pushed. The door was so heavy that for a brief moment, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to open it. At last it swung in, silent on its hinges. The room was dark. But as the door opened, my diminishing candle—aided by the torches in the corridor—threw an orange light into the room. My shadow fell long and fuzzy across thick carpet.

  Straight ahead in the darkness was a canopy bed, very ornate. It stood on a raised platform against the wall. I crept in and closed the door gently behind so I wouldn’t announce my presence, if I hadn’t already done so.

  I held my candle aside and down, waiting until my eyes adjusted a little. I kept my back to the wall. This room was round, too, and opposite me were large windows much like the ones in the ballroom, showering the floor with starlight. I sneaked boldly to the bedside. Nothing stirred in it as far as I could tell.

  I came to the windows of tall etched glass and observed a setting moon, blood orange, against the snow of a distant mountain range. There was a trailhead at the edge of the porch outside the windows. It led toward the base of those mountains. There was a shed or shack, partially on stilts, that clung to the mountainside. Below it was a square patch that looked like one of those places where gymnasts do their floor routines for the Olympics, but it was washed out brown and stuck out over the drop as if floating.

  I forced myself to look away. Though life was getting difficult to assess—which is an understatement— I still wanted to be cautious. If it turned out that being savagely murdered in the dream meant certain death in the real world, I had to keep my guard up. It didn’t matter if I sometimes couldn’t tell what was a dream and what was real. I was so overwhelmed with my life that it was getting difficult to stay tough.

  I took a brief survey of the rest of the room. I found a bathroom, a tub that was more pool than tub, and some odds and ends that I couldn’t really place.

  I watched the bed curtains to see if I was safe to explore further. I heard respirations barely louder than a whisper.

  I moved to the closet, which was like a private Walmart. It was filled with every kind of clothing imaginable, in every style. Eighties’ MC Hammer pants, old suits like the mobsters used to wear, and even robes, all of them appearing to suffer from the occasional actual use. It blew me away. It looked like a costume wardrobe from a movie studio. Of course there wasn’t a stitch out of place; everything was orderly. I think I would have felt more comfortable if there was one thing normal in the place. Like shoes kicked in the corner or even dirty undies in a pile of old t-shirts or something.

  I was creeped out, and I wasn’t sure if it was the thought of killer underwear or not. But I felt the irresistible yanking need to turn around, as if he was standing right there. I grimaced, dreading what was coming—not sure if I was going to die of embarrassment or a knife wound—and raised my hands in surrender, turning slowly around. I almost said, “Okay. You caught me,” but I didn’t, because as soon as I had turned and opened my eyes again, there was no one there. Just another unexplainable item to add to the list.

  I was not deterred from my nosiness and continued on, creeping through my captor’s private life. I chalked it up to the fact that I figured he owed me at least a little information—and if he wasn’t going to volunteer any, I would find some, so help me, and he would be at the mercy of my interpretation of it. So there.

  It was a bummer that all I found after that was a bare concrete room, about the size of a restaurant refrigerator. Killers need storage space, too. But that was probably the weirdest part of another weird night strung on the necklace of my existence. Palatial house, in which everything is obscenely overstuffed—then a tiny bunker of a room that’s just… empty. I was seriously wondering how many of these kinds of things were going to continue to happen to me.

  I wasn’t leading a life, I decided. My life was leading me. Where, I did not know. I was afraid to ask anyway. Whenever I asked the heavens for some kind of explanation, they were silent. Typical.

  I yawned and decided I was getting sleepy. I needed to make my exit sooner rather than later. I retraced my trail to my room, being extremely careful not to leave any “crumbs.”

  I fell into the soft bed, and this time I didn’t dream of anything. No monsters, no running. Just blank, sweet sleep. Was that good or bad?

  CHAPTER XIII

  1250 B.C.—The City of Ke’elei

  “THEY NEVER INTENDED TO give even one man,” Kreios said aloud, primarily to himself, but in the presence of his brother and friend. Yamanu sat smoking his pipe as if readying himself for a very long sleep, and Zedkiel was pacing by the fire. They had all three returned to the inn, where they had found lodgings at the great City of Refuge.

  “You read their thoughts?” Yamanu asked, a tone of surprise in hi
s voice. “A bit risky. If you open your mind up to read, you are vulnerable as well.”

  “Yes, I know. But I am not afraid of the likes of the council; they have grown weak. I am sick of the lies. They had no intention of giving us even one man.” Kreios paced the room, struggling with the fury ablaze within his heart. Of course the council had not delivered on Anael’s promise to give them one-third of the army of Ke’elei; he suspected they were lying. Kreios would have to fight the Seer with whoever was willing, and right now that was looking like Zed and Yam.

  He was not going to let the Seer or the council control him. He could feel that the Seer wanted him and his baby girl for some dark purpose beyond his imagination, and the only way to be rid of the Seer and the threat against his daughter was to kill him. Cut the head off the snake, and the rest of the body would die.

  Yamanu sat back in a long, low chair, feet up, jovially puffing on his pipe. He looked up at Kreios and Zedkiel as if they were two figures in a play discussing nothing more important than whether one lump or two was proper. “Well, ladies, I am ready to fight—but first I will require a dinner of lamb and greens with bread smothered in butter. If it pleases you.”

  Kreios let out a pinched laugh and swept Yamanu’s upraised feet off the table. “Nothing gets to you, Yamanu, does it?”

  Yamanu shrugged and looked innocently at him.

  Kreios’ smile faded slowly as the jest died away under the gravity of their situation. His eyes turned to Zedkiel. “I think you should stay here with Maria. She needs you to help her with the childbirth, and I will feel better if you are here to protect what is left of my family.”

  Zedkiel protested lightly as a matter of course. “I shall pray for you, my brother. Every moment.”

  Kreios did not answer him.

  Yamanu regained his reclined posture, regarding the brothers.

  Kreios spoke. “They will stay here, instead of taking a chance to surprise the Seer and wipe the horde from the face of the earth. ‘Fortify and defend,’ they say, but in the end, the war will be long and hard. Every day that goes by, the horde will grow stronger, and we will grow weaker—they simply need to be led to the foot of the walls and besiege us with their encampment. Not even having to raise a sword. It is madness. Why would they risk so much in refusing to risk so little?”

  Yamanu took the pipe from his lips, standing at last. “Kreios, we do not have the time to uncover this mystery. We should ready ourselves; grasp what is already in our hands.” He poured out the bowl of his pipe into the fire, where it sparked and sizzled. “If you don’t mind, I require a good night’s sleep and a hot meal. After that, friend Kreios, you and I will go to see how many demons we can kill.”

  Kreios managed a weak smile, nodding. “We go at sunrise. We will eat and sleep—then we will hunt.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Somewhere in the Mountains of Idaho—Present Day

  COOL MORNINGS IN THE mountains, with rain on some nights, made the earth smell so good that it invaded the mind. I sat up and drank it in, feeling better than I ever had up to this point. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I’d had a good night’s sleep.

  I took stock of my situation: One, I knew Michael was alive and well. He was off his game, but at least he was breathing. Two, my host was disturbingly generous and wealthy. Either that, or he was working for someone who owned an entire country.

  I let my feet fall to the floor and shuffled into the bathroom. I wasn’t going to think about my parents and how they were doing. Let’s at least wake up and clear the cobwebs before we burst into tears.

  A pink sticky note looked at me from the mirror. The handwriting had to be Michael’s. The killer’s hand would have been in cursive. I pulled it free and read what it said.

  Went for a walk. Don’t worry about me— I was assured I was being watched, so I won’t go far. See you at breakfast—8 AM sharp.

  - Michael Alexander

  I looked outside, down the lush green valley, but did not see Michael. The grandfather clock against the wall was reading… little hand on the seven, big hand on the nine… quarter ’til. I was experiencing culture shock, full-on. Literally nothing digital in the entire place, unless it was numbers themselves. “Man.” What could I say? I decided to get ready and head downstairs.

  I found a hair band, pulled half my hair back. and tied it tight. Smoothing out the rest with my hand, I looked in the mirror. On second thought, I pulled the band out of my hair and let it run wild, hiding part of my face, providing cover. I decided that was better, and pulled on a black shirt and my favorite jeans, trying hard not to think of how they had appeared here in the middle of freaking Narnia.

  I opened the door and stared straight into the dark eyes of my captor, which prompted a sharp gasp and a long, “Shhhhhhhhh—” aborting the rest of the curse.

  He smiled, his lips drawn thin. “Morning,” he said. “I hope you’re feeling well.”

  I recovered quickly, rebuilding the wall by reattaching the mask to my frightened face, glaring at him. “Well, actually, I’m feeling pretty good. Better than I’ve been, since you asked.” He turned to walk down the hallway and I followed. “But I think I may need a doctor to find out what’s wrong with me. I started getting sick a month or so ago.” I didn’t know why I told him, but somehow I felt I must.

  “You will be fine. You need a good breakfast. There is much to talk about. It will become clear in time—and try not to think of me as your captor or kidnapper.” He looked at me. “I only did what I had to do.”

  He stopped short when he saw the look on my face. I had no interest in being his friend or buddy, if that was what he was looking for. I remembered something from a movie where victims actually started to like their captors, building a sick version of a relationship. I was not afraid of that happening to me.

  “I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to know you, and the first chance I can find to escape, I will. I’m trying to make the best of all this, but don’t pretend anything’s normal.” I didn’t care if he had tried to nurse me back to health or any of it. He was a murderer and a kidnapper. And that was just the stuff I knew about him.

  His eyes grew hard. “Have it your way. But know this: you cross me or try to escape … I will kill you. Do not mistake my generosity for weakness.”

  He ground his teeth, turned, and walked away. I followed him, wondering if I had made my situation better or worse. We descended the stairs together, and for the briefest of moments I imagined what it might be like to descend the same magnificent stairs in an impossible five-thousand-dollar princess gown on the arm of my Michael. Instead I was walking at a distance from my kidnapper that more than suggested repellence.

  He wore jeans and a tight black T-shirt with a white intertwined ivy design interlaced from the hip to the shoulder. It was an interesting shirt; I couldn’t quite place where he might have gotten it. He moved smoothly for his size; he looked like he was a panther. Maybe it was the black shirt. Nothing about him was wasted. Not even his words. It appeared to me that he thought long and hard before he spoke in order to avoid saying something he might later regret.

  He led me to the far side of the ballroom and through a set of heavy glass doors. I saw a round table and three chairs under a white umbrella in the morning sun, looking like a slice of Paris. The porch was a hundred feet long at least, and surrounded with bushes and plants of all kinds.

  I saw Michael standing by the edge of the porch and my heart skipped a beat. I ran past the killer and threw my arms around Michael’s big shoulders, hugging him tight. “Michael,” I said breathlessly. “I’m so glad to see you.” I pulled back, looked at him, and hugged him again. I had to hold back a tear. I hadn’t had time to realize how much I had grown to care for him, but suddenly it was realized. I didn’t want to let him go.

  “Airel, I was so worried about you. How are you feeling?” He seemed better, back to his normal, confident self.

  “Great. I’m fine, all bet
ter.” I was fine, better than fine. I was alive, I felt great, and I had Michael next to me. How could I not be fine, even in the face of my captor?

  Michael held my hands and looked at me with his deep blue eyes. These were the eyes that could look into my very soul, and I gladly allowed it. “Are you sure, though? I mean, are you still sick?”

  “I’m better; I think it was all the stress. Maybe something I ate or drank.” I gave our captor a glare and said it just loud enough for him to hear.

  Michael smiled and nodded. “Good. You had me worried there… I don’t know what—”

  The killer cleared his throat and sat down. The chair scraped on the cobblestone as he pulled it closer to the table, and I got a strong sense that it was intentional. “There will be time for the asking and answering of your questions. All the time in the world. Let us eat.” He had a calm look on his face as if this was all quite routine for him.

  Michael shot me a look and pulled out a chair for me. I could only guess at the meaning of his expression. He slid his chair closer to mine so that we sat opposite from our mysterious captor, the table serving as a buffer.

  The killer glanced at us without any concern, looking amused by it.

  There were three white china plates on the table. Each was piled with fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon grilled to a perfect crisp, country sausage, and crusty cracked-wheat toast with plenty of soft butter. Baskets of fruit and muffins stood in the center of the table.

  I could see cherries, mangoes, oranges, papaya, peaches, grapes on the vine (the kind I had discovered the previous night), and fresh pineapple. Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice were in front of each plate, droplets of condensation forming deliciously on all of them. I took the cold glass in my hand and sipped it. It was amazing.

  Michael started on his eggs hungrily, and so did I. The killer took a small bite out of his toast as he studied us. Then, just as abruptly as a punch in the stomach, he introduced himself. “My name is Kale. My last name is of no importance. I thought you ought to know.”