Rift

by D. Fischer

  RIFT

  Book Three of

  RISE OF THE REALMS

  D. FISCHER

  Rift (Rise of the Realms: Book Three)

  Copyright © 2019 by D. Fischer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any printed or electronical form without written consent from the author. This book is fictional. All names, characters, and incidents within are pure fiction, produced by the author’s vivid imagination.

  This book contains adult content. Mature readers only. The author will not be held responsible if a minor reads this book.

  ISBN: 9781794360204

  BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Epic

  D. Fischer

  19 published books

  |THE CLOVEN PACK|

  A Gifted Curse Out of the Darkness

  Above This Grave Caught in the Crossfire

  |RISE OF THE REALMS|

  Reborn Disobedient Rift The Vault

  Decimate and Ruin coming 2019

  |NIGHT OF TERROR|

  Book One Book Two Book Three

  |GRIM FAIRYTALES|

  When Hope Was Forgotten Cure The Enemy

  A Cold Soul

  FIND MORE

  at D. Fischer's Amazon

  Everything in this book is fictional. It is not based on true events, persons, or creatures that go bump in the night, no matter how much we wish it were…

  To K. Bond –

  You have given me the power to be courageous.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I never thought this would be my life. I never imagined I’d be the center of destruction. The choices I’ve made, and will make, will be the end of the beginning. And now, in the middle of our rift between fear and fate, we’re out for blood to save those we love. Can you blame us? – Katriane DuPont

  CHAPTER ONE

  TEMBER

  DEATH REALM

  “Was that necessary?” Jaemes asks. Disgust flattens his lips as though his tongue is glazed with a bitter bite, and his throat bobs, suppressing a gag.

  The immediate threat gone, I dim my halo’s glow and observe him with narrowed eyes. Halo gone, we’re cast back into ill-lit darkness which weakens the evidence of his disgust inside the Colosseum's tunnel.

  Jaemes’ underlying contemptuous expression reminds me of Erma’s angelic features twisted in a snarl, the one she’d been sneaking my direction when she believed me to be unaware. But I felt it like nails raking the back of my neck. Under her scrutiny, it chisels at my heart, but with Jaemes, it raises invisible hackles along the knobs of my spine. If I still had them, my feathers would ruffle, and I can almost hear the sound of them rubbing against one another in telling agitation.

  I miss Erma’s affections more than my discarded wings, though. My heart needs her more than an angel needs flight.

  Squatting to the floor, Jaemes smears black vampire blood from the tip of his arrow to the stone floor. It’s different than normal creature blood, more thick and sticky with the lingering stench of rotting flesh. He grunts with further disgust when his efforts have no effect. The goop smudges along the arrow, already partially dried.

  My right eyelid twitches in annoyance to Jaemes’ question, and I take in our surroundings to quiet my clicking tongue. Since we’ve ventured away from his village together under the orders of Mitus, his father, he’s continued to taunt me with words meant to break my spirit. My reactions provide him with entertainment.

  To our left, rows of cells are filled with people while our shoulders hug the wall on our right. The tunnels are skinny yet well-constructed with low, smooth archways instead of corners or squares. It’s what I had envisioned this structure to look like while we stood on the outside of this maze, but nothing compares to seeing it with my own eyes. Even I, a creature who’s lived many a year, wasn’t prepared for this.

  Precisely every ten feet is a candle on top of a plain metal candelabra, the flames too small to provide sufficient light. The details of the metal wax holders are absent and plain, providing no beauty for the prisoners to gaze upon before they’re marched to their deaths.

  I wasn’t yet created when the first Colosseum was built, but I know a few who were. Jax, an angel disgusted with my adoration for Erma, was one of them. The angels who were present in that era often recounted the devastation with sorrow etched on their handsome features. To this day, they’re still traumatized by the loss of their charges.

  During that precarious time, they had been forbidden to interfere by Erline and Erma, for fear of possible discovery, though angels have stepped in before and after, continually, throughout history. And each time we had raced to the rescue, devastation would soon follow. It’s a lesson we can’t learn, doomed to repeat our mistakes over and over again in hopes to save one, or many, lives.

  Erma believes it best to pull the strings from behind the curtain, and I fully agree with her. But it’s times like this, observing the helpless in the Death Realm, I want nothing more than to call the evidence a liar.

  My fixed stare lingers too long on the humans, concern wrinkling my forehead and stiffening my shoulder blades. They’re no longer shades. Instead, they’re owners of a brand-new beating heart inside a solid body. My brain screams at the impossibility, and my shock is clear, leaving me speechless for several moments. Now that they are once again human, are they subjected to never have a guardian - an angel - forever?

  How has this slipped through my species’ regard?

  Charges are divided among angels by Erma’s decree. She wouldn’t have left these resurrected humans to fend for themselves in a realm where they cannot. Perhaps she has no jurisdiction here, no way of knowing what’s happening under Kheelan’s watchful eyes and ham-fisted agenda.

  Death isn’t supposed to be like this. Guardians shouldn’t have the need to protect the dead, and I know with certainty Erma would have done something about it if she knew.

  Angling my head, I look as far down as I can see, Jaemes’ question momentarily forgotten. They’re all human. Every. Last. One.

  A few sit, slouched against the wall with a blank expression. They’re most likely contemplating their very grim futures while coming to terms with enduring another death. Others try to reach through the electrified bars, the bright cackling lights mixing with shadows and casting flickering reflections along the walls behind them. As soon as they touch lights, however, they’re physically shocked back into their cells with their legs knocked out from beneath them.

  Fearful hope crosses the closest cell members’ faces when they notice we aren’t the typical creatures roaming this realm, and their spines straighten to attention. Aside from the echoes of battle rumbling through the tunnel, silence stretches as they study us, the two who had massacred a handful of vampires with swift ease.

  A gangly man slowly stands and shuffles his bare feet across the gritty floor until he’s inches from the bars which hiss their warning. His dusty blonde hair is unkempt as though he�
�s been pulling at the roots repeatedly. The clothes he wore, when his first death transpired, hang from him in tattered strips, and his old life’s blood stains them with splotches of burgundy.

  His guardian must have been absent the day he first died. It happens from time to time. We all have multiple charges, except for me, who had given mine to another when I sawed off my wings.

  “Please,” he whimpers and then swallows with difficulty as though he’s perpetually parched. The blue bolts cast dancing hues along the empty valley of his thick, pinched together eyebrows. “Help us.”

  I take a scramble back and bump into the wall, recoiling internally at the plea. The edges of the stone dig into my skin and jar the length of my spine.

  Neither Jaemes nor I have the power to help him, or them, and the last thing I desire is to make it seem as though we’re here to free everyone. Even if we could lower the bars, where would they run? Where would they hide? Nowhere is safe. Our mission is Katriane. Retrieve her and bring her home. There’s nothing we can do for this hostile realm and those who must endure it.

  I reluctantly turn away without responding. The soles of my shoes rub against vampire dust, echoing the shame twisting my gut. Jaemes’ face is carefully blank when our eyes meet. He, too, struggles to control the urge to aide.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I straighten my shoulders, ignore the sobs of denial whimpering from the humans about to be slaughtered, and take a deep breath before answering Jaemes’ first inquiry. He had questioned my motives about kissing a vampire, and it seems like a far less emotional question to answer while surrounded by victims.

  “I dropped Ire,” I begin. “The kiss was instinctual. What more did you want me to do?”

  He raises one eyebrow and then plods backward through the tunnel. “Instinct?” he mocks, a hint of relief in his voice to the return of topic. “To kiss a fanged, dead fool?”

  I roll my eyes and allow the gesture to swipe away the rest of my guilt. “It’s the Angel’s Kiss. Not a lover’s affection. The fool would be you for not knowing the difference.”

  The bright glow of the kiss had blinded the entire tunnel, including Jaemes who was forced to kill his vampire on instinct instead of sight. The pompous elf relies much on sight instead of the rest of his senses, I’ve noticed.

  Opening his mouth, intent on a quick-witted retort, he quickly snaps it shut, raises his bow and dirty arrow, and aims. The string whips the still air when he releases his curled fingers, vibrating my eardrums. Splitting through my brown curls at the curve of my neck, the arrow flies by my head and snuffs a candle’s small flickering flame. A thick, wet thud resonates behind me, the arrow embedding in its target.

  In a slow turn, I witness the silent attacker flake to ash and the tiny black particles drift to the floor.

  Watching the last floating flake while the breath is trapped in my lungs, I wonder what the vampire felt as his body molted to nothing but a pile, all the while knowing he’s headed to a dark place for eternity. He will become something else entirely, a smudge in a dark void. Did he feel fear? Or did he feel nothing at all?

  One would think vampires would be more careful with their non-living life. There’s literally no second chance for them, not like the shades who are human once again. But, with an abundance of ego and ignorance, they blindly follow the trail of food and a chance to curb their desires without a second thought to where it may lead them.

  “I should be keeping track of how many times I’ve saved your life,” Jaemes proclaims, chipper with pride. “One day, I may collect.”

  He retrieves his arrow and flicks the fresh goop from the tip. The droplets splat against my cheek, and I growl, lifting my shoulder to swipe the affected skin against my sleeve.

  “I’m sure I’ll find some way to repay you, Elf,” I grumble.

  He turns on the balls of his animal-skin-covered feet and swaggers his way down the tunnel. “A wingless guardian will never have anything I desire,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Then keeping tally would be a waste of your time,” I retort.

  He chuffs, a rude passing of breath. “Everything about you is a waste of my time.” Though the words were quiet and meant only for himself, I heard them perfectly clear.

  My carefully controlled patience snaps. “If you’re going to have a tantrum with every kill, then perhaps we should call Erma to take you home.”

  Peeping at me over his shoulder, his face void of emotion such as a true warrior, he lifts his foot higher in stride. “Not a chance.”

  The wails filtering down the tunnel from the Colosseum's arena grow louder as we travel, and the inhuman cries of pain carry, bouncing off the stone and raising the hair on my arms. As I follow Jaemes to what appears to be doom itself, my mouth salivates. Every part of my being wants in on the action - to guard and protect. To taste a sliver of adventure. To kill the enemy.

  I clear my throat and squash the urge to pick up my pace. “Are you prepared?”

  “Prepared?” Jaemes chuckles. “Have you learned nothing? Are you so obtuse? Do you not use your eyeballs for anything more than ogling your forbidden love?”

  My heart sinks at the implication of her name, and I flex my jaw to banish the emotion. “Right,” I say, dripping with sarcasm. I’m not taking the bait. Not this time. “Are you prepared to work with me? To fight alongside me? Or are you going to continue this hero complex you’re so adamant to display?”

  The questions replaced the sounds of battle and my desire to leap into it even if it results in a bickering response. I already know the answer, no matter what he says. Jaemes can’t help himself when it comes to my emotional faults, and I fully believe he never will.

  Our footfalls pad a dreaded echo as we near an entrance, passing several empty cells, and I look to him when he doesn’t immediately respond.

  “Perhaps,” he begins, drawing out the word. “I will hang my cape. Just this once. If only but for our new friendship.” He changes his tone, petulant, his accent thicker. “I wouldn’t want to anger you. There’s no telling the vengeful capabilities of a side kick gone rogue. Even a wingless one.”

  We enter the ascending tunnel, which leads to the center of the Colosseum, and pick up our pace to a light jog. Each step echoes in the tight space, and the sound spikes my adrenaline. Once at the opening, we halt, and Jaemes curses in his native tongue at the sight before our eyes.

  KATRIANE DUPONT

  DEATH REALM

  The Colosseum's crowd cheers in one wave of roars. It’s like a single, brilliant stroke of a cello. Instead of being beautiful and giving me delightful shivers, it does the opposite. The scales on the back of my legs stand on end, enough so that my long teeth ache.

  A memory flashes in my thoughts, reminding me of the time I strode into my first rock concert as a teen. I had almost walked right back out. There was an alarming number of swaying bodies and a chorus of ear-splitting music blaring from each speaker. It had raised my anxiety to the point of smothering claustrophobia.

  The roar leaves the mouths of thousands of superior predators - the fortunate among the less. And definitely the ugliest. The creatures of the dead and harborers of terror are enjoying the massacre they came to see. It’s disgusting, but I’m the twist they didn’t anticipate. They came here to watch and bask in blood and fear.

  This is their rock concert, I realize, and we’re the band.

  When they had first seen me - the beast I am, the fire swelling my chest, the ultimate slayer - their wails of excitement had slowly hushed. For that moment, it was blissfully quiet. Peaceful, almost. The fog swirled in the sky, dipping and folding unnaturally inside itself like a fog machine on a black stage. There was no wind to blow, no gentle caressing breeze to potentially antagonize the flames I plan to unleash. The clinking of swords, battle cries, and my heavy breathing were almost too loud.

  Their new roar is absurdly louder than the previous, thinking I’ll take flight in my display of stretching dragon wings. It o
ffends my hearing, and my head automatically ducks lower to the ground just to get away from it. I flatten the spikes on my neck and shake my head, desperate to rid the offending vibrations. To my dismay, the orcs in the sandpit mirror it, spittle flying from their large mouths and decaying teeth.

  I desperately work to block it out and, instead, focus my senses on my stretch and the ripple of muscles. My spine shivers in delight when my talons dig deep into the sand and find a pocket of cold to chill my heated veins.

  My dark side sings with this new freedom, and I eternally balk in fear of the powerful emotion.

  What I do next is for me, I tell myself, desperate to convince the evil rooting in my soul. A victorious result is for me, the unjust across the realms, and the innocent. For my misfortune and all those who’ve fallen as my consequence. This will be my penance.

  I have two choices: to spend the last of my strength squashing the dark beginnings of no return and possibly die, or to internally retreat and let it save my friends while forfeiting my mental state of health. The choice sounds explicable, simple, when I put it that way. It echoes, bouncing in the limitations of my skull, willing me to take action. One life isn’t worth hundreds, possibly thousands.

  My red-hued gaze swivels to Gan’s broken body smushed against the sand, then to the Sandman and Dyson’s wolf, all fighting an enemy just to survive. Tanya and Jane run and duck under my substantial frame, deeming me the lesser evil. They look to me for protection against a battle completely out of their motherly depths.

  No. The realms. One life isn’t worth all the souls, dead or alive, in all the realms. A self-sacrifice, even if it’s just mental sacrifice, is all I have left to give. I have to keep them safe. If I don’t, who will?

  I lower my mental block with certain, cringing dread, and the invading evil intentions squander the available space. Like a starving, rabid pup in chase of a plump rabbit, my darker half shoves reason, and my seemingly frivolous convictions, aside. And I allow it.