Reborn

by D. Fischer

  “Darling,” she coos again, reaching out a hand to place a gentle stroke on my skin. But it’s not my skin. I can feel it, but I know it’s not mine. “Welcome back.”

  I frown, but my eyebrows don’t move. What’s going on, I ask quietly, a little frightened to know the answer.

  “This is your cure.” Erline laughs. “The price you must pay—to share a body with another.”

  She holds out a hand and a shape swirls inside her unlined palm before a vial appears. “Go ahead, darling,” she says to me. I get the feeling she’s not talking to me this time. After all, I have no idea what she wants.

  Erline’s eyes roam my form, her words just above a mumble, “I can’t bring back my daughter’s body, but I can bring back her spirit in her second form. A form of fire and scales, reborn to this world.”

  I feel my eyes get wetter, beads of dew saturate the rims of my eyelids and a few tears drop from their corners. She holds the vial to my cheek, catching the droplets.

  Corking the bottle, she holds it up to her eyes and says, “This is your cure. A drop of the First Born’s tears will cure the incurable.” She glances past the bottle and back into my eyes, hesitating for a moment. “This is not my disease, not of my creation, Katriane. Your blame is misplaced. Now that a price is paid, this wrong can be righted.”

  I feel my chest expand for several seconds before the loudest roar leaves my lips, shaking the trees, disrupting the soundless night. A call of freedom, I realize.

  What have I done?

  CHAPTER ONE

  DYSON COLEMAN

  DEATH REALM

  Rubbing my temples, I attempt to ease the headache forming behind them that threatens to take over. I didn’t know a shade could even get a headache until now. For the love of—make it stop.

  The shouting in the room raises another level. I drop my transparent hands and glance around at those gathered before me. Time . . . we need time. Time is short to come by, even for the dead.

  I glance at my feet, leaning my weightlessness against my heels, desperately trying to tune out the noise of chattering, angry shades. It’s still so new to me, not having any weight to shift, just to ease the tension of a muscle. Reaper’s Breath floats just above the ground, twirling and swaying around my legs, like an annoying pet begging for a scratch behind the ears.

  Kheelan, Fee ruler of the Death Realm, created the Reaper’s Breath as his pet, so to speak. Its disloyalty to its owner has yet to be discovered by the owner. I’m not naïve enough to believe Kheelan will never discover the disloyalty of his subjects—of the rebellion. Deceit comes back to haunt, no matter the cause or how carefully planned. It’s only a matter of time before the asshole discovers us and our plan, hence the shortage of time.

  Since I arrived here, Reaper’s Breath has been obsessed with me. A tendril of its swirling fog follows me almost everywhere I go. It’s like the stray dog I never asked for.

  Threats start erupting and I take a deep breath before shouting, “Shut up!” Though I usually have a lot of patience, my nerves are raw, my head is pounding, and these ignorant friends of mine can’t seem to get along for five seconds so we can come up with a logical fucking plan.

  It takes a minute for the voices to die down, but eventually, they do. I breathe a sigh of relief, some of my raw emotions leave my body as the air rushes from my lungs. The breath is unnecessary—the dead don’t need to breathe. But old habits die hard.

  A dozen set of eyes swivel in my direction, their bodies mushed against the stone walls inside my small assigned room. Since we are all transparent, I can meet each set of eyes, no matter who they stand behind. It used to be unnerving, but I’ve found it can be useful.

  I place my feet flat against the stone floor and cross my arms. “Look, I know you’re concerned about the shift. No one has answers as to why I was able to cross over, but I did. There’s no point in yelling at each other’s theories.”

  In truth, I knew more than they did, but I can’t trust everyone with my secret. I plan to keep these lips shut, at least for the time being. Kheelan’s loyalty is gained by cruelty. Many flock to him with secrets just so they can remain safely tucked under his little Fee armpit.

  When I first arrived here, Reaper’s Breath aided me in visiting my Pack mate, Flint. I was a wolf-shifter . . . am a wolf-shifter . . . with unfinished business. The haunting happened to be during a battle in revenge for my death, but I still gave my last wordless goodbye.

  I don’t know what Reaper’s Breath sees in me; maybe it took sympathy on me when Kheelan bound my wolf inside me, but it’s the most loyal creature I’ve found since I died. And though I’m dead, I’m still a wolf-shifter, but a wolf-shifter whose wolf is no longer allowed its freedom can break the man and the beast inside.

  Either way, I’m grateful for Reaper’s Breath’s help for giving me a shred of hope, but the help I’ll ask from it in the future will definitely be extensive. I briefly close my eyes, hoping like hell it won’t abandon me now.

  I continue, scratching the back of my neck, “The only point is, how are we going to take advantage of this opportunity? Of this shift in realms?”

  “You’re talking about a rebellion, Dyson,” Chad says, skepticism thick in his voice as his eyes narrow. He’s not the only skeptic in the room. Through him, I can see the others behind him, their lips zipped shut in a fine line as they keep their words of agreement at bay. “How are shades going to rebel against a Fee? We wouldn’t get past his vampire army, let alone settle a finger on Kheelan himself.”

  Vampires could be a complication. They’re also Kheelan’s creation. Rumor has it that he created them a long time ago to search for his long-lost daughter. Since then, they’ve turned less “investigators” and more “bloodthirsty beast.” You can’t control a beast that is fueled by actual life and the blood that pumps through their veins. A vampire’s loyalty will always remain with its next meal.

  My lips form a thin line and my upper body angles forward. “What do vampires need to survive?”

  Jane’s slightly wrinkled forehead furrows as her fingers adjust her pink floral nightgown before she pipes up, “Blood.”

  I allow a small half smile. “Exactly. Shades don’t have blood.”

  Chad’s eyebrows raise, sarcasm thick in his voice to the point where I want to reach out and smack him across his ignorant face. “They have their own means of torture for us, Dyson. You know that.” He huffs and looks away. “A ghost verses a vampire . . . I wonder who will win.”

  *****

  The shades start to leave my room, floating through the wall one at a time, per my instruction. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to ourselves and our gathered meeting that literally got us nowhere.

  Jane stands next to a petite woman I don’t recognize, a warm smile on her face. I quirk an eyebrow at Jane before settling my eyes back on the woman’s small face. Her nose is small, the bridge of it short. Freckles sprinkle across her cheeks and her lips are large and full against her face.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  Jane swings out an arm toward the woman. “This is Tanya. Can we—” Jane glances around, “can we talk?”

  I clear my throat unnecessarily and unfold my arms from across my chest. “Sure.”

  “I need a favor,” Tanya asks, opening her mouth and spilling the words before Jane has the chance.

  Dipping my chin, I eye her from under my lashes. Her abrupt exclamation grates against my already raw nerves. I can’t straddle another ego right now. “I’m not in any position to give out favors.”

  Jane’s face pinches, a slight glint of anger in her eyes. “You have Reaper’s Breath’s attention, Dyson. You and I both know that creature was what helped you. Hear her out.”

  Tanya twists her fingers, their joints bending to accommodate the assault she forces upon them. Her sudden anxiety twists at my non-beating heart. “My son . . .” she begins.

  TEMBER

  THE PRESENT

  Perched on the edge of the br
ick building, I watch my charge, Katriane Dupont, walk into her shop. My drenched, long curls whip about my face with the force of the wind rolling up the side of the brick below me. My dress clings to my skin and my white, feathered wings rustle against my back in agitation, cascading droplets of rain. Her footsteps are light but careful, her grace becoming legendary amongst the Guardian Realm.

  A witch expelled from her coven is a vulnerable one, and for a reason I can’t fathom, the creatures of the dead flock to her like Earth Realm bugs to a light.

  It’s late, the stars should twinkle in the night sky, but the roaring storm consumes them with its thunderous veracity. This is a wet fall the Earth Realm is having, a sure sign that its winter will be a strong and vicious one.

  The bell chimes as she opens the glass door to her shop, echoing against the buildings of the empty street. Soon she disappears from my view, confined to the safety of her home. I watch as the lights flick on in the second story of the building, and my heart eases. She’s safe. My job is half-way done, but yet, the questions forming in my head have yet to be answered.

  My eyes return to the danger threatening my charge’s safety. In the alley, just beside her shop, two pairs of red eyes lurk like roaches, concealed by the dark shadows as they hunch close to the ground. They wait for the moment of visible weakness to strike my unsuspecting Katriane, but unfortunately for them, they’ll never have the chance.

  Slowly, I stand from my perched position and expand my wings before flexing the muscles in my back, beating them against the air. The sound is drowned by the thunder, and my body lifts into the night. Taking the higher route as to not be seen, I fly the short distance to Katriane’s building and perch once more. As a hundreds of years old angel, my movements are fluid and quiet with practiced ease. The enemies on the ground, none-the-wiser, have little knowledge I watch them like a hawk stalking its next feast. Over my dead, immortal body will any vampire lay a claw or fang on my charge.

  They begin speaking to each other, but all I hear is the slight hissing at the end of each word, their lips attempting to make coherent sounds around their permanently elongated fangs. I curse Kheelan for the day he created these monstrosities. They’re assassins, their only purpose to do Kheelan’s bidding. They’re a plague to the world, a disgrace to the realms, and that of the Fee who had created them so long ago. There was a time that these creatures of the dead didn’t exist and each realm was all the better for it.

  Thick, oiling revulsion rolls in the pit of my stomach. Only a sick mind could create such a monster, such a contradiction to life itself, and then unleash them to this innocent realm. My fingers grip the edge of the wall between my feet, my knuckles straining against my skin as I fight my inner hatred.

  Silently, they make their way to the edge of the alley. No longer worried about their concealment, they walk through the middle instead of shimming, crouched, along the wall. I sigh at their ignorance and spread my wings once more, leaping from the edge and dropping to the ground in a dive.

  It’s a short fall, but as my feet touch the wet cement with a grace few creatures possess, the vampires’ sensitive hearing picks up the extra step as I take it.

  They whip their heads around, their red eyes deep, like pools of blood puddled on the floor. I imagine those eyes themselves would strike fear into any victim.

  Veins black as the night sky are visible through their pale skin and fangs dip past their bottom lip, poking the skin just above their chins. The smell of rotting, dead flesh wrinkles my nose and my stomach rolls once more.

  “Evening boys,” I greet with much more kindness than they deserve. I tilt my head. “Care to share your plans for this fine night?”

  They step from the shadows and I get a better view of their profile. One has red hair and a pinched nose, the other has black hair, matching the veins inside his skin. Both tall and broad, I imagine Kheelan sent them for their intimidating size alone.

  The red-haired vampire hisses at me, red-tinged spittle flying from his mouth. The rain flattening his hair to his forehead causes him to look more like a vulnerable living being, but he’s not. No vampire is a living being and each should be judged accordingly for their crimes—I’d be honored to deliver the verdict.

  Quicker than the rain that pounds the ground and the lightning that strikes the land, they race toward me. But I’m prepared. I bend my knees, ducking and spreading my wings. As I spin on the balls of my bare feet, my wings hit the vampires against their torsos, sending them crashing into the brick wall. Before they can fall to the ground, I rush forward, reach out my hands, and capture their necks. Their skin feels slick—like the carcass of a plucked chicken—but not from the downpour. The feel of the skin against mine threatens the hold of my fingers, their grips, and the contents within my stomach.

  Pinned to the man-made rock, their fingers claw hands but it’s useless—I don’t feel it. Angels are built to be indestructible to any enemy of the night—we have far more strength than any vampire.

  “Do you think the Death Realm has a place for the twice dead?” I whisper to them, my face relaxed as I easily hold them prisoner. They hiss and guttural growls pass chomping teeth. I blink, unaffected, and twist my hands to the side. The snap of their spine rings true, announcing my easy victory. Within another blink, they’re piles of dust pooled against the concrete. I watch as rain flows along the grooves, mixing with their ashes and carrying them away to the street drain just beyond.

  “I suppose they’ll find out,” I mumble to myself.

  Glancing down the alleyway, both left and right, I make sure that’s the last of them before soaring back into the sky, the rain beating against my skin from my gathering speed.

  *****

  The ocean ripples and waves rumble below me. Its salty aroma piques my curiosity. Could it possibly taste as bitter as it smells?

  My feet purposefully dip into the chilled water as I soar toward the gates of my realm. The ocean is angry this evening, pitch-black and heavy with towering walls of water before they roll and crash back into the main body.

  My wings beat, fighting against the winds with such ease. I’m getting close, the gate should be just ahead. Adjusting my body, I angle my feathers. One–two– strong beats of their large expanse and I’m soring to the clouds, my long hair whipping behind me.

  Pouring rain soaks my body, my clothes, and when I pass through the black churning clouds, the electricity tickles my skin as a lightning bolt passing straight through me. It’s thrilling, sending a prickling sense of delight through every inch of my veins, my nerves, and I smile, pushing harder until the storm clouds break. This is what freedom feels like.

  Breathing a sigh of content, the grin still plastered on my face, I hover above the clouds. The feeling of power that comes from my own immortality has an unequal comparison. To be anything but what I am, and my existence would be incomplete.

  What a different view it is from this side. The storm churns just the same as the water below. It rolls before dipping inside it’s expanse, like churning dough while force feeding the Earth its tormenting rage. Lightning illuminates the clouds, creating a deep purple no other earthly color can match. They rumble with each strike of electricity, a threat to its oncoming and increasing assault.

  I have much respect for the ocean. It’s an environment all its own, constantly breaking the rules and crossing the line, but respected just the same. The ocean and I are much alike.

  Tilting my head away from the storm just below my feet, I take in the view of the sky and the details of the Milky Way. Each star seems to twinkle on its own, a black backdrop for its fine glory. What mysteries do they hold? Peace and calm above me, torture and rage below.

  The Earth Realm is a beautiful one, but I imagine there’s more out there. There’s always more out there. Adventure is what I crave, what every angel craves. We’re guardians, expected to keep watch over the realms and serve justice to those deserving. As adventurous as that sounds, it’s often not enough to sat
e us. Like racehorses going for a light jog, we need the run of the track to calm our insatiable nerves.

  My quick eyes spot a distraction—the shimmering gates to my realm, home. The Guardian Realm, ran by Erma the Fee who created us. To me, she is much more than my creator.

  My smile fading, I flap my wings once more and soar toward the gates that are almost invisible to the eye, unless you’re Fee born.

  I arrive closer to the gate, my feathers touching the swirling tip. It sucks me in like a vortex. A human would never survive the passing. It rips me apart and puts me back together again, but I don’t feel pain. I was born to not feel pain, to show no mercy or weakness, to be neither consumed nor struck paralyzed by cold or heat.

  Once back together, it shoves me through, my bare feet landing on the black marble floor. The floor looks alive—the white specks dotted throughout move on their own like schools of fish inside a pond.

  Black night sky hangs overhead, the stars much brighter here, closer than they are to the Earth Realm, dimly lighting the place I call home. I can no longer hear the ocean, the rumble of clouds from the Earth Realm, and a small part of me wants to turn back, to go watch, if but for a moment longer. The Guardian Realm doesn’t exist inside Earth’s. There are no oceans here. Just like all the other realms, we each belong to our own plain equivalent to Earth’s.

  My white-feathered wings come into my peripheral view before folding against my back like a tight embrace. I step forward, nodding to a few fellow angels—men and women—gathered near the entrance. I keep my eyes on them as they go back to chatting in hushed tones, gossip surely the topic flicking off their tongues.

  Angels may be guardians, but that doesn’t exempt them from evil doing. Angels are not always . . . angels. Many slack, ignoring their charges and duties. Some even tip the scale to the dark side, enduring that extra thrill we crave to such extreme measures. I suppose with light, there must always be a dark.