Reborn

by D. Fischer

  “Tember,” a warm, familiar voice coos my name.

  My head swivels around, my wet brown curls slapping against my cheek before my eyes gaze upon on my Fee creator. Her shoulder length, cropped red hair flows in a non-existent breeze as she advances to me with open arms. She’s strikingly beautiful, as all Fee tend to be. She’s short, about my height of 5’2’’ in Earth Realm measurement. Her eyes are black as the night sky, twinkle with moisture, similar to the stars.

  Her arms fold me into a hug, her skin like ice and as pale as snow. Fee don’t retrain warmth; as top of the food chain, they don’t need it.

  I wrap my arms around her, returning the embrace, my brown curls fanning over her shoulders before we release each other. “Erma,” I say with a smile ghosting my lips.

  She returns the smile, her white teeth—a stark contrast to the black marble and sky surrounding us. “Come,” she says. “We have much to discuss.”

  Eyeing the group of gatherers near the front gate, she quirks an eyebrow at them. They dip their head in false respect before we turn and she ushers me away. I frown, disapproving of the contempt they hold for our creator. Or perhaps, when it comes to Erma, I tend to be more on the protective side. She means more to me, than she is to them.

  Walking the large expanse of the main room, we come to several archways matching the floor we walk on. The archways appear to be flowing, creating an entrance that looks like black waterfalls.

  She steers me to the entrance on our left, the first archway leading to her chambers.

  “You’ve been gone a while, my love. Did you find her?” Erma asks, leading me to a chair built of wood. The surface is unfinished, but the dark grooves and detail of the wood is exceptional and certainly one of a kind. I sit, crossing my shapely legs.

  “I did. She has yet to return to her coven, as expected. I believe once a witch is expelled, she isn’t allowed to return.”

  Erma takes a seat in the identical chair across from me, a frown dipping her red-tinted eyebrows in the most adorable way. She places her arms gently on the armrest and leans back. “The question is, why?”

  I remain silent. I have no answers for her. This is the same question that’s been resurfacing in my head since I found her hulled up in her shop with no coven to call her own. I’m protective over Katriane. To see her alone, to witness her inner turmoil and longing, hurts my chest in unexpected ways.

  Erma is thoughtful for a moment, her eyes staring off into the distance while she contemplates her question. “What did you say your charge’s name was?”

  “Kat. Katriane Dupont.”

  She nods her head, her mind working at such a frantic pace that I can practically see the wheels turning behind her pitch-black eyes.

  “A child of Erline, a descendant, tossed from her coven’s home,” she mumbles aloud, her lips twisting in confusion. Her head flicks back to mine, as I imagine her eyes do. It’s hard to tell when she’s looking at you when all there is, is black, making it nearly impossible to judge such an action. “This warrants some examination.”

  Questions form in my head, but before I can ask them, she continues, “A witch out in the open is dangerous. I’m surprised Erline hasn’t approached her.” She waves her hand. “It’s of no matter. Find the girl, watch over her as you see fit, and if you see Erline, tell her to find me. We have much to discuss, her and I. I’d rather not call on her unless it’s prudent.” Her eyelids narrow, disgust curling her top lip.

  Nodding my head, my wet hair sticking to the back of my neck, I bite my tongue from spouting any word of my plans. Erma wouldn’t approve.

  Erma dips her chin, wordlessly dismissing me. Standing from my chair, it scrapes against the marble, the sound ringing my sensitive ears. I grit my teeth and my feathers rustle, agitating their muscles as they attempting to fan away the sound’s vibration.

  As I turn, I hear Erma clear her throat. I peek over my shoulders, my wet hair sticking to my high cheekbone.

  Taking confident steps, she glances out the archway before placing her hands on the back of my arms, gently spinning me back around. Her eyes search mine, but I already know what she wants.

  I smile warmly at her before dipping my head and placing a gentle kiss on her lips. Her breasts touch just below mine when she shuffles her body closer. For a moment, she makes herself vulnerable to me before she pulls back, resting her forehead against mine.

  Closing her eyes, her words come out in hushed whispers of affection, “Be careful, my love.”

  I cup her cheek, gently caressing her colorless skin with my thumb before stepping away and releasing her. What I must do would break her, like it’s breaking me. She would try to stop me, to force me to choose a less dangerous plan. I can’t accept that.

  Shoving my feelings for Erma aside, I turn back to the archway and exit back into the main galley, my bare feet stepping soundlessly.

  Erma may be my creator but she’s been my lover for as long as I can remember. Our relationship has remained a secret and for good reason. Any sort of display of special treatment would cause an uprising to this group of already unsettled, restless, powerful beings.

  I approach the group of conversing, gossiping, angels and without looking, I know they’re staring. “Don’t you have work to do?” I growl at them, the words spitting past my lips.

  My wings expand and I flap them twice, lifting my feet off the ground and soaring back through the gate.

  *****

  The rain pounds my face on the mainland of Earth’s Realm, obscuring my flight’s view. It’s still the middle of the night. All the houses I glide over are as dark as the shadows they cast. If I’m going to protect Kat, I’ll have to blend in. A walking person with wings would draw far too much attention. The thought of breaking some rules thrill me and propel my actions.

  Humans are superstitious in every aspect of life. A simple black cat crossing their path and they’re watching their backs for a witch’s scorn. Though on the surface they don’t believe, on the inside, they truly do. Erline made them able to sense such things, but over time, they’ve managed to block the extra senses given to them, deeming them as a spot of insanity.

  A demon could lurk in the shadows, they’d feel the eyes on the back of their neck and pass it off as paranoia. It’s an extra sense they were built with, but they’ve chosen to dismiss it. In their mind, if they can’t see, feel, or smell it, it simply doesn’t exist. It would make the angel’s job much easier if they had a shred of self-preservation and trusted the instincts they were given.

  I head to my destination—I’ve passed this place many times. Angling my glide, I reach the ground, my toes curling into the wet grass in front of the deep blue wood shop. The shop is surrounded by pine trees, drenched and dripping, and the path to the small square business is made up of tiny rocks.

  Briefly observing for onlookers, I walk forward, my hand outstretched to turn the bass knob on the shop’s side door. I grasp it and twist my wrist, but the handle doesn’t budge—it’s locked. I curse and consider kicking it in, but neighbors are not far and that would surely cause an unwanted stir. Down the length of the blue siding, a window is placed in the middle.

  Chewing the inside of my lip, I contemplate if this is the best move. I walk to the window with catlike steps. The edges are seamless, the building well cared for. My lips thin into a fine line as I come to my decision.

  Pulling back my arm, my muscles taut, I pause for a moment before thrusting it forward. My knuckles shatter the glass, the shards cutting into my skin before scattering to the ground faster than the falling rain.

  Swiveling my head, I look around before glancing at my knuckles. The sound was much louder than I anticipated, the storm’s thunder refusing to work in my favor.

  With a pinched pointer finger and thumb, I pull out a few chunks of glass. Black blood seeps from my jagged-edged, frayed skin. Ignoring the punctures, I grip the edge of the window where all the glass is missing, hop once, and jump through, my clothes snagg
ing on the leftover shards still glued to their place.

  It’s warm in here, the heater humming in the corner and a tiny pang of guilt forms in my chest. I should turn off the heat before I leave. The Earth Realm is run by currency, and currency is sparse here. These creatures live for their next payment, working like slaves to pay for simple things such as sustenance.

  Shrugging, I walk forward to the wall of large power tools, immediately finding the one I need. The metal of the electric saw glints, even though there’s no light. I stand in front of it, staring, angling my head this way and that before I pick the object from its holder.

  It’s heavier than I anticipated, the bulk of the weight at the orange plastic handle. I flick the power button and the machine roars to life, angry and menacing. The small blades instantly pick up speed until they’re just a blur, rotating and threatening with its sharp edges.

  “What I do for my charges,” I mumble, the sound of my voice drowned from the saw.

  Thanking Erma for producing us with the absence of pain, I lift the saw over my head and expand my wings from their nestled position against my back. Dripping wet, my pristine feathers look mangled, as if they’re privy to my next action.

  I take a deep breath and lower the rotating razors to my right wing where it meets skin and muscle along my back. I know they won’t regrow. I’m aware that clipping my wings will leave me at half an angel with no ability to return home by my own means. But the job must be done and sacrifices must be made.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AIDEN VANDER

  EARTH REALM

  Swirls of cold, foggy vapor wrap around the ankles of my jeans. I watch as it dips, curls, and sways, caressing the denim like an old friend. It’s as if it’s alive with a purpose, resembling a desert snake as it slithers through the sand. More fog flows across the cement sprawled under my feet, the light from the street lamps making it glow the finest of shades. My eyes move to my surroundings. I know where I am—I’ve been here before.

  All around me, tucked between old brick buildings, are empty streets and sidewalks. This is the path I take on my way home. No sounds of trains, horns, or incessant chatter . . . nothing reaches my ears besides my own lumbering movements.

  The area is vacant of people, of flowing life and walking shoes. It’s like I’m the only person on the planet. I grunt as I plunder ahead. This isn’t normal. Where the hell are all the people?

  It’s cold here, wherever here is. Though I recognize where I am, I know that I’m not in reality. People don’t just disappear as if they never existed in the first place. In reality, these streets can be quiet, but there’s always one person walking them, or a car driving by, or someone shouting out their apartment window. I’ll be damned if I believe for nothing to exist is normal. I’m many things, but a fool isn’t one of them.

  The slight breeze raises pinpricks and goosebumps across my skin, and my breath mists out in front of me. With each step, I get a little angrier. The emptiness creeps me out.

  I glance up to the blanket of dark, billowing clouds covering the night sky, hiding the stars and the shine of the moon. I can’t deny that it’s peaceful here—no trouble belongs, there’s no tendril of life’s chaotic drama. The disorganized mess of our world’s stress doesn’t hide in the dark, waiting to be unraveled and triggering pointless, unrelenting fret.

  The scent of rain is in the air, tickling the inside of my nose with its fresh, crisp odor. I lift my hand and scrub my nostrils with the heel of my palm. Even though I know this is only a dream, I pause to bask in how real everything feels.

  I’ve been here before, in this dream. Each time it’s the same . . . but different.

  For the past few nights, every time I fall asleep, this is where my dreams take me. Like a welcoming –friend—a wanted guest hosted by the frigid fog that clears a little more with each dream. My sleeping state paints the picture of my surroundings in detail. I’m sure if I reach out and run my hand across the brick, I’d feel the sharp edges as it scrapes across my fingertips.

  And she’s always here . . . always appearing, transparent yet motherly and loving in presence. I find it slightly annoying. She’s a persistent visitor to this reoccurring dream. I know without a doubt that if I turn around and face that alleyway, she’ll be there, waiting for me with no answers.

  I steel myself, tensing the muscles between my shoulder blades, and turn to face her. The fog and mist scatter, its caress disturbed by my shift. I know she’s there. She’s always there.

  Keeping my eyes down and my hood over my head, I wait until I see the pale yellow of her thick socks. They look like the ones I got in the hospital during my stay after I received a severe concussion—what can I say, boxing has its hazards. Is that what this is? My warped brain having a little fun?

  My teeth clench, an audible grind as they scrape against each other, and I raise my vision. The realistic, transparent figure that she is makes me nervous for the unknown. I don’t like things I can’t prove with fact. Dreams aren’t based from fact; no, they’re twisted with snips of reality and fear.

  She wears a nightdress—the kind a mother would wear after tucking the covers under their young’s tiny chins, safely snuggling them inside their beds before they fall fast asleep. It’s floral-printed in pink, buttoned up the front, and a petaled, cream-colored collar around the neck. I reach that transparent slope above her shoulder, just above the collar, where a gold cross dangles from a delicate chain. And finally, I see her subtle white teeth behind her sincere, maternal smile and her warm, comforting eyes.

  This is how she always greets me. Her friendliness irks me; it’s something I’m not used to, something I’ve never had directed at me before.

  I see the alleyway through her. The old brick walls create a narrow, unlit path.

  “Aiden,” she whispers as if she’s happy to see me. As if I’m her son and I’ve just come home for a visit. My teeth grind again.

  I’ve never spoken to her. This is a dream, right? Why would I speak to a figure my brain conjured? I clear my throat and shift my weight.

  Lowering my hood, I consider her with speculating eyes. Chewing the inside of my lip, I take a chance. If my dreams keep taking me here, it’s time to figure out why. “Who are you?”

  Her smile grows wider, the twinkle in her eyes sparkle with moisture. How is it possible for a dream to be so vivid?

  As a boxer, I’m trained to notice subtle movements. I recognize the nervous gesture when she takes a step forward, her slender hands clasp together in front of her as her fingers knot themselves. “I’m Jane.”

  “Jane . . .” I say slowly, my throat thick with confusion. The hood of my sweatshirt rubs against my nape as I tilt my head to the side. “What do you want?”

  She blinks, the corners of her lips slope, and her throat constricts, like she’s just swallowed a marble. When she finally speaks, the tone of her voice is heavy, lower, and full of an emotion that doesn’t fit her previous mood. “You’ll soon find out.”

  Her fingers twist faster, harder, before she drops them to her side with more force than necessary, and closes the distance between us.

  Folding me into a hug, her hands rest on my tense shoulder blades. It’s a warm hug, though it shouldn’t be—she’s not real. She’s transparent.

  This is only a dream, I chant inside my head.

  The warmth seeps through my clothes, my skin, my muscles and bones. I close my eyes for a moment, relishing the feeling of so much unconditional love inside one simple, common gesture . . . so much comfort—the very thing I’ve lacked my entire life. It feels foreign and a part of me bucks against it.

  The tugging sensation, the one I always feel before I wake against my will, yanks on my abdomen. My time here is over, my dream finished.

  She rests her chin on the top of my shoulder as I stand still as a statue, waiting for the pull to take me away. The scent of oncoming rain and her skin combine, smelling of fresh roses after a spring thunderstorm.

 
“Save the girl,” she whispers.

  * * * * *

  My eyelids hesitate before they open, my eyes searching the dim-lit ceiling of my basic apartment bedroom. Morning’s rays of sunshine shimmer through my thin, holey curtains.

  I blink, remembering her warm embrace, her tending touch . . . her words. ‘Save the girl,’ echoes in my head once more, leaving me with questions I may never have answers to.

  What girl? A girlfriend? I don’t have one.

  Sitting up, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress before glancing at the brown, carpet-covered floor that scrubs against my bare toes. I rub my eyes with stiff fingers, clearing the sticky layer of sleep from them.

  My white sheet lays in a tangled mess across the scruff surface of the old carpet. Some horns honk, vibrating against the tall buildings outside and spilling in through my thin glass windows. I cringe, my neck muscles straining against the abrupt noise at such an early hour. It’s the sound—the evidence—of the waking city’s impatient citizens as they rush to work a few minutes too late.

  My eyes search the wall across from me, the brown and white pinstriped wallpaper peeling back from its seams, just like my own pathetic life. I see nothing but the dream replaying over and over. It felt so real, the details so vivid.

  Testing my weight, I stand and travel the length of my small apartment for a bottle of water.

  KATRIANE DUPONT

  EARTH REALM

  I straighten the contents on the wooden shelves nailed against the wall in the back, lifting the raven feathers, the toadstool, the dried poppy seeds. Potions in a variety of different colors swirl inside their corked glass bottles to my left. I ignore the potions, vowing to dust them later, and shimmy to my right, propped up on my tippy-toes. I swipe my rag across the shelf before pausing and glance at the speck-free mirror in front of me.