Reborn

by D. Fischer

  Behind me, I hear voices muttered, the tone thick with anger. I look at the girls once more before seeking out the voices.

  There, in the kitchen, stands Myla—her hands clenched at her sides, dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown that reaches the floor. A spell book is open on the table, while she glares at Erline. It’s hard for me to look at anything but Erline—her presence seems to take up the entire space, even if she’s a small, slender woman. She’s exactly as I remember her. Her long blond hair reaches her knees, matching the flow of her dress that ripples even without a twitch of wind.

  “He hasn’t been back for two months, Mother. It’s time to fake his death. You know how humans can get. They’re already suspicious. It’s as we feared—the witch trials are going to begin. If they think anything untoward is going on—” Myla blows out a breath, fanning the strand of hair dangling in front of her face.

  Erline folds her hands in front of her, patience wearing thin. “My darling. You know how different the times are in each realm. He’s a Fee in charge of boisterous demons. Something is surely occupying his time. Be patient.”

  Myla slams her fist on the table. “He’s never been gone this long. He’s abandoned us. Abandoned me.” She paces the small quarters of the kitchen, her fingers shaking at her sides. “I should have never listened to you. I should have married Joseph.”

  “My daughter would never have married a stable boy!” Erline shouts, unclasping her hands and slamming one on the wooden table. She takes a deep breath, working to calm herself as the flames from the candles quiver. She forces herself to keep her tone soft, dipping her chin just so, as if that would help pinch her voice to a quieter tone. “This was an arranged marriage for a reason, Myla. He was promised to you by your father before you were born. It was out of my hands. Someone as strong as yourself can’t marry a simple human.” Erline straightens her dress. “I will travel to the Demon Realm and see what’s holding your lover’s attention. This discussion is over. You will wait until I return to take any farther action. Do not be a fool.”

  Without waiting for a response, she conjures wind inside the tiny space. It swirls around her, the flames of the candles left untouched but Myla’s hair whips about. As the winds pick up speed around Erline, she disappears, fading inside it.

  Myla releases a frustrated growl. Magic sparks crackle in the air, so thick I can taste it against the buds along my tongue, and the flames flare before flicking out of life, sending the kitchen into darkness.

  She stalks from the room, but I remain where I’m at, confusion clogging my thoughts as my eyes flick about the room with aimless abandon. I pause at the tiny window, a figure catching my attention.

  Outside the window is a set of eyes, the expression on the face of the eye’s owner is wide and wrinkled with stress. Long hair covers half his face smudged with soot. Dumbstruck and full of fear, I watch as the peeper shakes his head in quick motions and runs from the window, fear driving his purpose.

  AIDEN VANDER

  EARTH REALM

  I float into the air, Jane watching as some sort of invisible force lifts me. I’m transparent, just like she is. A ghost. A shell of my once life. Dead. A shade floating along the Earth.

  My stomach heaves as my feet settle to the concrete behind Jane, seeing my bleeding body against the ground, my lifeless, unseeing eyes wide open. The skin around my face is relaxed—my body no longer looks like it’s me.

  The clouds open, rain dropping sheets in a heavy flow, passing through me as if I’m not standing here. Have I ceased to exist? Or could it be possible there is something more for me on the other side?

  I hold my arm out, watching the beads of liquid pass through. My eyes move to the concrete, a red river streaming past my shell of a body. I watch it for a moment, fascinated that one body could hold so much liquid. And yet, that liquid is the only thing that kept me alive. Now, it trickles like a creek down the slopes of rock, searching for a new place to call home.

  Jane stands, slowly at first, before she takes careful, considering steps in my direction. “Aiden?” My eyes flick to hers but my head remains downcast. “Ready?” she asks, her hand held out for me to grasp.

  Glancing once more at the river of red, I take her hand in mine. We walk down the alley and vanish as sirens wail in the distance.

  Help is coming. Help is too late.

  ELIZA PLAATS

  EARTH REALM

  My feet slap against the wet pavement. The hospital parking lot is nearly empty, most of the employees have long since left. The glowing hospital sign behind me lights my way, shining the beaded raindrops across the surface of my car.

  Fumbling inside my purse, I silently curse as I shove the objects inside about before my fingers touch the tip of jagged metal—my keys. A shout behind me draws my attention and I whirl around off kilter.

  “Dr. Plaats?” a nurse calls. Her long brown ponytail weaves from side to side and her tennis shoes smack against the wet cement as she runs to me, like the slapping of naked skin. “There’s an incoming trauma.” She huffs out the air from her short sprint. “Surgical.”

  As the on-call doctor for the night, it’s my job to see to the E.R. My bones ache and my muscles quiver from exhaustion, but adrenaline consumes my blood pumping through each vein. I had just finished with the last incoming trauma, checking on the patient in the recovery wing before I left for the night. It would seem sleep won’t come as soon as I hoped.

  Being a doctor can have the greatest reward, or the lowest. Either way, it doesn’t stop my adrenal glands from releasing this addictive hormone through my body. It’s the fight or flight response. I choose to fight. I choose to save a life. I choose my addiction.

  Dropping my keys back inside, I throw my purse back over my shoulder and jog with her to the sliding doors of the E.R. entrance. They open just as the ambulance pulls into the cul-de-sac, its sirens wailing and the cubed lights flashing on the roof. My heart races, excitement and slight fear forming in my chest. A few more faceless nurses exit the building. One grabs my purse and fits me with gloves and a yellow plastic trauma gown.

  As we reach the back of the ambulance, the driver, dressed in the standard issue white button-down shirt and black slacks, opens the back, giving me the full report. “Patient’s name is Aiden Vander. Age thirty-one. Stab wound to the chest. He’s been unresponsive since we arrived on the scene.” The driver glances at me, sorrow pinching his eyes.

  Thirty-one—such a young age to die, but it’s my job to try and bring back the life. It’s a challenge I’m willing to take, or at least try.

  The response team wheels the patient from the back of the ambulance to the ground after lowering the wheels. “We haven’t been able to get a heartbeat.”

  I nod to him. “Well, seeing as the knife is poking out of his chest where his heart is, I’d guess that’s the cause of the problem,” I mumble in full sarcasm.

  The ambulance driver snarls, his nerves already raw. “There’s no need to get snippy, doctor.”

  We rush inside, the wheels squeak in tune with the sliding glass doors, until we are bathed in warmth from inside the building. The team and I rush to the first examination room available, a nurse already there flipping on the lights and machines.

  I glance at the victim, tilting my head to the side to get the full profile, while someone ties my gown around my back. A matte black handle pokes out of his chest and his skin and shirt is covered in blood and rain. Surrounding the entrance of the knife, a few strands of his hooded sweatshirt is frayed. Blood dribbles from the side of his lips, the edges of the red droplets dried at the square point of his jaw. He’s handsome and young. Surely, he has loved ones depending on his survival. At this point, however, it would take a miracle.

  A nurse connects the heart monitor while another hands me the paddles. I glance at the monitor showing no heartbeat, and my heart drops to the floor in fear. This knife has claimed its victim. No amount of medical practice will save this man.

 
CHAPTER SEVEN

  ELIZA PLAATS

  EARTH REALM

  “Is there family?” I ask the nurse. Her fingers click against the keyboard as she records the time of death. Her attitude is detached, as if this is an everyday occurrence. I suppose it is for her. I don’t often work in the E.R., but she does.

  Her fingers pause their march and her head swivels toward me. “No family. The police had already checked. There’s a guy from his gym though.”

  Death doesn’t scare me anymore. I stare at this man, a man the same age as me, and I see a shell. It’s a shell that once held a soul, a being, and now . . . nothing. Death is unpredictable, it’s a fear everyone should have. He could have had a life, one worth living. Instead, his prize for trying to live before he could really live, is death.

  Guilt rides me like a horse. Is there more I could have done? If he had arrived minutes earlier, could I have saved him?

  Blame starts forming in my thoughts where it shouldn’t. This is nobody’s fault but the person who put that knife there in the first place. People are wicked—nobody deserves to have their life taken from them. The only thing keeping me from slipping over the edge is that possibly, just possibly, he’s in a better place.

  I place my hand over his, my small fingers giving condolences for the life lost, in hopes that he can see me somewhere, showing him affection in the best way I know how. This man died alone and quite possibly scared. The least I can do is show his spirit compassion.

  He’s a large man, and even through his blood-soaked sweatshirt, I can see he took good care of his body and health. For the life of me, I can’t fathom why he has no one. Was he too consumed with his career? Did he simply choose this life? I’ll never know. His future is now gone from him. A lump forms in my throat—it’s never easy to lose a life, especially if that life was under the care of my capable and well-trained hands.

  Removing my hand, I walk to the edge of the bed, unfolding the white blanket that lies there. Carefully, I spread the sheet over him, and just before I cover his face, I steal one more glance.

  “You heading out?” the nurse asks, breaking me from this trance.

  “Yeah,” I mumble while smoothing out the wrinkles from the blanket.

  She shifts her body to me, the wheels on the stool protesting the movement. “Good. Get some rest, Dr. Plaats.”

  Nodding, I stretch my neck, and without a backward glance, I exit the room. My purse lay on the nurses’ station counter and I wrap my fingers around the handle. My emotions are raw and exposed, and my conscious desperately tries to block the emotional pain. This isn’t my first encounter with death, and sadly, I know, it won’t be my last.

  Placing one foot in front of the other, I head farther away from the E.R., back to home, with the intent of sleep.

  Tomorrow will be better, I promise myself.

  KATRIANE DUPONT

  EARTH REALM

  Just beyond Myla’s living room window, I am standing outside the home taking in the scene before me. My brain feels like it has a case of whiplash and every muscle I have is tense with fear.

  The city is in chaos, people are screaming and running in aimless, haphazard actions as they seek shelter from the threat that plagues their town. Vampires rush to their next victim, throwing them against trees, against homes, until the human lays lifeless. Blood, debris, even limbs, scatter the night’s ground.

  A scream erupts just behind me and I swivel, watching a vampire pierce the neck of a helpless man, blood soaking the fur-hemmed cape along his shoulders. He struggles against the vampire, attempting to dislodge his teeth, but it’s too late—his movements slow and the life leaves his eyes.

  My breath comes fast, my heart pumping so hard that I’m sure the vampires would hear it if I were actually here.

  Voices come from inside Myla’s home, and I turn back to the window with a jerky twirl. Myla is kneeling next to her twins, speaking to them in a soft but rushed tone. “Stay here,” she says. “Don’t open the doors, don’t let anyone inside. Do you understand?”

  Their tiny blond heads bobble as they clutch their dollies for comfort. Myla nods, satisfied that they understand, and rushes toward the front door. She swings it open and it bangs against the wall inside; she steps through and closes it before she’s noticed.

  A vampire approaches her, but she raises her hand, fingers curled like cuffs. The vampire is lifted into the air, his feet dangling and blood-tinged spittle squirts from his mouth as he hisses at her.

  Myla sneers in return, a frightening menace dipping her eyebrows and lifting her top lip to expose her teeth. She lifts her other hand, making a grabbing motion before yanking her arm back. The vampire shrieks before his heart is ripped from his chest. The black organ drops to the grass with a thud.

  I watch the slick heart, my brain refusing to comprehend what I’ve just witnessed. The vampire’s ash falls to the grass next to it before the heart itself turns to the same glittering black dust.

  Myla continues to stand next to her door like a guard dog, surely to protect her children. Where is Corbin? Why isn’t he here protecting her? And Erline?

  Hearing the shriek of their now dead vampire brother, the remaining vampires whip their heads in Myla’s direction, blood red eyes set on her figure. They zone in on the new threat. Or perhaps . . . perhaps this is the reason they’re here. Why else would they choose this village? What does it hold for them?

  Maybe there’s no such thing as a coincidence. After all, vampires were set about the Earth to find Myla in the first place. Could this be a simple vampire feeding? I think not.

  Low hisses and guttural rumbles spill past their dripping fangs. The unnatural sound fills the night air, easily surpassing the screams of pain, and raise goosebumps across my arms. They charge from all directions, their speed legendary, almost a blur. My hand flies to my chest. Is this how she died? “Myla!” I scream in warning even though I know I won’t be heard.

  As her name rips through my throat, it’s cut short, my eyes not believing what they’re seeing. Her skin quivers and ripples beneath the surface. A cloud of smoke spills from her nostrils like a fog machine on Halloween night. Her eyes glow the brightest of neon orange, and black, glimmering scales begin to slice through her skin from the inside out. It looks excruciating but she gives no indication of the pain. She grows, her body completely transformed into a beast of legends, until she’s as tall as her house.

  “A dragon,” I breathe through clenched teeth. I knew she was a dragon. After all, this is the form of Myla that Erline had resurrected and inserted inside me. But the shock of seeing it first-hand . . .

  She stands on all fours in magnified glory. I marvel at her. Each muscle twitches and flexes, an atonement to her strength. Every movement she makes, no matter how minor, causes a wave, a ripple, under her scales.

  Her black wings look like they belong to an overgrown bat. They’re leathery but sleek, and her scales shine so bright in the moonlight that they almost look wet. Spikes, like the fins along the spine of a fish, web throughout her back and head. Rows of sharp razor teeth chomp, saliva stringing from the top teeth to the bottom, as she opens her muzzle before shaking her head. The spikes wave as her head does and the muscles contract and expand along her shoulder as she picks up a large claw and smashes a vampire. I double blink, the vampire now a pile of ash. She crushed it like it was nothing but one of the many leaves scattered about the grass—as if the vampire wasn’t made of bones and rotting flesh.

  The roar that escapes Myla’s mouth is deafening, and I cover my ears with a cringe. Her muscles shake with the effort to produce it, each scale waving like the ocean as her neck expands. Her spiked tail whips to the side, and she draws in a breath, her rib cage increasing in size and glowing with bellowing fire from within. She releases the breath and a stream of flames spout from her mouth, aimed directly at the shocked vampires.

  The heat is excruciating, I can feel it licking my skin and flattening my goosebumps. I back up several
feet, bumping into the side of the house to escape it.

  Myla’s dragon roars again before I have a chance to recover from the first one. The sound mixes with the screams of her victims, echoing off each house. My heart pounds, fear wracking my body causing me to quiver.

  This beast seems untamable, bent on destruction. I briefly wonder if Myla has control here, or if the beast is the one in the driver seat. For the first time, I fear the dragon and the power it holds. What if I can’t control it? What if it destroys everything, like my mother said it might?

  Before I can cover my ears, it fades, the dream transforming once more.

  My heart pounds, refusing to back down from its fear. I struggle with wanting to run, to hide, even though I stand in the corner of the gallows’ prison cells.

  Moonlight filters in through the cracks in the wood floor above, the roped nooses dangle in a slight breeze. Ruckus and shouts erupt the night as chanting, “Kill the witch,” is repeated. I peek between the poorly built bars, the town’s citizens gathered in the center.

  I ignore them, and instead, turn my attention back to Myla, watching her pace the dirt inside the cell. I’m leery of her, untrusting of the beast she is. How did she transform back? Did she kill every vampire? Did the dragon kill any innocents?

  She fidgets with the cuffs of her dress, busying her fingers. Her eyes flick about in fear matching my own. Does she fear the humans as much I fear her right now? She’s a dragon—why isn’t she breaking out of this prison? Death will surely follow her. There’s no way every citizen didn’t witness her second form.

  Hands slam into the bar beside me, fingers wrapping around the iron and I jump, my nerves raw. My hand flies to my heart and a tiny squeak escapes my lips.