by S McPherson
‘Stop the monster!’ one of the men calls.
I can almost feel the gust of hate raging from the boy as fury seems to scorch his eyes.
‘You’re the monsters!’ he roars, and seeming to summon all his strength, the boy doubles in size, throwing the men off him like flies. The fool still clinging to the iron rod finds his arm snaps as the boy twists it from his grip. The fool wails out, stumbling to the ground, but the others are quick to their feet, racing after the boy as he makes a run for it. The clank of chains they wield above their heads gets louder.
The boy turns, veins rising proud of his skin as he lifts the car standing beside him: a small two-door, but a car nonetheless. My mouth falls open as he hoists the vehicle above his head, pain creasing his face as his entire body shakes under the weight. Before the men can get any closer, he tosses the car at them, crushing two. I resist the urge to cheer, but then five still remain, advancing on the boy from all sides, a boy who is now obviously drained.
They easily tackle him to the ground. He squirms but a wallop across his head with a spanner dazes him further. About to spring into action, I’m stopped by the firm pressure of a hand on my back: Nathaniel. When had he come up behind me? And Jude is behind him. I stare at them, wide-eyed, questioning, as I hear the boy cry out and the cold thuds of what sounds like someone being punched come sickeningly to my hearing. I know that sound well, briefly taken back to those Saturdays with Drake. I can’t just sit here!
Nathaniel only shakes his head, unable to meet my eyes, and Jude presses a finger to his lips, signalling me to be quiet. He makes a steady pulsing gesture with his hand: wait. I blink as the threat of tears stings my eyes and my throat closes up. Shaken, I turn back to see the boy now being hauled off, unconscious and back to his usual form.
The men look battered but the result is the same: they won, the boy lost. They sling him into the back of a van—the white van with the ominous markings. When did that get here?
‘Put him with the others,’ growls the seller, spitting a tooth from his busted mouth. His overalls are torn and I notice, with little satisfaction, that he limps, dragging his foot behind him.
Whoever is driving doesn’t ask questions, just drives the van down the ramp leading to the underground parking and out of sight. I stare, crippled by fear and uselessness, finally gaping at the boys, silently begging them to do something, anything. But Nathaniel simply pulls me to him, cradling my head against his chest. I shut my eyes, but it doesn’t delete what they have already seen: a kindly-looking boy who thought he was about to get his first car when, instead, he’s attacked and taken who-knows-where for who-knows-what purpose.
‘Please,’ I murmur, muffled beneath Nathaniel’s arms, though I don’t know what I am pleading for.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he whispers, ‘not yet.’ And though I hate to admit it, I know he’s right.
THE ORANGE MOON
Yvane’s mother shrieks her name long after Yvane has pushed past her, long after she’s barrelled out of the kitchen, skidded around her fathers confused expression and out of the front door. She doesn’t bother closing it, doesn’t even look back, her legs pounding against the ground faster than she has ever known them to.
As she runs, she’s plagued with visions of the orange moon dripping blood, the agonising cries of Lexovia and the spine-chilling laughter of Dezaray, cold and vicious.
A siren howls: curfew. It must be the seventh hour. Yvane had forgotten all about it but can’t turn back now. She won’t. For so long she has yearned to do something, to be useful, her parents eagerly laughing off the idea, but now is her chance. Even Milo is out there doing something.
Sand and stone crunch underfoot, sending up puffs and swirls of dust around her heels. When she treads on a jutting stick, Yvane winces, only then realising she’s barefoot. Great! She longs to be taken seriously and yet she’s charging around the land without any shoes on, her mop of curls tumbling around her face like a lion’s mane.
The spire of the Court pokes up into the sky ahead and her pace quickens, her heart beating so fast it might burst through her chest. An aged iron gate looms over her, the tarnished crest of Coldivor emblazed upon it, and Yvane skids to a hazardous stop. Her gaze skims the mammoth wall in which it’s set, topped with shards of concrete. Now what? As she studies the iron beast of a barricade, she detects the sounds of grunts and clanks coming from the other side, somehow organised, rhythmic.
‘Again!’ orders a voice she doesn’t recognise and the sounds of skilful battle start up again.
Training, she realises.
‘Hello?’ Yvane calls, hoping to be heard over the clamour. ‘Hello?’ Almost instantly the grounds go silent. ‘I am Yvane Mace from Prelang Province.’ She waits but no one speaks. ‘I come with a vision for you all, but first I need to speak to my friend, Howard Chor from Fuatrass.’ She considers mentioning Lexovia but thinks better of it. Requesting to speak to the last Elentrice would probably result in her being bound in chains.
‘Yvane?’ asks a voice she knows all too well and relief floods through her like rain in a drought.
‘Howard,’ she breathes, ‘let me in. Please? This is important.’ She hears hissing and murmured growls from the other side of the wall but cannot make out what is being said.
‘Step away from the gate,’ commands an unfamiliar voice and Yvane does as instructed. She yelps when mist erupts around her and gilded leaves on marble staffs jab out at her, Rijjleton Guards on their other end. Xyens. Lexovia had mentioned the new weapon, supposedly strong enough to combat an Exlathar. The Guards glower, their long snouts twitching as they take in her scent.
‘Premoniter,’ one nods.
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ croaks another and gruffly grips her wrists, pinning them behind her back in his surprisingly solid, stubby hands. Yvane winces but doesn’t protest. If it were easy to get into the Court, she would be questioning their security. Another guard pats her down, no doubt checking for hidden weapons and enchantments. Seemingly satisfied, he steps back, reclaiming his weapon and directing it at her.
‘Appears non-threatening,’ he announces, loud enough for those over the wall to hear, and a rumble and a series of clanks tell her the gate is being opened. It slithers aside, vanishing inside the wall. Though she’s now surrounded on three sides by pointed weapons and ahead of her stand the hulking bodies of the Court’s Guard, dripping sweat and clutching various arms: swords, spears, even hooks, she beams at the one in the centre: Howard.
He yanks himself free from those trying to hold him back. ‘What are you doing here?’ he gasps, anxiously, eyeing her wayward hair and bare feet.
‘I had a premonition,’ and Yvane swallows, meeting his eye with an earnest, ‘one I don’t understand, and one so vivid I could smell the iron in the blood.’
Vladimir listens, seething, his arms folded, as Yvane tells them about her vision. He’d been furious to find her there, standing at the stone table with Howard and Lexovia at her sides, but when Lexovia had shushed him and the other Court members hadn’t protested, he’d slumped against a pillar and listened, now glad that he had.
‘What could it mean?’ Yvane looks hopelessly at Lexovia, allowing Howard to rub her shoulders and stroke her hand. Though she got into the building on the pretence of needing to share a vision with the Court, Vladimir realises that she truly just wanted to speak to her friends, to share her concerns and work through her gift.
He doesn’t question where her parents are or how she got out after curfew. Instead, he says, ‘The Orange Moon occurs once every decade, it’s energy veiling us in a powerful glow.’ He pushes off the pillar and strides towards her. ‘Some say a part of the moon once fell, touching the soil and leading to both Provolian and Elutheran magic. It is believed that on the night of the orange moon any spell, any potion, will be successful.’ Vladimir stops, thinking back to all he knows of the orange moon. His shoulders tense and he releases an almost amused puff of air. Carefull
y, he plants his hands on the table. ‘It was a night of the Orange Moon when Diez attempted to resurrect his brother.’
Fear takes the room, slicing through it like a thousand frozen whips, burning as it settles. Every eye widens as every mouth clamps shut.
‘Diez?’ Yvane’s voice is barely a whisper, but the sound makes all who hear flinch.
‘We cannot tell her,’ Vladimir growls as Lexovia parts her lips to respond. ‘Need to know.’
‘Yvane brought us this vision. If what you say is true, Dezaray and Lexovia could be battling at the next orange moon, and Diez could be the reason,’ Howard snaps. ‘What if Yvane see’s something else? She needs to know.’
‘If she see’s something else, she can always tell us and we will make sense of it.’
‘Vladimir—’ Lexovia starts.
‘She is not one of us,’ he snaps. Yvane seems to recoil from his words but he doesn’t back down. ‘She does not need to know.’
‘What if I were one of you?’ Yvane asks. Hope pinches her voice. ‘I want to be one of you.’
Those around them don’t seem to move, every eye on Vladimir, waiting, expectant.
‘How old are you?’ he finally asks. He can feel Lexovia’s gaze and deliberately avoids meeting it.
Yvane bristles. ‘Seventeen.’
‘You’re a minor,’ he says with an air of finality. ‘Without your parent’s approval, you are not permitted in the Court.’ Vladimir almost feels pity when he notices creases of pain flicker across Yvane’s face.
‘I want to help,’ she pleads. ‘Don’t ask me to do nothing.’
‘I don’t ask anything of you.’ He keeps his jaw taut and held a touch too high. If it were his choice, he would let Yvane join; the more the better, but the law of minors participating in the Court dates back to the dawn of time, and he is not about to disrupt things more than they already are.
‘I’ll walk you out,’ Lexovia grumbles. He still cannot look at her. ‘And I won’t be back.’
‘Tonight, you mean?’ he asks, trying to school his voice into neutrality as she storms past, Howard and Yvane on her heels. Lexovia doesn’t respond. ‘When will you be back?’ he calls, disguising his concern with a pompous authority.
‘When I feel like it,’ she calls back, no promise in her bitter tone.
‘Go straight to your sleeping areas,’ he bellows as the doors clank and twist out of view, ‘it’s past curfew!’
Lexovia pins him with a withered look before stalking down the steps.
Milo woke one morning to find his satchel resting beside him. And after pouring over his notes, he realised that instead of turning his gethadrox three clicks to the right, he must have twisted it to the left, landing him in the realm of Vistasha. He sketches a snowflake beside the name and writes the word ‘Windinx’. He briefly wonders if Tranzuta ever met them.
To test his ankle, Milo flexes his toes, only a dull ache remaining. He has no idea how long he has been in this frosted fortress of the Windinx—his internal clock on the fritz since his crossing—but the healing salve and copious amounts of ice they applied have certainly helped. He feels quite comfortable with these gentle gurgling creatures, despite the bitter cold, and is almost reluctant to leave. But it’s time. Every minute wasted is a minute the Coltis don’t have.
Milo smiles and bows his head at the many Windinx who accompany him back to the still caved in entrance. They lift him with ease and plant him in a snowstorm then swirl off to enjoy it. He watches as the creatures spiral away, just flashes of yellow eyes and gurgles, telling him they’re there. Sighing, he pulls out his gethadrox and twists its top; six clicks to the right, in the direction of Vedark.
CROSSING ENEMY LINES
I make my way to Barnyard Bakery in a daze. I barely notice the smaller children as they race past me on their way to playgroup or the elder children in school uniform as they leap into the moat and spiral away. I’m too consumed with thoughts of the items jostling inside my carrier bag; a strawberry blonde wig purchased from a little hair shop called Hair’s Hoping and a pair of dark brown contacts from an optician that recently opened down here.
I know I’m early—the boys won’t be there yet—and so I enter the café and head into the loo to don my disguise. I emerge moments later hardly recognising myself. The red wig sits snugly on my head and my eyes are now a chocolate brown instead of their usual forest green. I slip into the chair nearest me and anxiously drum my fingers on the flower-patterned tablecloth, the now familiar birdcages of Barnyard Bakery swinging lazily overhead.
A breeze jostles them awake as the door is flung open, and I wave keenly to Nathaniel. Not that he wouldn’t have seen me. Like always, Barnyard Bakery is far from crowded—only a few tables occupied by solitary visitors listening to music on their laptops or scribbling away in notebooks—but he may not have recognised me. I nervously adjust the wig and blink more times than necessary.
Though what the three of us are about to do is entirely my plan, I cannot help worrying away at my bottom lip. The memory of that boy in Fixer Upper, beaten and trapped for dissection, is the only thing that steels my resolve and stops me shaking. My lips thin into a fractured smile as Nathaniel strides over and plonks into the seat beside me.
‘Look at you,’ he gasps.
I simper, fidgeting again with the mop of red-blond on my head. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I ask out of courtesy.
Nathaniel nods, his jaw clenched, and determination almost as fierce as mine flashes in his eyes. ‘More sure than I am of anything.’
The door has barely shut before Jude swans in with a violent grace. He is dressed all in black, his dark green eyes sleek and daring, like a mountain cat’s. A panther: that’s what he reminds me of. I feed off his prowling energy and smirk. I don’t have to ask him if he’s ready.
‘What did we decide?’ he asks, dragging a spare chair to our table and straddling it. ‘Me, you,’ he indicates Nathaniel before turning to me, ‘or you?’
‘Me,’ I snap before a debate can start. I will be the one to sneak into the underground parking of Fixer Upper whilst the boys create a diversion, and I will be the one to uncover what horrors lurk below. Ever since I escaped the Exlathars caves, I sleep with a small light on by my bed, to comfort me when I wake from nightmares. It’s not that I fear the darkness, but I have come to fear what might leap out of it.
I can only guess at what the Coltis suffer at the hand of R.U.O.E., but if it’s half as barbaric as I’m imagining, they’ll find themselves haunted, too. And no amount of light can completely chase away the shadows. I won’t bring those nightmares to Jude and Nathaniel, Exlathar or no Exlathar. Too many people have been tainted by my touch, by my choices. And now no one else will. Just like Milo treks across the realms for his people, I will step into R.U.O.E. for mine.
‘Very well,’ Jude nods. ‘You it is. Shall we make a move?’ and he grins. Only he would at a time like this.
This time we don’t park the rented car at some obscure distance away but instead drive straight up to the minimal parking of Fixer Upper, Jude casually swinging it into a vacant spot. The lot is still buzzing with customers and only one member of staff notices our arrival, flashing his brightest grin as we climb out of the car.
As we walk towards him, I pop a piece of gum into my mouth. I don’t know what it is, but gum always seems to help me sound more American, which I think will go nicely with the Chicago Bulls T-shirt and cap I’ve put on.
‘Let me guess,’ enthuses the seller, ‘first time buyers.’
‘You know it.’ I blow a bubble of gum and let it pop across my lips.
‘That’s right. But I’m the one you have to impress,’ Jude puffs.
‘I always like a challenge.’ The seller extends a hand to all of us, starting with Jude. ‘I’m Mark. Give me just five minutes of your time and I’m sure I will dazzle you.’
‘You can try,’ Nathaniel snickers. ‘This one knows what he likes.’
�
�Well, we best get started,’ and Mark rubs his hands together and begins asking questions about the type of car we are after and what our concerns are on mileage. I hold out for as long as I can, butterflies beating away in my stomach. Whilst he’s speaking, I survey the building, so deceptively ordinary. There are a few workers inside, no more than five, most out here trying to turn a pile of rusted metal into money or catch themselves a Coltis. I swallow my sneer and continue after the boys, feigning interest and admiring bright fuchsia and violet cars.
There’s a thunderous bang, milliseconds before music is hiked up to full blast. Some of the customers jump then laugh at the man inside, bopping about to the too-loud sound system but I know better. That bang didn’t come from inside. It came from under us, from the basement parking.
‘Turn it down!’ bellows one of the salesmen good-naturedly, and slowly the volume is lowered.
Nathaniel meets my eye and I know what he’s telling me: it’s time. Move.
‘Don’t suppose you could tell me where the little girls room is?’ I coo. Mark hesitates, but then his eyes flicker to the glass doors that lead inside. ‘I promise to lift the toilet seat back up when I’m done.’ I flash him my most flirtatious grin, and to my surprise, he takes the bait.
‘Second door on the left,’ and he indicates with a nod of his head.
‘So what’s the horsepower on this thing?’ Nathaniel asks, turning Mark’s attention away from me. I walk slowly, straining to hear the cue.
‘Reckon we can take it for a spin?’
There it is. I pull back the glass door and step inside as Nathaniel takes the keys and hops into the second-hand Volkswagen, Jude and Mark clambering in after him.
Only one of the five members seems to notice me enter, his office right beside the entrance. His eyes stalk me like a hawks. I smile coyly but he doesn’t return it, his face stern and wary. I glance over my shoulder. Nathaniel has plunged the key into the ignition. I make like I’m veering towards the toilet and then there’s a piercing screech and a deafening boom as Nathaniel reverses the car right out of the lot and into a lamppost on the street. Every head turns to see but mine. Instead, I rush back outside, nimbly shifting through the curious crowd as Mark yells and Nathaniel yells back, blaming faulty wiring and feigning a neck injury. Jude lathers it on with a limp but I don’t stop and watch. I snake around the side of the building and slip down the ramp to the underground parking.
