A Chosen Life

by K. A. Parkinson

  A boom of thunder resonated through the room, and pieces of plaster rained down from the rotted ceiling, sprinkling the top of her head. A familiar ominous feeling filled her body and her heart sped up, the Kuna within her reacting to the vibes of the Dark moving nearby—closer than they’d been just an hour ago.

  She rolled off the bed in one swift movement and pulled her knife from a rip in the mattress.

  “To’ konsh’la,” she whispered, and every sound around her intensified. She could hear the wind tossing the leaves in the trees outside, the brush of the tumbleweeds as they scattered across the dry desert floor, and the scurry of frightened animals.

  She focused her hearing inside the house, searching for Bastian’s familiar, wheezy, old-man breathing.

  Instead, she heard strange whooshing, like wind through a tunnel, echoing from the direction of the living room . . . and moaning, soft, pitiful moaning . . .

  Bastian softly called her name.

  Her heart jumped to her throat and heat flooded her palms, but she willed the Kuna to stay inside her body.

  Slow down. Gauge the threat first, Bastian’s constant warning murmured in her head. Save your strength.

  She clenched the knife in her fist, opened the door, and slipped silently to the end of the hall.

  If this is some training exercise Bastian, or you fell again while fixing a midnight snack, I’m going to kill you. She edged along the wall, peeked around the corner, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Books, papers, bricks, the remains of Bastian’s favorite chair, and the coffee table were flying around and around in some sort of freak indoor tornado. A huge man knelt in its center, pale blue light issuing from his cupped hands. The odd light eerily accentuated his horrified face. He seemed completely oblivious to the remains of the living room furniture slamming into him.

  He closed his fingers. The light and wind vanished, and the broken furniture crashed to the floor.

  He gasped and fell forward, catching himself with one hand while the other remained in a tight fist by his side.

  Macy’s ears rang in the sudden silence.

  “To’ inreedo,” she whispered, and the man’s frame came into perfect focus through the darkness. Even though she was certain she’d never seen the man in her life, there was something oddly familiar about him.

  “Who are you?” She held her knife in front of her. The blade trembled in her fingers as her Kuna fought for release.

  He didn’t move. His eyes stayed riveted on his closed fist.

  “What do you want?” She cast a quick glance around the room, but there was no sign of her ancient Watcher. “Bastian!”

  The man finally looked up and turned toward her. Lightning flashed through the room and his eyes mirrored the glow—unnaturally bright, sapphire-blue, those eyes could belong to only one person.

  Macy took a hesitant step back. “You can’t be . . . ”

  The man stood up. He was enormous, well over six feet, and covered in thick muscle that bulged beneath his tight flannel shirt. His face held an expression she knew well—only on a different, much older face.

  “Who are you?” Macy took another step back into the hall. The man’s blood-splattered shirt looked exactly like the one Bastian had been wearing—the one with the missing front pocket.

  She glanced down. Same faded jeans, same nasty old carpet slippers.

  “Macy, I am Bastian.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not possible.”

  “I promise to explain but we must leave, now! Go to your room, get your things.” The voice was close to Bastian’s tone, it held the same hurried finality he used when danger was near.

  She didn’t move.

  If you really are Bastian—my Watcher—then you’ll feel what I am thinking. She cast about in her mind for something only Bastian could know. The first thought that came seemed stupid, but it was the best she could do. What did you give me for my sixteenth birthday?

  The man gave an exasperated sigh. “You do not allow gifts or even the acknowledgment of your birthday. This is ridiculous. Close your eyes. Look inside yourself. Your life force knows your Watcher.”

  Macy’s hands shook. This guy appeared to be aware of her thoughts but that didn’t mean it wasn’t some trick of the Dark. “And my Watcher has drilled into me never to close my eyes when an enemy is looking right at me.”

  “I am not your enemy!” He threw his hands in the air. “Macy, there is no time for this! It is the will of the Balance. You have to trust me!”

  That was definitely Bastian’s matter-of-fact, annoyed voice.

  With one last threatening look in his direction, she closed her eyes. A familiar quivering began in her heart and filled her whole body. Her life force did recognize the man standing in front of her, not because of the eyes or the familiar voice, but from the power that emanated from him. The evil did not come from him. It was outside, traveling to them swiftly from the northwest.

  This man was her Watcher. It really was Bastian. This didn’t make her feel better.

  “Okay, fine. You’re Bastian.” She glared once in his direction before turning to run down the hall back to her bedroom. “The Balance has been known to do worse.”

  Her battered backpack sat propped against the wall. Her hands shook as she pulled a purple sucker from the front pocket and stuck it in her mouth. She rolled up her ragged blanket and tied it to the bottom of the pack.

  Seconds later Bastian followed her in and waited in the doorway. His creepy new face a mask of impatience, his wavy hair tied back into a ponytail, his favorite carpet slippers swapped for hiking boots, his blood-spattered shirt traded for a clean one. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be as fast as Bastian.

  “Feels like Raksasha.” She spoke through her teeth as she rushed to tug knee-high leather boots over her jeans.

  “Yes.” Bastian glanced over his shoulder. “I sense at least four, but there could be more. They are moving as quickly as they can. They will be here in less than ten minutes.” He held out her belt, and she stood and tied it around her waist. Her knife was back in the scabbard, and her survival pouches dangled beside it.

  Macy lifted her eyebrow. “How did the Raksasha track us here? Do you think someone noticed me spying on the Kreydawn?” She thought back to the reconnaissance mission. She’d only noticed the mindless Kreydawn being controlled by one Suppressor. She’d killed the only two Raksasha guards that had been stationed outside their mining field . . . or so she thought. What had she missed?

  Bastian didn’t answer. His eyes remained focused out the window.

  She knew when he purposely avoided an answer. She tried not to worry as she threw on her sleeveless jacket and pulled a hair band out of her pocket. Turning to the cracked mirror she quickly twisted her waist-length, dusty blonde hair into a haphazard ponytail. She met her wide green eyes in a scrutinizing stare for a split second before she looked down at the glowing face of her watch.

  “Ready in less than thirty seconds.” She smirked, tossing the pack over her shoulders.

  “I suppose the complaints about having to sleep in traveling clothes will now stop.” His voice was clipped and impatient and he left the room in a hurry, beckoning her to follow.

  Whatever he was hiding couldn’t be good. This wasn’t the first time they’d “up and left” in the middle of the night, it was no less than to be expected, but Bastian was rarely this short tempered. Either the younger Bastian was more impatient or the situation was far worse than normal.

  Her already nervous stomach tightened as she rushed after him.

  Lightning lit the ripped floral wallpaper in the living room and a huge owl dropped from the ceiling, swooped low over their heads, and spiraled out the broken window.

  Macy stopped.

  Bastian squeezed his eyes shut.

  The
sucker fell out of her mouth and landed with a soft thud on the worn carpet. “That . . . that wasn’t . . . a Ghost Owl?”

  Bastian nodded, his eyes sympathetic.

  “An omen from the Light?” Thunder cracked and she winced. The eerie cold she’d felt earlier once again brushed across her skin, raising goose bumps on her arms and the back of her neck, but this time she knew the chill wasn’t caused by the weather.

  “Yes.” He took a step forward and held out his hand. She shook her head and stepped back. “Not a normal storm?” Bastian moved closer.

  “The Shadows?” Her voice came out in a broken whisper. She could feel her throat constricting. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and along her forehead and her palms turned cold and clammy.

  “They were released a few days ago, while I was regenerating. As far as I can guess by the stories in the newspapers, they were staying along the coast—”

  “But now they’re headed here.” She could feel the blood drain from her face and colors started to swim before her eyes. She backed against the wall, tried to keep her legs steady beneath her, and reminded herself to breathe. “Why? What drew them?” Why Shadows? Why now? The questions she couldn’t speak flowed from her thoughts.

  “LaUnahi, we do not have the time to discuss it. They have shifted their direction toward us, but we can escape as long as the Raksasha do not slow us down.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Macy, we must hurry. The closer the Shadows get the more they will drain your strength.”

  She shook off his arm and gave him a nasty look. “I can handle it. Let’s just get out of here.”

  As much as she fought it, terror twisted Macy’s stomach into knots. She ran warily behind Bastian along the deep ditch that had once channeled water to the deserted ranch.

  Raksasha she could handle. Crud, she’d take on any Dark creature. But why did it have to be Shadow Wraiths? The one kind of Dark she truly feared.

  She closed her eyes briefly. The Shadows had killed her parents. It had been more than ten years, but whenever the memory of the Shadow Wraiths’ attack forced its way to the surface, the remembered pain nearly incapacitated her.

  Bastian slowed, held up his hand to stop her, and closed his eyes.

  A muffled screech broke through the air and unbidden heat surged through her body.

  Bastian shoved her ahead of him. “Go! Run! The Raksasha have caught our scent!”

  “Mig’nata!” Macy pushed every ounce of life force strength she had to her legs, increasing her speed. Bushes and twigs scratched her face and arms as she pushed her way through the brush. The Ghost Owl appeared at the head of one of Bastian’s concealed escape routes and she followed it without pausing to question, wanting only to be as far from the Shadows as possible.

  The rusty International Scout seemed to grow out of a clump of tall sage. Macy ripped open the driver’s side door, threw her pack in the back, jumped in the seat, and glanced around anxiously.

  Where are you Bastian?

  She leaned over and with fumbling fingers began to twist together the ignition wires dangling below the dash to start the truck, wishing briefly that the owl had led her back to the old Ford. The owl hooted, and she looked up to see two Raksasha clawing their way through the bushes.

  Almost perfectly camouflaged by the darkness, the blood-trackers’ black leathery skin clung to their bones, giving them the look of burned skeletons. Their ape-like arms swung by their sides, and their three-inch fingernails dripped ocher poison onto the hard ground. They paced the truck and sniffed at the air. The scent of a Chosen’s blood this close to them filled their glowing yellow eyes with ravenous hunger.

  Bastian, come on! Where are you?

  She’d foolishly used up too much strength empowering her run and her nerves were too jittery to stay focused. She couldn’t jump out and fight them hand to hand.

  The Raksasha swayed closer. She had no choice but to call her Kuna. Hopefully she could keep it going long enough to distract them until Bastian caught up. She wouldn’t think if he caught up. Not yet.

  She rubbed her palms together quickly until they began to tingle and burn. The smell of eucalyptus and roses filled the truck, smoke rose from her fingertips, and she thrust her hands out the window.

  “Mi’no ha!”

  Two fireballs erupted from her palms. Shrieking, the Raksasha dove to the side and the fireballs disappeared in a shower of sparks and smoke.

  The Raksasha resumed their pacing, eyeing her hands with contempt.

  She gasped for air and tried to pull more heat to her palms, rubbing them together fiercely.

  The creature on the left bared his black pointed teeth and lunged. Macy shot another burst of fire, this one much smaller than the last two. The Raksasha sidestepped to avoid it and shrieked in triumph as the fireball slammed into the sage behind them, setting it ablaze.

  Sweat poured down Macy’s face, her chest constricted as she gasped for more air to feed the heat. One of the Raksasha sprang to the window and she scrambled backwards to the passenger side. Its fingernails were inches from the door when suddenly Bastian jumped through the burning brush, gripping his machete, covered in dirt and blood.

  He swung, the blade flashed, and both Raksasha fell twitching to the ground, their heads rolling away from their bodies, black blood squirting from their necks onto the dry dirt.

  Bastian jumped into the driver’s seat, tossed the blood-covered blade into the back, and twisted the ignition . . .

  Nothing happened.

  Snakelike fingers crawling with maggots clawed their way up through the ground. The Night Demons had smelled the blood and were coming up to feed on the carcasses.

  “Bastian . . . ” Macy watched the slimy, scaly-white arm of a Night Demon followed by the tip of its emaciated shoulder break free of the dirt. “We really need to leave.”

  Bastian punched the dash. “I thought you fixed the truck?”

  Macy reached over and twisted the wires dangling beneath the steering column. “And I usually drive.”

  He slammed the gas pedal to the floor and the engine caught and roared in a tortured sort of way.

  He shot her a dirty look and she raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been telling you we needed a new ignition in the Scout. I would’ve taken the Ford, not this piece of crap, but this is where the Ghost led me.”

  Bastian shoved the shifter forward—grinding the gears—rocks and dust sprayed everywhere as he spun a one-eighty.

  Three more Raksasha leapt toward the truck and Bastian flicked on the headlights. The creatures skidded to a halt and threw their hands over their eyes, momentarily blinded.

  Their horrible screams rang in Macy’s ears as the Scout barreled through the dirt and brush.

  “Are you hurt?” Bastian glanced over once they’d reached the safety of the highway—the Scout carrying them away at its top speed of seventytwo miles per hour.

  Macy clenched her teeth as a fire-truck passed by them, sirens blaring. “Nope, I’m dandy—just another wonderful day in the life of a chosen protector of the unsuspecting human race.” She rolled her eyes angrily and pointed at the black and red blood spatters along his arms. “How are you?”

  “Just a few scratches, nothing you cannot stitch up.” He gave her a sideways grin that quickly turned to a frown at the look on her face. “Calm, Macy.” His voice carried a warning.

  Macy’s breathing only increased, her arms trembled, and a thin stream of smoke curled from her palms. She turned in her seat to glare at him full on.

  “Calm down? Calm down? What in the Sam-hill is going on? How in the name of Pete did they find us?” The weak smell of eucalyptus and roses once again seeped from her hands. “Bastian, come on! Shadow Wraiths? And what the H is going on with you?”

  “Macy, getting angry and disrespectful is not going to help anything.”

  “I didn’t
cuss.” She spoke through clenched teeth.

  “If you think I do not know what you mean when you say Pete, Sam-hill, and H, you are insulting my intelligence.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  Bastian squeezed one of her smoking hands. “Focus. You need to regain your strength. The Shadows are far behind, but they are still following . . . I will not tell you anything until you show that you have control over yourself.”

  Macy gritted her teeth, shoved her hands under her legs, and started humming Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata double time. Five minutes later her heart slowed to a normal pace and the heat left her palms, but she remained too angry to speak calmly.

  Bastian pointed to the glove box. She opened it and took a purple sucker from the bag stashed inside.

  Sticking it between her teeth, she stared out at the passing landscape, allowing the sound of the music in her head to calm her temper and the sugar to help regenerate her life force.

  Pink hues stained the horizon, a blood red sun peeked just over the rocky hilltops, and wisps of cloud streaked the brightening sky. The core of the Shadow storm trailed farther and farther behind them as Bastian sped along the deserted highway. They would be safe until tonight when the Raksasha came out to play again. They needed to be far away from here by then.

  Slowly her body relaxed as the miles rolled behind them, but her thoughts continued to swirl with the night’s events. Bastian had brought her to the deserted Nevada ranch a couple of years ago, saying the land had been forgotten by man and Hidden, preparing her all this time for him to die, and now he was all young and buff?

  She glanced at the Watcher beside her. This man was a stranger . . . but not really. Whatever was happening, could it at least mean Bastian would not be dying anytime soon?

  “I’m sorry Bastian, for my attitude and my actions. I should have known it was you immediately, and I should have had more control to pace myself. I shouldn’t have taken all my strength to run.” She paused and sucked in a slow breath. “It’s so stupid! Those two Raksasha were nothing! The Shadows—”