by D. Fischer
I know what she’s feeling: she’s no longer alone.
She raises from her crouched position, her muscles tense and rigid, and the worn handle of the vacuum trembles inside her shaky grasp. Leveling with the mirror, her eyes search the glassy expanse, too terrified to witness her on-looker for herself. She knows I’m here. She knows I wait for her, and by the fear, tangy in the musky air, she’s aware of the immense danger she’s in.
I push another round of manipulative emotions from me, and this time, it doesn’t take its time to search out its victim, following the trail of her terror instead. She gasps as it crashes into her. She drops the handle, and her body shakes in terror. I watch her eyes round in the mirror, her mouth open with a scream that has yet to come. The next wave of fear exits her pores in intense puffs of invisible smoke.
“Who’s there?” she yells to the wall she’s facing. When I don’t answer, she slowly turns, knocking a stack of papers over. I become solid, fisting my hands once to do so. Her eyes lock with mine, and her eyes water. She sucks in air, her lungs preparing to scream.
Scream, I silently beg her.
Leaving the crumbling wall behind, I shimmer inches from her, nose to nose. I smirk in her face. A growl rumbles in my chest, and my breath fans her face. Her mouth opens wider, her fear’s smoke clouding my vision though I know she can’t see it. It fogs the room, billows a feast which soaks into my body. It’s a surge of adrenaline, lighting each nerve with brilliant tingles, and builds inside to a level I’ve never felt. I feel invincible, powerful, and my smile widens to the pressure-like sensation where the ache once was.
The lids of her eyes slam shut, and the scream finally sores from her throat. Hot spittle flies from her quaking tongue, and the high-pitched tone rings deliciously on my ears.
My head droops between my shoulders, and I suck in a deep breath, drinking the new wave. Uncurling my hands from my pockets, I lift them to my sides, shoulder blades prominent as I hunch further.
“Yes,” I gush, basking in my victim.
The woman thumps to the ground, collapsed to a heap of unconsciousness. I remain where I am, my feast yet to be done even as her heart beats its last. I’ve taken too much from her, so much so that the most vital organ couldn’t continue to pump in such duress.
The rumble travels up my chest, the feast fueling me like a waterfall into an awaiting bucket. I’ve never felt so alive, so complete, so powerful: a drug to a new addict. My head tilts back, my chest bows, and a roar erupts from my throat, rebounding off the walls and echoing back to me. More stacks of paper tip, and the mirror crashes to the floor, shards scattering in every direction. Chest puffing, heart pounding, the last of her fear-laced cloud quickly finds me with my next inhale.
My roars of victory come to a hoarse close, and I stand, taking in this new sensation I’ve been deprived of. Everything is sharper: the smell of mice urine, the jagged edges of crumbs, the strands of hair meshing with carpet fibers fallen from a scalp long ago.
The room is silent, the woman lifeless against the floor. I step back to observe my meal, and my shoes crunch the mirror’s glass. Her face is frozen in a scream, eyes wide, dilated, and unseeing. Her finger twitches against the floor, the nerves dying, and the action seems like the body is trying to call back her soul. I watch it like it’s some sort of magical testament for what I’ve done. It’s an image I’ll never be able to erase and a guilt I’ll never be able to get rid of.
Along the ancient stand propping her TV, a cell phone vibrates. With much effort, I tear my gaze from the twitching woman and look at it, watching it ring for a moment. Slowly, I reach and grasp it with loose fingers.
I could ignore it, shimmer back to the Demon Realm and take my vengeance. I could leave her dead and think nothing of it. What I do next will define the demon I am to become.
Mercy, a male voice mutters in my head. Mercy in the face of death, Thrice Born. Choose humanity. I look around but know no one else is here. I frown, thinking I imagined the voice.
Fixing another stare at the woman, then to her phone, I read the screen which displays the name of Dr. Cassandra Grant. It reminds me of Eliza, and guilt further cripples me. She’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done.
Convenient, I think to myself, that a doctor would call at the precise moment one is needed. Fate, almost. I purse my lips and press the green, flat screen button and raise it to my ear. I don’t speak. I don’t greet. I wait.
Mercy, the voice echoes.
“Aunt Helen?” A woman asks chipperly.
I hesitate and grip the phone tighter in my grasp. She’s an aunt. She’s somebody’s somebody.
“No,” I answer, my whisper hushed and foreboding.
Dr. Grant doesn’t respond at first, but I can hear beeps of medical equipment in the background. “Who is this?” she demands, her voice as quiet as the mice who had skittered from the room.
Licking my bottom lip, I lower my gaze to the shards of mirror and stare back at myself, a broken image. My molten lava eyes are bright, a brilliant orange, and full of the fear I’ve consumed.
What am I? Who am I? These are excellent questions I should be considering myself.
“I am responsible for her end, and this is my mercy,” I finally answer. This is the truth. I cannot change what I’ve been made to be, and I cannot help that I’m a monster. I can only be me. How I choose to be me is up to myself.
I press the end button, lower my hand, and crush the phone in my palm. My eyes remain on myself, watching as I shimmer from the room, leaving the woman’s fate to the cycle of life.
I’m either the predator, or the prey. And if I manage to be somewhere in between, mercy and vengeance will tango as one.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TEMBER
GUARDIAN REALM
I watch Dyson enter Kat’s teepee, and quickly following, her expected shriek of anger shrills offensively against my ears even from where I stand. I suppress a shudder. The suggestion of leaving so soon doesn’t appeal to my old charge like I knew it wouldn’t. The last time she was in the Dream Realm, it didn’t end well. She was roaring mad when she returned from the past. I chuckle at the memory, at the challenge she had forced the fee to endure because of it. It seems like a lifetime ago.
Turning and leaving Kat in the capable hands of her true mate, of her true protector, I approach Erma. She stands beautifully, her arms crossed while she watches the snow softly fall in the forest. It covers the black blood which taints it.
The snow never ends here, everything is white except the stark colors of life who roam it. There is no other place as beautiful as this, even if I do enjoy what the Earth Realm offers.
Her red curls whip in the wind which whistles between the trees, and the bottom of her dress tickles the edge of a pile of chopped logs.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispers, plucking the words from my thoughts as though we are one mind. “The way the snow falls and how it settles without a sound. But it does have a sound, doesn’t it? Only if one is patient and quiet enough to listen to its silent song. If only we were quiet and patient enough to listen to every serenade that surrounds us.” She pauses and blows a deep breath from within her chest. “Did you know I created the angels to mimic the snow?”
“No,” I admit quietly.
“Angel’s wings are soft. Majestic. A whip of wind.” She plucks a stray hair stuck to her moist lips. “It’s why we didn’t hear them coming. Not even the prenumbras heard them, the wild or tame packs. The wind’s song was too loud.”
I tear my eyes from the peaceful sight and look at her. Her jaw grinds, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. Is she drawing a parallel to her many failures?
The indifference hurts me, and it breaks me to see her second guess everything she’s ever done. So much can be said with a single look into another’s eyes. I muffle my shattered exhale by releasing it agonizingly slow.
If she’d return to me, if she’d give me all of her, I would protect it. I’d list
en to her song and serenade her when she’s silent. Surely, she knows this or has even considered it. I’ve proven my worth over the centuries. I've testified to what she means to me. But chances are, I’ll never get the opportunity to protect anything aside from her well-being and her realm.
“We shouldn’t dwell on the past,” I soothe, banishing my emotional pain with difficulty. For a brief second, I wonder if I’m admitting this to myself as well. “But we can change the future with our carefully formed plan. We can’t dwell on where we went wrong. It would mean our downfall, for we cannot fix what causes us grief. It serves only as a distraction.”
Her colorless cheeks puff, and she sucks in her bottom lip, chomping her top teeth against the tender flesh. “When did you become the voice of reason?”
“I’m only one voice,” I begin, touching her cheek and forcing her to look at me, “when it’s needed most. Right now, we need to focus on how we will evict the fallen from the Angel’s Ground. Has Jaemes started on a plan?”
She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s gathering his brothers now.”
“Good.” I wait for her to drop her hand from her face, but she doesn’t. “Erma?”
“Hmm?” She focuses at me with tired eyes, and her hand falls to her side with a sway.
Steeling my nerves, I lean forward and brush my lips against hers. She tastes just as I remember and exactly what I ache for. “I love you, too.”
A tentative, wobbly smile graces her stressed face. We stare at one another for some time, soaking in unspoken words of truth - words we can’t say for fear we will lose the other in the coming days. She may be trying to protect me by keeping a firm distance, but I’ll fight for her. On the grounds, for her affection, nothing will stand in my way.
Memories surface of tangled sheets, stolen heated kisses, and whispered promises. The heart in my wrist thuds with a wicked beat, forcing me to feel each emotion accompanied by every memory. I swallow with difficulty when her eyes well with tears.
A cough sounds at my back, and I bristle at the disturbance. I peer over my shoulder, my curls momentarily obscuring my pointed glare to the offender.
“Are we interrupting?” Jaemes asks, gripping the handle of his bow draped over his shoulder.
His brothers stand behind him, wary of the angel with black wings. Since the forest, I’ve been treated less as insignificant and more as formidable. The respect is there, but their full trust remains to be seen.
“Your very presence is interrupting, no matter the circumstance.” I release Erma’s jaw from my gentle touch and turn fully to him. “Do you have a plan?”
Jaemes straightens his spine, clears the quirked expression from his features, and nods his head. “Yes. At the risk of going against Dyson’s wishes, I think it best Erma calls the angels. Those who still side with her will come.”
His assessment is correct. I had originally planned to search for them, but they may not come with me. In times like this, they have no reason to trust another angel, especially one who’s shunned. Though they remain loyal to their creator, many will still bristle just by my very presence due to the secrets Erma and I have kept. I can’t expect them to be accepting of it even if it’s what I desire.
“And those who don’t?” I ask, pointing out his flaw by jabbing my finger in his direction.
He shrugs. “Most of the fallen who thought to attack my village are being burned as we speak. Those who don’t should follow the same fate. Disloyalty will not be honored.”
I purse my lips as I consider this truth and then tip my head to him, accepting his decree. Now isn’t the time to allow such crimes to go unpunished.
“I agree,” I begin. “Erma?”
“It is done,” she says, and I turn to look at her. Her skin shimmers with her calling yellow glow, and then her eyes harden with the difficulties of what’s to come.
Those who arrive will surely cause drama with the elves, and those who don’t will die. Jaemes’ brothers’ murmurs attest to my own hypothesis of the coming struggles.
I flick my eyes back to Kat’s teepee. The flaps of skin furiously whip with an internal wind. They’re leaving by Erline’s portal, and silently, I wish them well. Erline will return once they’re in the Dream Realm. She’ll be here to protect the village and all the innocent within in case we fall today.
“Good,” I cajole while concern and dread envelope me.
ELIZA PLAATS
GUARDIAN REALM
Standing outside the teepee we had hastily constructed for the seriously wounded, I twist the ends of my frosty auburn hair, feeling electric currents flowing through them. I’m wound, the adrenaline pumping through my veins despite the fact that the battle has been long over by now. Time works differently here, I’ve noticed, just as it does in the Death Realm, so I don’t have an inkling of how long ago it actually was.
The wounded will heal, I’ve been told, but they need a safe place away from the rebuild to do so. There’s not much I can do for some of them, the occasional injury too great for a miracle. Those this seriously injured won’t survive. They’ve held out longer than any human would be able to. Through their suffering, the village healer has been feeding them herbs to ease their discomforts while lulling them to a groggy state before their journey ends.
Angels arrive by Erma’s yellow portal, stepping through and gathering with the assembled elves huddled at the far end of the village, their postures stiff. I’ve been told they don’t get along, and after this last battle, I don’t see why. Everyone is at war, even those who should be on the same side.
I look to the teepee Kat was in, knowing they’ve already left. Kat seems so broken, struggling to find herself. I know that feeling - to be scared of what you’re becoming. The only thing I don’t share with her is that I know what I’m capable of. My powers are what Kheelan has, and I know their strengths and limitations. I’m able to choose, easily, for good instead of evil. I don’t think Kat has this luxury. It seems to happen against her will and sometimes when she has no other choice. I also understand that. Capabilities aside, I’m not entirely sure how to wield mine absent instinct.
My gaze swivels to the warriors gathering, and Tember and I swap blank glances at one another. Just as I, she’s scared - not for herself but for the others - and she’s trying not to show it.
I share this too. Something doesn’t feel right, and I can’t place the reason as to why.
Why would the enemy attack so swiftly, knowing they wouldn’t survive? What plan do they have tucked in their cheek?
I dip my chin and break the eye contact with Tember and stare at the snow pressed with footprints. The red ash has yet to be covered completely, and in some places, it’s smeared like chalk smudged on a chalkboard.
A gentle hand is placed on my shoulder, and I jump before I look up from the post I lean against. Mitus peers down at me, his square jaw softening. Is my emotional state that evident?
Saying goodbye to Aiden once again, wondering if I’ll ever see him again, makes my chest ache and my breaths shallow. I hated watching him leave, and the feeling of impending doom doesn’t help matters.
Being a spy in enemy territory won’t turn out well for him. I don’t know how I know. I just do, and the fear that accompanies this knowledge almost brings me to my knees every time I dwell on it.
I should have gone with him. I could be more use than a doctor in a realm with creatures I don’t know how to treat. What if he loses his way and needs to be reminded of who he truly is? I won’t be there to whisper those words in his ear.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“You are needed,” he mumbles, inclining his head with respect.
I’ve been rubbing ointment on the fortunates’ wounds and tending to the broken bones, resetting them with spine-chilling cracks. Moans come from the tent, pain thick in the air, and the healer, old and greying, hobbles as nimble as she can to each of the dying. The fallen angels did a number on them.
I nod my head and look back once more. An elf to my right is sewing together the skin of his teepee using some kind of vine and bark flayed from a tree trunk. His family watches, the mother comforting two boys with sullen postures.
Another elf scuffs the ground with his foot, frowns, and then bends. He runs his hand along the snow and red dust. Lifting his fingers, he brings the red to his nose, sniffing the substance. He turns, just slightly, to take in the rest of the path’s floor, and a gashed wound on his upper arm gleams in fine glory. I’m just about to beckon him in and demand he be stitched up, but Mitus’ voice stops me.
“Yami will come when he’s ready.”
Reluctantly, I nod and follow Mitus under the cover of the large teepee opening. He struts with authority to the table of a child I had already stitched. The memory of his cries still prick tears in my eyes. He cried for his people and not the injury, which somehow felt worse. Children are innocent and should never have to witness such a thing, no matter their traditional upbringing.
“I don’t understand,” Mitus mumbles and then clears his throat. He spits the phlegm to the ground, and we share a momentary frown.
“Neither do I,” I start. Why am I being brought back to the same child I’ve already treated? “Is he not well?”
Mitus shakes his head, his black hair cascading over his shoulder. “He was treated, yes. But he is very hot to the touch.”
“Like a fever?” I ask but receive no answer. Elves don’t get sick, not with guardian’s self-healing abilities. They wouldn’t know what a fever is.
I lean forward and cup my hand over the sleeping child’s forehead, feeling the heat emit from his sticky skin. My frown deepens.
“This shouldn’t be possible,” Mitus says quietly as though expecting I wouldn’t hear.
“Indeed.” I lift the dressing over the gash in his hip, examining the wound. This dressing is made from some sort of moss the village scavenges for. “It’s not infected.”
Mitus takes some time to collect himself, his posture stiff, and thinks over the situation before answering. “We are guardians, healer. We shouldn’t feel pain, and yet…” He sweeps his hand through the crowded space. “We now do. And we certainly aren’t subject to illness.”
