The Night House

by J. C. McKenzie

  Here she was again, hesitating. Flicking her hand quickly in the air, she gave the signal to stalk the supply wagon but not engage.

  She wanted more information. If everything checked out, she’d use the bird call and her team could attack the wagon without her. That would make John happy. He’d have his chance to shine and prove himself as a leader.

  George, their scout, had made the owl call an hour ago that the cart was on its way, giving them time to assemble and take their positions. Time to visit the boy.

  She pulled her hood up and tightened the drawstrings to keep the material in place and the cold out.

  She picked her way through the pine and fir trees lining the forest, the sharp smell of their needles a calming familiarity, and made her way to George’s position at the top of the hill. He had a complete view of the valley below from his lookout.

  Carefully skirting branches and twigs littering the cold ground, she kept her footing as flat and even as possible until she found the tree George liked to climb. His footsteps surrounded the base.

  She peered up the tall conifer. George was nearly invisible from the road unless you knew where to look along the wet bark and dense moss. She knew where to look and she didn’t see any sign of him.

  Where had he gone?

  She studied the tracks. Fresh ones led away from the tree. She gripped her staff and followed until they met the road and crossed. She peered up and down the road. No tracks other than the supply wagon and George.

  Why the hell would he cross the road? She told him not to do that. She wasn’t the only one who read tracks.

  She took a deep breath and crouched low. As she took three steps on the road, the opposite tree foliage became clear. What the hell was—?

  A shoe?

  The sole of a shoe poked out from under the bush. Taya froze.

  George’s shoe. Attached to George’s leg. Attached to his body under a bush.

  “He’s not dead.” A deep voice spoke behind her.

  She whirled around.

  A Tarka.

  The Tarka.

  She’d recognize the beautiful beast from the supply cart anywhere. He stood well over six intimidating feet with a powerful build from a lifetime of training. Where the hell had he come from?

  The Tarka held perfectly still, gray gaze flashing, platinum-blond hair shining under the setting sun. He looked like a warrior angel sent to Earth to smite the pest-like humans.

  She clutched her staff and brought it up with numb fingers.

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “You plan to fight me with a stick?”

  “I can hand it over and tell you what to do with it, if you promise to follow directions.” She moved the stick slowly. Not fast enough to give away her skill, but enough to warm her wrists and get blood flowing back into her limbs.

  “I’ll take option number one, thank you,” he said.

  “Fine with me. I’d prefer anything to becoming your next sacrifice.” They’d never confirmed the Arkavians were responsible for the bloody sacrifice they’d stumbled on, but no crazy magical beasts had roamed the forest since the portal opened, so they made an assumption. She glanced behind her at the trees and George’s exposed foot. What the hell had the Tarka done to him?

  “He’s incapacitated. You won’t get any help from him.”

  Taya snarled while her mind raced. The man hadn’t used any magic yet. Maybe he didn’t have any. Maybe only some of the blondes had power. Could she outrun him? She wasn’t fast, but he was bulky with muscle, and wore lightweight armour and a heavy cloak to stave off the damp cold.

  Where would she run? She couldn’t lead him to the others, and she couldn’t survive long in the woods without supplies.

  The man cocked his head, studying her and probably reading every thought screaming through her head. “Sacrifice? Exactly what kind of fantasies have your kind concocted about us?”

  “I would hardly call them fantasies.”

  “What would you call them, then?”

  “Nightmares.” Duh.

  He nodded. “Is this where you tell me my evil ways are done?”

  “I’m not sure. Is this where you make some grand speech about ridding the world of my kind or do you plan to preach about the superiority of your race and how you deserve to suck our planet dry?”

  “I’m waiting for you to finish warming up so we can get on with it.”

  She fumbled and almost dropped the staff.

  His smile was scary, a flash of teeth. He stepped forward. “I plan to take you with me.”

  Ice froze along her spine. “You sure about that? Dead bodies stink pretty badly.”

  “Alive.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Why the hell were they having a conversation like they sat at some sort of warped tea party?

  “Are you ready, yet? Can we get to the fun stuff?”

  “Fun stuff?”

  “The part where we fight and I win.” Metal rang as he unsheathed one of his swords. It glowed like a bright, white star and emitted a buzz that rose every hair on her body.

  Don’t overthink.

  She gripped her staff and attacked. Caught off guard, the Tarka’s eyebrows shot up. He flicked his sword up to block her staff, but instead of swinging down like an axe, she shoved the forward end of the stick under his guard and into his face. His perfect nose crunched. He grunted.

  His hand gripped her wrist and spun her around. She drove her elbow back. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. He slipped to the side and avoided the blow. He flicked his wrist and chopped her staff in half with one short swing of his vibrating blade, before ducking behind her again.

  She stared at the cut ends of her staff.

  “What will you do now?” he asked, his breath whispering behind her. She gripped the shortened sticks and slammed them back. They met a wall of muscle.

  The Tarka chuckled and shoved her away. Taya stumbled a few steps, dropped the sticks and unsheathed her blades. Her fingers gripped the smooth leather wound around the hilts. The power vibrated along her skin. The electrifying blue energy danced along the shafts and whined, begging for blood. She whirled around and her hood fell back. The wind pushed her hair across her face.

  The Tarka remained expressionless and drew his second sword. He now wielded two blades like her. “Ah. Now we see the true you.”

  She lunged. He parried. The power of the swords pulled at her. She fused with them, merging into one, as if the blades became extensions of her arms as she danced. The light reflected off the metal and she became a flurry of sharp edges. Each slash propelled her faster and she spun, transforming into a whirlwind of blades. Her father called it the Makani, and it was only taught to family members.

  The Tarka moved with her, ducking, slipping, side-stepping, the antithesis of her attack. They kicked up snow and frozen rocks from the road. Their swords screamed and clashed, sending sparks flying. The blades hummed and whistled with each sweep and strike, only to scream again with the next contact. Lightning flung around them.

  “A whirlwind attack,” he said. “A unique tactic.” He spoke normally with no panting or rushed words, as though he sat across a table from her and asked about the weather while he poured her a cup of tea.

  Grrrr.

  He was better than her. But running wasn’t an option, nor was becoming a sacrificial lamb with no guts.

  If you have nothing left, fight with heart. It’s the only thing they can’t take from you, her dad’s voice guided her.

  Now was not the time to think about what they did to the internal organs of the sacrifice victims. I’ll see you soon, Dad.

  Taya continued to strike and dodge, nipping in and out. He neatly avoided, deflected or blocked each attack. Sweat poured down her face. She narrowly dodged a counter strike.

  The Tarka stepped in, did something with his blade along hers and suddenly one of her swords flew in the air. The lightning energy cut off.

  “No!” Pain lanced through her arm as though h
e’d severed it, but her hand appeared normal. And attached. She stepped to the side and flicked up her second sword.

  The Tarka dodged in time, barely. A thin red line ran along his porcelain cheek. A drop of blood pebbled on his skin. He smiled. He fucking smiled and his gray gaze danced. “What a nice surprise.”

  She stepped back. She knew he toyed with her, like a cat playing with its food, but this took it to a whole new condescending level.

  Screams travelled down the road. Her team!

  John.

  That rat bastard had attacked despite her orders. He couldn’t wait to flex his leader muscle and walked the rest of the group into a trap. Her shoulders slumped. Nicks and bruises decorated her skin. Her fallen sword lay on the other side of the Tarka. Its raw power called to her like a lost child—Pick me up. Don’t leave me.

  The river ran behind her, a soft musical accompaniment to her tragic end.

  The river.

  For whatever reason, the Arkavians avoided crossing rivers and every one of the death wave survivors had been in running water when the blue magic swept the Earth.

  She needed to get to the river.

  She spun and bolted.

  And froze.

  An invisible force lifted her in the air. No hands held her. The Tarka hadn’t caught her. At least not physically. The magic slowly turned her in the air until she faced the Tarka once again. He stood with a wide stance, one arm flung in front of him with his hand open and palm facing out. He had sheathed the swords. His cheek scratch and broken nose no longer bled, but his tussled hair and heaving chest indicated he had to put some effort into fighting her after all.

  Yippee for her.

  George groaned in the bushes. His shoe twitched.

  The Tarka’s attention remained trained on her, potent, powerful and full of an emotion she couldn’t read.

  “Spare him. He’s just a boy.”

  The Tarka frowned, dark brows slicing into his statuesque face. “I did. He lives.”

  “Then spare him from your sacrifice ring. You’ll have enough of us for your perverted magic.”

  He frowned harder. “Why would we sacrifice earthens?”

  “Power?”

  “We have enough already.”

  “Then what do you want with us?”

  His expression brightened. “Ah, now you ask the good questions. I don’t want anything from your comrades. They are nothing to me. You, on the other hand…” He floated Taya closer with his magic. “I have plans for you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Off to the Slaughter

  Taya woke up with a crick in her neck and covered with a light dusting of snow. Hog-tied and gagged, she bounced with each jostle of the wagon. The dirt and oil on the rough cloth rubbed against her tongue. Her cheek pressed against the cold, coarse wooden slats.

  At least she wasn’t marching in a slave chain behind a horse. She’d conserve energy this way.

  Horses snorted, multiple horses. A man coughed. A low conversation trailed behind the wagon. A stream of morning light bathed her face and the birds chirped like happy little lovebirds. Perhaps she was wrong to hate birds, yet she did anyway. Why the hell were they so happy when she was so miserable? And it was winter, goddammit. They should be miserable, too.

  The wagon lurched to a stop. She tumbled forward and smacked her head against the wooden slats. Ouch.

  A man vaulted over the far side of the wagon and landed near her feet. His footing, though agile, jostled the floorboards. He blocked the sun with his giant body and cast her in darkness.

  The Tarka.

  He crouched beside her, a large and looming shadow, bringing with him scents of the forest and horses.

  “I’m glad you’re awake. Your luxurious ride has ended,” he said. “You have a choice. You can continue the rest of the way on foot, glaring at my horse’s fat ass while I pull you along on a rope, or you can ride on the horse with me. One hint of any mischief and you’ll hit the snow and no longer have a choice. What will it be?”

  He reached forward and tugged the gag away from her mouth. She wanted to bite his fingers. Her shoulders screamed from the hog-tied position.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It’s faster for you to ride with me, but if you’re going to get feisty about it, we may as well start with you on the ground.”

  “Why can’t the wagon go farther?” Where were they? The view of the surrounding tree tops laden with heavy snow told her nothing. How long had she been out?

  “There’s no road access to the gate from this point.”

  Chills ran through her body. The gate? Other soldiers talked about the portal connecting their two worlds. The same portal that emitted the lethal blue wave.

  Then she processed his words. Cold seeped into her skin and stabbed at her heart. He planned to take her to Arkavia? Through that magical door?

  Oh, hell no. She had to escape before he took her through that gate. “I’ll ride with you.”

  He smirked as if he plucked her intentions from her mind and looked forward to the challenge.

  Light flashed off metal and a dagger appeared in his hand. He leaned over her with his gargantuan body, and cut the rope. Instant relief flowed through her, followed by pixilated pain as blood flow improved. Her arms and legs flopped to the floor. She rotated her wrists and gently rolled into a sitting position. Her vision swam. Her arms prickled from increased circulation.

  “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

  Yes. Her dry throat screamed for water. “No.”

  The Tarka chuckled and held up a canteen of water. He wore a huge ring. Sunlight reflected off a giant white stone embedded in the intricate metalwork. Opal? The stone looked like someone plucked the glowing moon from the night sky and set it in silver. She ignored the pretty jewel and focused on the canteen. He wouldn’t poison her now after carting her all this way. He also had plenty of opportunity to murder her a thousand different ways while she lay vulnerable and unconscious.

  She snatched the container from his hand and chugged the cold water. Some ran down her chin. The faint citrus taste washed away the dirt and grime from the gag.

  The man watched, fixated with the movement of her throat.

  Whatever. As long as he looked with his eyes and not with his hands.

  “I’m Thane,” he said. “From the House of Jericho.”

  What now? She’d heard that name before. Was it from one of the Arkavians or was she getting it mixed up with one of the beaches she visited in Vancouver? She handed back the now-empty canteen and wiped her mouth with her dirty sleeve. She returned his stare.

  “Shall I make up a name for you? Or would you like to have a say in that?”

  “Taya.”

  He smiled, flashing even white teeth and stood. He held his hand out.

  She stared at his calloused palm. Would his skin zap hers? Did he offer his hand as some sort of magical trap? Why would she voluntarily touch him? An Arkavian Tarka who came to her planet to steal and kill.

  He sighed.

  What the hell did he expect? He might act nice and accommodating, but that didn’t make them besties.

  She scrambled to her feet and brushed the dirt and snow from her clothes. Her pants were soaked and a chill rippled through her body. She ignored his outreached hand and glanced at her surroundings. Three battle-hardened warriors sat on giant horses and studied her with flat expressions. None of these guys resembled the shifty, newly trained guards on the supply wagons.

  One of the men sported a black eye, and another had a split lip, but otherwise, they appeared fresh and ready to pillage the next village. A fuzzy memory of a fight flittered through her mind and flew off before she could grab hold of it.

  If she’d seen any of these men, Thane included, anywhere near the Arkavian supplies, she would’ve run in the opposite direction.

  Wait. Where was everyone else? Where was her team? She scanned the surrounding forest and snow covered, gravel road.

  “Did
you kill them all?” she asked. Their faces streaked through her mind like a movie film. Please say no.

  “Some were injured when they attacked the supply wagon, but I spared them, as requested.”

  An invisible weight lifted from her shoulders. Well, at least there was that. She glanced back at Thane. He’d dropped his hand and stood at the edge of the wagon, waiting. The sun danced along his platinum-blond hair and his armour.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You might be a prisoner, but that doesn’t mean I have to be uncivil.”

  “Not that. Why me? Why did you take me?”

  His gaze turned hard. He clenched his mouth shut and a jaw muscle popped out. “You interest me.”

  That sounded ominous. Yet something in his scowl contradicted his statement of idle curiosity. Maybe she did interest him. Whatever the hell that meant and implied, but that wasn’t the only reason Thane nabbed her.

  He hopped off the cart. The wooden slats creaked and wobbled. “Come on, princess. We’re losing the sun.”

  Taya originally agreed to ride with Thane so she could plan her escape and reserve her energy. After viewing their company and getting bombarded by recurring memories of how Thane’s magic rendered her helpless, she should’ve gone with the other option. Walking would slow their progress and delay her departure from the realm of Earth.

  She knew better than to hope John mounted some rescue mission. He wouldn’t come after her. Why would he? There was nothing in it for him except regaining a leader he didn’t want or value. For once, his selfish behaviour was a good thing. Attacking these battled-hardened soldiers would be suicide.

  Thane led her to a giant black stallion with a flaxen mane and tail. No, wait. The horse wasn’t black, but rather a rich dark brown. She had no idea what an actual warhorse looked like or what made one horse qualify for the label and another not, but the majestic beast standing two feet away from her was definitely a fucking warhorse.

  The horse turned his massive head and snorted in her face. Her hair whipped back. She held out her hand, palm out.