by D. Fischer
“Different,” I admit with reluctance. And I do. I’ve never felt so alive.
“As you should. Now. . .” she whispers, inching closer to the path I prowl on. “I’ve helped you twice, given you advice when I could have remained silent. What will you do with what you’ve consumed? How will I benefit from our arrangement, Thrice Born?”
My eyebrows raise into my forehead, and I curl my hands inside my pockets. “You mentioned a war?” She nods. “I cannot free you on my own. There are others -“
“We know of the others,” Ferox’s shrill sister spits.
I narrow my eyes at her for the interruption. “When the war truly begins, the others will get involved. However, you cannot be an innocent bystander. If you are to be free, you have to be willing to fight for it.”
Ferox considers this. “And what do you propose to be our next move?”
My voice drops an octave. “You wait to be called on.”
The collective group bristles at the order, and their hair tentacles curl quickly and unpleasantly as though the tips were burned on the black lava’s hot surface.
I refuse to be a servant to another being. If they want my help, they’ll have to be patient as well as willing to get their hands dirty.
“And how will I know when I’m called on,” Ferox growls, irritated.
“Listen for your name.”
Shimmering from the path, I leave the pyrens behind, my purpose due elsewhere. But mid-shimmer, I’m yanked like someone swiped my feet out from under me. Unconsciousness descends immediately.
When I wake, slow and disoriented, a roar of blood whooshes in my ears. The wooden chair I sit on creaks when I adjust my weight against the uncomfortable strain. My hands and legs look to be untied but they’re stuck, bound by invisible restraints. I yank against them, testing the strength and earning myself a few burns along my wrists.
Murder in my gaze, I swivel my head to get a better look at my hands and feet. Nothing is wrapped around my wrists, but I feel it there, tight and painfully pinching. I look to my feet and try to move them, but the heels refuse to leave the ground as though they’re cemented to it.
Vexed, I growl and sway my rump against the chair. It does no good. The chair doesn’t rock.
The room is dark and dimly lit by a reddish glow at my back, casting eerie shadows across the clear glass floor underneath my feet. My hearing tells me it’s a lavafall, most likely inside a fireplace chimney built with the heads of screaming skulls identical to the ones in the main area of the Domus Timore. That’s where I am. The castle of demons, but in this part, this room, Oleum rain doesn’t fall to feed my skin like it does everywhere else.
Under the glass floor is black lava, a slow flowing river, and red fire veins snake through the hot goop. Occasionally, they burst and fog the glass with sulfuric smoke.
Small, yet subtly hexagram-shaped, the room wafts a damp dungeon smell. Underneath the musk, the aroma of a freshly struck match burns my eyes.
I fight against the restraints once more and call on more of my strength with renewed determination. Whatever they have planned for me won’t end with negotiations over tea.
“Be no point in fighting it,” a familiar voice mumbles. I freeze and lift my head from my strained struggles.
The demon whose skin is flayed over most of his body, the one who escorted me from my black pit rebirth, hobbles and limps into my line of sight. “Corbin be knowing when you enter his realm.” His one eye roams my body, my chair, then the walls.
“Tormentis Cubiculum,” he hums, naming the room while watching the red reflections flicker like water at the base of a pool.
I grunt my displeasure and curl my fingers into my palm. “Torture Chamber?”
His eyes snap back to mine, and his loose skin slaps against bones to the sudden jerk. “Oh yes.”
“You plan to torture me?” I chuckle low in my chest. “For what?”
He frowns while crossing his arms. Where his eyeball is missing, the skin invades the space of his cheekbone. “Why you wait so long to return to the Demon Realm, Thrice Born?”
I lick my lips and prepare myself for what’s to come. “Errands.”
TEMBER
GUARDIAN REALM
“They’re everywhere,” Jaemes confesses beside me in a displeased sort of way.
We crouch at the edge of the forest behind bushes that have miraculously withstood the torrential winter weathers and the earlier battle. Everything in this region of the Guardian Realm endures the cold, wind, and snow. A war is constant here, both physical and elemental.
The slender branch I hold out of our way nicks my skin along my wrist, and beads of blood drop to the snow by my shoes. The bush has hundreds of inch-long needles which drink the blood of any species in order to thrive. I use my free hand to cover it up with a handful of flakes, absentmindedly appeasing my level of stress.
As if the realm itself had divided lines of territory on its own, not fifty feet past the Elf’s forest clearing, the snow stops, and green grass immediately replaces the frosty white. It makes the blades look greener than they are.
Earth’s climate is much different than ours. I remember being in awe, watching the seasons change while protecting my first charge so many moons ago. Times were different back then, and beauty or horror could be found even in such tragic, quieter moments.
“Observant,” I mutter back to him, gazing at the Angel’s Ground floating high. The roofs dip into the clouds, and beyond that, the stars twinkle as the ceiling’s backdrop. I miss it. I miss my home, and I’ll do what’s necessary to take it back.
Many of my white feathered brothers and sisters soar the sky, protecting those who hold it hostage while others are stationed on the ground below. They wait, still and silent, as they absorb every sound and sight, including detailed stretches of the forest line.
They knew we’d come. How could we not?
I growl and slam my fist against the bark of the tree beside me. It groans from the blow.
“Do you think we have enough?” Jaemes asks, his eyes flicking to each visible fallen angel, and his fingers clench, mentally tallying their totals.
“No.”
Deeper in the forest, the angels who did not side with the rebellion wait with the elves of all four tribes. Not many of the other tribes came, and I didn’t ask why. Why would they fight those they despise if the enemy is destroying itself from the inside out? I can only guess that those who’ve come are here on a volunteer basis, and our numbers suffer because of it.
Erma was forced to stay with them and keep the peace between her creations while Jaemes and I venture out to scout the enemy. But what we’re seeing is something we didn’t expect. Their numbers are on a grander scale than we had anticipated.
“Come,” I demand.
I turn on my knees and flatten to the ground. Using my arms, I drag my body through the snow in hopes of maintaining some cover. It helps that our clothes and exposed skin were painted white by the tribes before we left, a camouflage to nature, but quick movements would surely give us away.
Many of the elves are dressed in armor but more as a scare tactic than a shield for vital organs. Shoulder pads with spikes from bushes like the one I cut myself on, belts made of dry creature intestines to hold their various weapons, and breastplates made of white feathers from past kills match the white paint. The weapons they wield are based on their tribe’s trade.
My black wings, however, had refused to hold the white paint and even from the corner of my peripheral vision, I can see them glinting.
“Have you forgotten your role here, Wingless Wonder?” Jaemes asks, disturbing my fleeting thoughts. He’s easily keeping up with me by crawling on all fours instead of flat to the ground.
I turn my head in his direction, and my white painted curls fall over my shoulder. The stiff tips drag in the snow and snag against the exposed brush. “Have you forgotten that I am no longer wingless? Should I be worried about your eyesight?”
&nbs
p; “You will always be wingless in my eyes, little duck.”
“You’re a fool,” I grumble.
Deeming this a safe distance from the edge of the forest, I stand and wipe the thawed snow on my hands against my jeans, smearing the paint. My wings rustle, tickling the back of my thighs while shaking flakes from the feathers.
“A fool? Should I be worried about delusions?” Jaemes asks. I hear the hint of a smile in his voice but refuse to acknowledge it.
Our feet crunch the stiff crystallized snow when we make our way back to the group. The closer we get, the more we can make out the shouts and bickering between sides. Jaemes and I share a look of annoyance as he holds a branch out of my way. The war is past the forest line, but we won’t be able to begin it unless the one under the trees is resolved.
The two groups are divided - angels on one side and the elves on the other - and Erma is in the middle with her hands in the air, threatening her creations with an expression that’d smite a rainbow for daring to cross the sky.
“These are our fools,” Jaemes corrects.
I run a wet hand through my hair and my fingers snag in the tangles. With the paint, it feels more like straw than the silk strands I’m used to. “It’ll take a sudden miracle to convince them to work together.” I look over at him. “Luckily, we have you.”
Jaemes adjusts his bow over his chest, grumbles to himself, and marches forward. I raise my brows in surprise. I had expected some sort of verbal retaliation or egotistical retort. I received neither.
He whistles loud, gathering everyone’s attention, and a small pack of prenumbras obediently pad to his side. I cringe and glance over my shoulder, paranoid the enemies will hear his call for silence.
“If you kill each other here, there will be no one left to save our realm,” Jaemes yells. The muscles along his back ripple with each agitated twitch.
A green tattooed elf belonging to another tribe lifts his hand and points to the group of angels. His lips move, but I’m pulled from what he has to say by a disturbance of wind to my back.
The hairs on the back of my arms stand on end when a breath whispers in my ear. “His plan will not work,” a male voice says.
I frown and glance over my shoulder. Nothing stands behind me, and only the snow sways with movement. I mask my expression, hardening it to look the part of being unnerved, and then mumble back to the invisible person. “Who are you?”
“What, not who,” he chides. “What I am does not matter. The tribe leader’s son is who we are discussing. His plan will not work.”
I grind my teeth. “I do not trust what I cannot see.”
The voice waits before responding. “And that is your largest fault, Tember.”
I look over my shoulder again, expecting to see the person or creature who whispers sweet insults in my ear. My head and heart cry an internal war, one knowing the voice speaks truth and the other begging me to ignore it. I sigh through flared nostrils and glance back to the group. Jaemes is gesturing with his hands in another attempt to make them see reason.
“His plan – we have no choice,” I announce. It’s the only solid plan we have, and everyone had agreed to it before we left to scout.
“There is always a choice. Fate is only but a ripple of Choice.”
I jut my chin. “Fate . . . You’re –“
The voice hisses a laugh in my ear. “You are smarter than the elf gives you credit for. Now, the question is, are you willing to follow my orders, or are you willing to perish?”
“Is that a threat?” I growl, fisting my hands and preparing myself to fight something I can’t see.
“Fate does not threaten, young one.” His voice is quiet and patient but hushed with contempt. “Fate is certain. But alas, it will not be by my command in which you fall, but by the choices you make.”
“Many will fall,” I correct, and my eyes immediately flick to Erma whose back is to me. If I ask, would he tell me her fate?
“Indeed,” he agrees, the whisky voice carried by a gusty breeze.
No, I shouldn’t ask. Erma is a fee who’s been around since the beginning of time. This isn’t the first war she’s endured, and it won’t be the last. Yet, my heart pumps in fear anyway.
“Then why are you here, whispering in my ear?”
“Because of your destiny. It’s time to be brave.”
I shuffle uncomfortably, catching the attention of a few before they dismiss me altogether. “Destiny?”
“Yes, Guardian. Your destiny. Do you wish to hear more?”
My eyes sweep those gathered, their attention solely on Jaemes. His shoulders are pulled back, and his arms ripple with power at each hand gesture. He was born to lead; this much is clear. And just like I, he is overlooked by his father. It is my hope that this war will prove his worth.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELIZA PLAATS
GUARDIAN REALM
Sweat beads at my brow. I swipe it away and return to my task, tending to the female elf on the table before me. The quarantine teepee is filling quickly, and there’s only so much their healer and I can do. I’ve taught some helpers how to care for the infected, but even some of them have fallen ill.
At the far end, Dyson’s shifter friends sleep under a heavily medicated state, the illness affecting them too. They stumbled in a handful of minutes ago as though the illness swept them as one. Dread curls my toes. If I lose them, Dyson will never forgive me.
“There’s another,” Mitus shouts weakly from the entrance. He coughs into his hand, and I raise my attention to him with wide eyes.
Sweat covers his head, the illness taking its hold. I swallow thickly, and the dread turns to defeat. It’s a wonder he’s even standing. Everyone else can barely hold their own weight when they stumble into the structure of death. That’s what this place feels like to me. A tent to cap the many deaths.
But if we lose him...
Two elves, one holding the arms of another and one holding his legs, shuffle in directly after Mitus’ proclamation. I blink rapidly, and my open mouth, which was ready to order Mitus to sit, shuts quickly.
“Yami,” I utter, recognizing the elf who was investigating the red specks earlier.
I rush to the table they place him on, and my knee painfully bumps into the ledge along the way. The red ash is still smeared across his fingers, splayed open for immediate notice. The red…
“No,” I whisper. Lifting his hand with a gentle grasp of his wide wrist, I inspect the leftovers staining his black striped skin.
Slow in stride, Mitus lumbers over to me. “What is it?” he demands, his voice raspy and weak. He grips the edge of the table for support.
“The red specks - they fell from the sky,” I say, lifting my head and revisiting the memory as though it floats across the skin of the teepee.
“Yes,” Mitus nods, peering over my shoulder to inspect the hand I hold up. “I remember. It clouded my eyes. The others say it never hit the forest. Only the clearing.”
I turn to him, and the elf’s hand falls to the table with a thud. I wince and send a silent apology to the unconscious patient already dripping sweat from the deadly grips of the infection. “It’s the illness.”
He tilts his head, not following my train of thought.
I ball my fists, frustrated at their lack of medical knowledge. I shouldn’t be because they’ve never needed it, but right now he’s my blame-goat. “The red specks are an infection. It was sprinkled over everyone here. Even you.” I eye him as his body precariously sways.
“You need to lay down,” I add slowly.
Waving off my remaining elf assistants who quickly rush to his side, he pins me with an unconvincing glare. “Why aren’t you infected then?”
I frown, open my mouth, and snap it shut when Erline walks in. “Because she’s the wife of a fee. She’s immune. Kat will also be immune as well as Aiden because of their fee blood. All those who were in the forest are safe. All the children who sought shelt
er with the sandman are safe. Only those who inhaled the dust will be infected.” She looks to me. “This is not spread in the traditional way, doctor.”
I hear her words, but my brain only echoes one. Aiden. How could he possibly be immune? Kat has fee blood, and a lot of it from what I understand. But Aiden? He was right there with me when the dust settled. Could the fee blood come from his third birth?
Mitus drops to one knee, smacking against the packed snow. I bark out orders to get him to a table, and the demand is quickly delivered by waiting elves who have volunteered to help. Erline follows me, and together we hover over Mitus like fretting mothers. When he tries to sit up, Erline holds out a palm and uses her magic to lay him back down.
“What is this?” I frantically ask, taking a cold cloth from a waiting elf. “What are we dealing with?”
In the ER, I had a stellar reputation for remaining calm, but there, I knew what I was dealing with, no matter the injury. I knew what to expect and when to expect it. My hands would fly over a body with practiced ease even with the impossible cases. That isn’t the case here. I’m helpless and utterly alone.
She takes the cloth from me and lays it over Mitus’ head. “The Red Death,” she conveys.
“You’ve seen this?” If it has a name, and she knows it, she’s definitely seen it.
She nods grimly and fusses over the wrinkles in the cloth. “It was what Kat made a deal with me for - to cure her coven of The Red Death in exchange for Myla’s soul in her body.”
I have no idea what she is talking about, and my patience is wearing thin. I suppress a growl, demanding answers. All the fee tend to talk in riddles, and I’m about done with it. We’re running out of time. “Well then,” I spit. “How do we cure it? What’s the antidote?”
She slowly lifts her eyes to mine. “The tear of a first born witch.”
I slam my hands on my hips at the same time the healer drops the bowl to the ground, shocked. “Point me to the witch, and I’ll make her cry.”
