by D. Fischer
I fidget in my seat. I’m crossing a line, taking this conversation a step further. It feels as though I’m forcing her to do an elective procedure that I know she needs to save her life. However, this must be her choice and hers alone. As her doctor, I can try to convince my patients, but I can’t scare them into doing anything. It’s tough to balance their needs against what’s best for them. That doesn’t mean the words aren’t on the tip of my tongue, and occasionally, cross it.
In trembling hands, her plump fingers fidget with the pamphlet I just gave her. Her red-rimmed eyes roam over the letters of this hospital’s name—Mercy Memorial Hospital—while her husband pats her back in a soothing gesture. My mind flicks through possible things to say, anything to convince her I’m right without pushing my agenda. I come up short, lacking in a bedside manner that my job normally requires. Clearing my throat, I shift in my seat once more, my uncomfortable attitude becoming smothering, clogging the words in my throat.
My patient, Mrs. Tiller, has been here many times, weighing the options of proceeding with this surgery. She’s scared and rightfully so. Any surgery is dangerous. Each time she attends these meetings, she has new questions. Though she is desperate for other options, she’s been reluctant about the Gastric Bypass surgery, even though it was her family’s recommendation. She’s getting up there in age. Losing the weight by using other means has been difficult for her. Her bones, her body, no longer holds the youth she once had. She has foster children to chase after. She needs this surgery.
I glance at Dr. Cassandra Grant sitting next to me, the fellow surgeon on my team. Her back is straight, her posture perfect. She has no qualms about emotional states like I do. I have enough problems in my own life to add others to it. Not a line of stress mars her mahogany-colored skin. Her afro is beautiful, a perfect sphere. It must take her hours to maintain it.
I look back over the conference table top, back to Mrs. Tiller. I can taste her anxiety from where I sit, heightening my own.
“It will save your life,” I blurt, my voice far from reassuring. I clear my throat and try again, flattening my hand against the tabletop. “You’ve tried everything to lose the weight. Now it’s your turn to trust us. We can help you.”
Cassandra leans forward, the cushion of her chair letting out air as she does. “Gastric Bypass does have its risks, but as your doctors, we’re confident that the surgery will go without a hitch.”
Mrs. Tiller lifts her tear-filled eyes and meets my gaze. I keep my face sincere and hopeful, giving her a light smile of reassurance, though it feels more as a grimace. The emotions in the air are smothering, I don’t know how no one else seems unaffected by it.
“Will you consent to the surgery?” I ask, the toe of my sneaker tapping the floor.
Mr. Tiller looks from me to his wife. I can see in his eyes which option he wants her to take. He wants her to live, to be healthy and happy, and this is how he believes it is to be fixed. It helps to have rooted and supportive family on the side of a doctor’s opinion.
His features are memorable. Like an old hound dog, he’s worn with age and heavy bags under his eyes. Mr. Tiller operates the trains in town and often works long hours. I’m surprised he hasn’t retired yet.
In my early thirties, I have learned one thing. Weight, vanity, health—it means nothing. Love. Love is the reason for living. It is also the very thing I lack, the gaping hole in my chest, the thing that keeps me up at night and the thing I actively avoid. I’m alone and it’s constantly dangled in front of my face, filling me with a sense of desperate envy. It causes me to be scared of it, to fight the urge to run the opposite direction every time it’s presented as a possible option.
If Mrs. Tiller wishes to live and love another day, her best option is to choose life—to choose the surgery. It isn’t my job to force the option, however. It’s my job to guide. That’s what I keep chanting inside my head.
To my relief, she nods before wiping the streams of tears from her cheek with careless swipes. I breathe a sigh of relief, my red hair fanning my face. I lift my hand to scratch the itch, watching her large frame shake in fear, and with good reason. Surgery is always risky, especially when you have everything to lose.
I lean back in my seat, my lips forming in a hard line. Instead of feeling happy, butterflies beat against the inside of my stomach, their flutters ones of anger and regret.
CHAPTER FOUR
KATRIANE DUPONT
EARTH REALM
Once in my office, I turn and crook my finger again, producing a thin smile. “In here,” I call a little too loud. I’m nervous about having someone back here. This space is usually only visited by myself. An anxious chuckle threatens to escape. I’m placing myself in such a vulnerable position, despite ignoring the little voice in my head that warned me a few minutes ago to be leery.
Tember follows me in and glances around at the magical objects and potions. “Interesting,” she mumbles.
As she walks over to the shelf I previously dusted, she bumps her hip against the altar table before she has time to pick up one of the swirling green potions—my potions, my stuff. A small bout of possession bubbles inside me. Mine.
Her continuous curiosity isn’t what has my attention though. What has my attention is the glowing crystal. Not the white one, the red one. It glows like a beacon in the room. The breath seizes in my throat.
She’s not human, she mumbles with a smidge of smug attitude, as if I should already know this. As if I needed her input to understand the situation I put myself in.
For a split moment, my heart sinks to my toes. Her earlier warning comes back to haunt me, echoing in my head and sending regret to replace my forced optimistic attitude.
I feel my face darken in that of a true witch’s nature. The nerves pinch as the skin contorts, the area surrounding my eyes feeling heavy and full of pressure. In the mirror of my peripheral vision, my eyes darken around the lids to pitch-black skin, my teeth point to tipped ends, and my eyes glow around the rims of my irises. The neon glow still startles me. The glowing isn’t my nature—it’s hers. Her beast.
Witches have to chant words to produce a spell. Fortunately, I gained her extra abilities, making me not like most witches. My hands lift from my sides, and fling out in front of me, palms facing Tember.
Tember’s hair whips the side, her head tilting toward me as she’s flung into the nearby wall and pinned there. A few vials crash to the ground, some sizzling on the wooden floor as the liquid spills out, seeping over tiny shards of glass. Tapping into the powers of her has aided me since our merge. I shouldn’t do it, I should pretend she doesn’t exist, but sometimes her power is hard to resist. Especially when it comes with its own set of benefits.
“What are you doing?” Tember snarls, her lip curled as she struggles against the wall she’s pinned against. She glances up at me, her narrowed eyes now wide with shock.
I stalk in her direction, heavy footsteps against the wood floor echoing throughout the small room. “What are you?” I growl, my hand still suspended in the air, holding her in place.
“I’m not anything.” Her voice is dead, void of emotion, causing disbelieving thoughts to form in my head. “Your eyes . . .” she comments, double blinking, “have they always done that?”
“Bullshit.” The word comes from deep in my throat, resembling a deep baritone. I ignore her question, demanding answers instead. “Tell me what you are.”
She glares at me, a challenge in her stare, and completely unaltered by my hostile attitude. “I’m human.”
I scoff, shaking my head in a slow motion. Does she really expect me to believe this? The evidence glowing inside that red crystal says otherwise. “A human would never say that.” Shifting my head, I point it in the direction of the crystal before returning my darkened, glowing eyes to her. “My handy supernatural detector says you’re not. Tell me, or I’ll provide you with a one-way ticket to hell.”
Steady now, she says. My nose twitches at her order but
I take a calming breath anyway.
Tember’s glare remains the same, blatant and unfearful. I take a step closer, a few inches from her face, hoping to scare her enough to speak the words I ask. I should have known better, to take a step closer. I should have kept the distance. Judgment has never been my strong suit.
The whites and color of her eyes disappear, replaced with one solid shade of bright gold. The color glows until it’s blinding enough that I have to squint. It creates a circling halo around her head and her face remains angelic as she reaches forward. Her lips apply pressure against mine and my eyes grow wide. I force them to remain open, shock crossing my features.
My skin quivers, a light gold glow seeps out of my pores and straight into hers. The sensation is caressing, like a lover’s gentle touch, feather-light and raises goosebumps on my skin. Guilt fills my soul, rolling my insides, consuming me with such an overwhelming and misplaced fault. Revulsion swirls in the pit of my stomach, self-loathing the cause. My face relaxes, my features return to more human than otherworldly as the energy leaves my body.
I’m drowning. I’m drowning in a pit of sorrow and self-loathing.
Resist, she orders.
Her words are enough to cause coherent thoughts, like she replaced my own subconscious with her voice. My hand drops to my side, breaking the hold on Tember. I rip my lips from hers, a grimace on my face, angry despite the lingering effects of doubt and guilt that remains. Stumbling back, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand using more force than necessary, keeping my eyes on her.
Angel, she whispers, providing me with the answers I need. A creation of Fee Erma.
“You’re an angel,” I growl, my fingers balling into fists. I resist the urge to spit on my clean floor, wanting to dispel the last effects of the lip-lock. “That was the Angel’s Kiss.”
An Angel’s Kiss is meant to fill its victims with so much self-doubt that for a human, it takes but one peck to be suicidal. It’s a useful tool for the angels, but I’ve only ever heard about it.
Angels aren’t always filled with light. They can be either trustworthy or untrustworthy. Most are known to be propelled by their own wants and desires. It’s better to be leery of them, even if they seem to have good intentions. They’re immortal, living for hundreds of years unless someone manages to kill them. It is said they wear their heart on their sleeve. I wonder if that’s metaphorical. How old is this angel standing before me?
Tember’s hands are placed on her knees, bent over and breathing deep while peeking at me through her curls fanned across her face. Her eyes dim back to their normal blue, but she doesn’t answer my statement.
“I’ve never met an angel.” I stand up straight and wipe my mouth one more time. My eyes narrow and my chin juts to the side. “What do you want?”
She straightens her spine and stands to her full height, the poncho crackles as she moves. Her shoulders still rising and falling, she answers in huffed breaths, “You shouldn’t be that strong. Your eyes shouldn’t glow.” She pauses until her eyes narrow just as mine. “What have you done?”
I square my shoulders my mind working at frantic pace, grasping for a lie—any lie. “I haven’t done anything.”
She takes a step forward. “Is this why your coven disowned you?”
I double blink, the narrowing of my eyes relaxing and crease-free. “How do—”
A snarl rips from the throat, cutting me off, “How do I know? You’re my charge, Kat.”
Chewing the inside of my lip, I think this over. If she’s my Guardian, why wasn’t she looking out for me when I was in those woods? When I was making a deal that altered my life and connected me to another soul—a beast? “Where are your wings?” I blurt.
Crossing her arms, she answers quickly with a clipped tone, “Disposed of.”
“You clipped your wings?” Why would an angel dispose of the only thing that can take them home? What could she possibly be doing here? I’ve never heard of an angel willingly clipping her wings.
She ignores me, consider my choice of clothes. “You’re vulnerable, Kat. The least you can do is dress less conspicuous. Try not to stand out . . .”
I follow her eyes down to my holey skinny jeans. They disappear into ankle length, front tying leather boots. My shit-kickers, I like to call them. To match the pants, I’m wearing a black, almost see through sleeveless shirt, my tattoo-covered arms visible and complimenting the outfit. I thought I had chosen well, but I’ve always had a twisted sense of fashion.
She’s right. Most witches remain off the radar, never displaying any kind of show for attention. Anything to keep us from wandering eyes and curious ears that could end with burning our bodies to a crisp against a wooden post. My mother—and most of the coven—wear dresses, and boring ones at that. Outfits no one would give a second glance to, often in bland colors. Hide your nature, my mother would always say, the double meaning never alluding me.
I lift my head to her, my expression blank. What I wear is nobody’s business, not even my angel’s. “You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?”
Her stare remains unwavering, blinking only when necessary. The pause in her response makes me nervous and I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I’m here for you, Kat. You’ll give me a job so I can watch over you.”
I internally buck against her order. This woman has balls, demanding things of me as if I’m a child in need of guidance. “Why?”
Tember leans against the wall she was just pinned against, keeping her arms folded over her chest. “The only person I know of who had glowing neon eyes was Myla. Do you know who Myla is?”
I look away from her, the guilt returning and riding my back like a rodeo queen.
“That’s what I thought.” She pushes off the wall with her shoulder and walks to me, grabbing my chin in her hands and forcing my eyes to meet hers. She searches their depths and I feel Myla surface through my eyes. Tember glares. “What have you done, Kat,” she accuses me.
I rip my head from her grasp and divert the question with a rude tone. “Do you have anywhere to stay?”
Tember’s jaw ticks before she answers, “No.”
“I live upstairs,” I begin.
“I know.”
I clear my throat, her tension stifling. I feel like I’m being berated by my mother. “There’s a guest bedroom that never gets used.”
She nods her head once, understanding the meaning behind my words. Even I know a wingless angel can’t walk the street. After all, she can’t go home. “The room won’t be necessary—I don’t sleep.”
DYSON COLEMAN
DEATH REALM
Without purpose, I kick a stray stone as I walk the large path, my hands folded behind my back and my face downcast. It’s paved with white, worn bricks, just like the walls rising up the sides, towering over until you can no longer see them. They’re filled with windowless rooms for the dead. The path is large enough to hold several vehicles, but there’s nothing of the sort here.
I’m a tinkerer. I keep my hands busy. Or I used to, anyway. With nothing here, I have no purpose. I walk the streets, aimlessly, my thoughts constantly switching to my previous life.
The Death Realm is a city built of stone. There are endless rows of buildings that look like they to belong to the medieval time period. I snort, finding it fitting. A cruel leader and a void-of-any-emotion Realm.
Several shades pass me, a few nodding their heads while others ignore all that’s around them.
Up the way, I see shades held in Electro-Triangles—a torture device that holds shades inside, tormenting them with painful electricity bolts. It’s what Chad was referring to—how the vampires have other ways to get to us.
Their moan of pain is constant, their expressions twisted with agony. Vampires lean against a wall, their arms folded, as they watch with intense interest and sickening fascination. I don’t know what these shades are being punished for, but Kheelan, the Fee of this realm, often doesn’t have one. He lets his v
ampires do what they want, and punishments are delivered for the simplest of crimes or sometimes just for the sick satisfaction that they can punish without cause.
I continue what I’m doing, aimlessly roaming about and kicking stray pebbles fallen from the crumbling walls, while ignoring the torture just up the way. Hatred fills me, but I try desperately to shove it aside. This isn’t right. This isn’t what death should be like.
The stone under my feet should grit against my shoe. My body is ready, prepared, for the subtle vibrations, but it never comes. At least I can still smell. The air is perfumed with a musky scent, like moss or mold and no breeze helps carry it away.
Filling my thoughts with my wolf, I try to convince him to see reason. I can feel him huddled in a ball inside me and every time I try to coax some response, I get nothing. No perking of the ears, no clawing at my insides, no emotion. It’s like he’s trying not to exist. Being a wolf-shifter, it’s hard for me when my other half shows no interest in his existence, even in the afterlife.
A hand is placed on my shoulder the same moment words reach my ears. “Dyson?” a nervous, feminine voice says.
I turn around, my shoes making no noise against the rough surface. When you’re a shade, passing through things, being soundless, comes naturally.
Jane and Tanya stand there, their teeth showing through wide smiles. They look at the punishment happening behind me, those smiles wavering for a split second before forcing it to return. I quirk an eyebrow at Jane before settling my eyes on Tanya.
Taking my hands from behind my back, I place them on my hips before nervously looking around. “How’d it go?”
“Can we,“ she glances around, “can we talk somewhere private?”
I nod once, feeling a bit relieved to walk away from the sight behind me. “Yeah. Jane? Your room is close by. Do you mind?”
Jane nods and turns on her yellow sock-covered heel. We follow her a few feet before she steps right, her body passing right through a wall. Tanya follows, and I, after.
