by D. Fischer
I take a step forward, my legs shaking beneath me. I take another, a twig I can’t see breaks beneath my bare foot.
“Hello?” I call, my voice barely above a whisper.
He tilts his head back, slowly at first, until his eyes meet mine. I gasp, his beauty strikes me, breaks my heart and puts it back together once more. I stop my advance. He’s beautiful. Breathtaking. Innocence behind a steel mask. The dead man I saw in the E.R. is transformed, life seeming to fill his body, striking me to the very spot I stand. I had just mourned this stranger, and now here he is, in full view.
A square jaw, a straight nose, bright blue eyes that illuminate the fog around him. The blue pools so vivid, yet so void of life. I get lost in them, only for a moment, letting those almond-shaped spheres swallow me whole. He blinks, his long lashes brushing his cheekbone, and something in them transforms. The edges less harsh, curiosity or confusion replacing that steel.
Luscious red lips twitch and my eyes flick to them, zoning in as my mind comes up with images and fantasies on its own accord. I shake my head, clearing the direction of my thoughts, and instead, marvel at the idea of him standing before me.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
His eyes soften at the sound of my voice. He tilts his head to the side and his lips part slightly.
My breaths come in harsh gasps, my lungs force the air out without accepting passage for new oxygen to flow in. A weight, a construction forces itself around my rib cage. A fine sweat dribbles down my spine and my hands cup my throat as I fight to inhale.
I glance at him one more time. Such sorrow sketched in his brows, his mouth, the depths of those vivid blues. Stars speckle my vision, blooming to larger, bright circles before I’m pulled from the fog and he fades with it.
*****
I bolt upright in bed, clenching my sheets as if they’re the only thing holding me to Earth. My eyes fly open, my chest rises and falls. Images of my dream flash before me.
Where was I? The fog—that was no dream. I felt it. Even now I still feel the chill of its swirls against my arms, raising the hairs on my body, peppering tiny bumps across my skin.
I push my hair back from my sweaty forehead, glancing at my sheets but seeing nothing except for him. I replay the encounter in my dream over and over. At the end, it seemed like he was going to say something. What was on the edge of that tongue?
He was a stranger, my dead patient, but I felt as though I’ve known him my whole life. Is this residual grief? My mind has to be playing tricks on me.
I climb out of bed, cross my room to the hallway, and enter the bathroom before flicking on the lights. I stare at myself in the mirror, both eyes searching the reasoning for such a dream. My messy red hair looks like a bird’s nest.
What was that place? Where did my subconscious take me? Though I’ve trained my brain to work on the logical side of things—the scientific side—I refuse to accept that it was a dream. It felt so real.
Before the swirling fog, I was dreaming of my mom. It had been a memory of when I was young. She’d taken me to a field of flowers and I’d pick them by the handfuls, just for her. She’d lift them to her nose and smile with delight. Such cherished memories, but my dreams taint them, taunt me, remind me of what I no longer have.
I turn on the faucet, check the temperature, and cup the flow in my hands. After splashing my face, my fingers fumble blindly for the hand towel before I grasp it and pat my face dry. I take a deep breath, look once more in the mirror at the lonely, broken person who dreams of mysteriously gorgeous and declared dead men, and flick off the light.
My footsteps are soft against the carpet as I walk through my dark apartment. I plop myself onto my leather couch and cover my legs with the plush throw blanket.
Snuggling into the cushion, I turn my head and stare blankly at my plain white wall. No pictures hang there for me to gaze upon. My life is empty. No memories fill the four walls that hold the roof over my head. Could this be why I dream so vividly of the dead? After all, I can’t help but compare my life to my deceased patient’s. He had no one, just like me. Yes. Yes, this is the reason my mind played tricks on me.
In fluttered spurts, my eyelids rise and fall, each time a little more so than the last, until I’m plunged into sleep.
KATRIANE DUPONT
MYLA’S PAST
I follow Corbin down a tiny hallway to the first door on the right. The hallway is dark and narrow. No lights to brighten our path. I slide my hand along the wooden wall out of habit, a few slivers of wood breaking free against my fingertips. Corbin opens the door, the hinges creaking as he does so. “This was our bedroom,” he explains. A charming grin crossing his lips, displaying impossibly white teeth. His eyes shine a bright green, making me pause in entering the dimly lit room.
I lean a little closer to his face. “Your eyes—they have color.” Fee have pitch-black eyes. How does he not?
A chuckle rumbles inside his chest. “Glamour, little witch. Glamour.”
Blinking, I roll my eyes under my lids. Of course it’s glamour. How else would he fit into this realm?
Sniffing, I enter the small space that was once a bedroom shared between husband and wife. My finger trails along a large wooden chest with leather and brass décor riddled throughout, before I turn back to him. “You don’t seem sad about your wife’s death.”
A perfect eyebrow raises on his forehead. “Observant,” he mumbles. He straightens his cape around his neck. “You are correct. I’m not upset.”
My head cocks to the side, disbelief narrowing my eyes. “Why?”
His hand falls back to his side and he takes a step closer to me. He’s intimidating. Perhaps it’s because he controls the legends of nightmares, but his cocky attitude, his charming presences . . . it’s as if he knows what makes a woman tick. That’s frightening all on its own.
“What dies is never dead,” he murmurs.
I blink a few times at him, questions forming in my head. “And you know this . . . how?” He shrugs, his lips tilting downward before the grin returns. “You enjoy mind-games, don’t you?”
He laughs. It’s throaty and musical all at once. “Yes,” he answers simply.
“Well, let’s not make me a game.” I square my shoulders. “I plan to leave here, but I need a few items.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Pray tell, what is your plan, daughter’s daughter of my daughter?”
“Create a portal.” I turn back to the chest, admiring the leather’s detailed design, stroking it with my pointer finger and imagining what sort of tools they used to make such a masterpiece.
I look back at him. “Surely it can bring me back to my time period.”
Shaking his head, he lowers his chin with each swipe to the side, glancing at me from under his lashes. “That won’t work.”
I cross my arms, kicking a foot out in a defiant stance. “And why not?”
His head jiggles at my flippant attitude. He’s enjoying himself. “Two of you cannot be in the same time period. You must return to your body. It’s impossible for you to return until the spell you’re under is reversed.”
My hands fall to my sides. “Spell? This is a spell?”
“Yes.”
I bring a trembling hand to my lips. “By whom? Who would do such a thing?”
“The only one who is capable. Sureen.” He crosses his arms.
Why would the Fee of the Dream Realm have any interest in me? I’ve never even met her. Is that why I was having dreams of Myla’s memories? Did someone manipulate them? My eyes narrow as I come to one conclusion.
Right now, the only constant in my life is Tember, and she’s constantly suspicious of my life and the secrets within it. If she was sent here for answers, she’d be bold enough to go digging herself.
A sandman manipulates dreams. If Tember convinced one to alter my sleeping state, chances are, Sureen found out about it, and took her wrath out on me.
I should have never trusted an angel. I knew better.
&n
bsp; “So, I could be stuck here forever?” I murmur.
Rocking back on his heels, he smirks. “Yes.”
TEMBER
EARTH REALM
It’s noon and she has yet to move. At least she’s breathing. Yes. She’s alive.
There’s only one thing left to do.
I walk to the living room. Pressure begins in my head, my eyes brightening as the halo forms around it. My vision is different this way. Minute details are visible—tiny mote specks, imperfections along Kat’s skin, the specks of dirt hiding along the crevices of the bedroom wall spackle. I watch for a moment as my halo circles my head in slow motion, the sun coming through the window reflecting against it. It can’t compete with the supernatural anomaly, bouncing off like it would a mirror and lighting the walls with a brilliant glow.
“Erma,” I shout to the spackled ceiling of Kat’s living room. My hair falls from my shoulders, tickling the small of my back. “Erma!” This is the only way angels can call our creator is if we show our true nature.
Wings or not, I still hold all the gifts bestowed upon me. I may not be able to return home, but I can still preform the Kiss, call upon Ire, my bow and arrow, and I can summon my maker. My wings were what made me who I am, but I’ll be damned if I cower in a corner while my charge suffers a fate I know nothing about.
A glow of light—the same color as our halos, blindingly bright—forms in the middle of the living room. It’s small at first until it grows, similar to Kat’s portals. The air doesn’t swirl or disturb, but every noise, no matter how small, is deafened.
Her foot is visible first, before Erma walks through the portal like she’s stepping down a flight of stairs. As soon as she’s through the circle, it disappears, and the everyday life noises return. I find it a small and previously unnoticeable relief.
Erma glances around, bewildered, until her eyes rest on me. “Tember,” she coos, a smile spreading across her beautiful face.
She holds out her arms, takes the few steps in my direction, and folds me into a lover’s embrace. She’s shorter than I and smells of sweet chocolate, just as I remembered. Though it’s only been a few days, it feels like it’s been years since I last held her.
I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her soft red hair. Breathing in her scent, I calm my emotionally raw and guilt-filled nerves.
Her fingers roam my back before she stiffens. “Tember . . . where are your wings?”
I freeze and swallow, the sound auditable as my nervous energy returns. I hadn’t thought of what her reaction would be once she found out, and the excuse I’d give in return. She pulls back from our embrace, anger dipping her eyebrows toward her black eyes.
“I had to remove them. It was important to blend in.”
Her eyes widen and her lips part. “Tember, if you remove them, they don’t grow back. You’ll be stuck in Erline’s Realm.”
My toes curl inside my shoes, causing the skin to pinch along my feet. “I know.”
Her fists clench and unclench. “You . . .” she looks me up and down, disbelief thick in her voice, “you sacrificed your wings—your home, me—to protect your charge?”
I square my shoulders and stiffen my neck. It seems I’m not the only one with selfish intentions. “Yes.” My tone is even and not up for negotiations.
The deed is done. I sacrificed who I am, the very essence that makes me an angel, for the better of the realms. Kat is the better of the realms. I didn’t realize how much until I selfishly inserted myself into her life, using her as a tool. I became the sort of angel I despise, dipping my toes into the dark side.
“What have you done,” she growls, her fists slamming to her sides.
I point at her, my eyes narrowing. “This is bigger than my wings, Erma. We have a problem.”
Her face softens, but the steel is still etched across her eyes. “What could possibly be a bigger problem than the loss of your wings? Of your home? Of me?”
Hesitating, but refusing to back down, I keep my eyes focused on hers. “Myla.”
She frowns, glancing at my torso. “Myla?” Her eyes return to mine. “Erline’s daughter? What about her? She’s dead.”
I shake my head. “She isn’t. Myla and Kat are one in the same.”
Erma takes a step back, her anger disappearing, replaced with shock. “T-that can’t be.” She begins to stutter and glance around the room as if Myla herself will walk around the corner and unleash her almighty smite we’ve all heard about. “How?”
My body relaxes as the focus shifts from me to my charge. “Katriane made a deal with Erline to save her coven. Erline brought back her daughter’s beast—the dragon. The dragon lives inside her and at points, takes over control. Though I’m not sure how true that is anymore.”
Erma watches me for a moment, her mind working as quickly as the ticking of her jaw. “She would have had to keep her daughter’s spirit from the Death Realm. Does she realize the consequence of that? Is this why Kheelan has left vampires here? They’ll find her, but not before they continue to wreak havoc on this town. Surely Kheelan has felt her return.”
My head shifts as I glance away from Erma’s gaze. “They already have,” I mumble. “Myla and Kat destroyed them.” I turn my head back to her. “That’s not the only problem. The realms have shifted far more than we realized.”
Erma sighs, her shoulders sagging in defeat. She walks over to the couch and gingerly sits on it, like it’s full of Earthly diseases. “Do tell.”
“Her sandman. I asked him to replace Kat’s dreams with Myla’s memories.” I sit down next to her.
Shifting her body to mine, her face remains calm though I know it’s anything but. “Do you realize the consciousness of that action?”
My voice lowers to a whisper, “I do now.” I clear my throat. “He was feeling emotions and it alerted Sureen. This last time, she came and retrieved her sandman, but not before she released her wrath.”
Erma glares at me, shifting her body closer to mine in a challenging gesture. “Tember, you know how vengeful Sureen is. Do you have any idea what she’s doing to her sandman right now? Do you know how she pulls the emotions from her creations?”
I hold up a hand, stopping her from going further with her chastising. “I’m sure I can imagine. That isn’t the problem right now,” I repeat, lowering my hand to my lap. My knowledge of Sureen and her realm is limited. “I can’t wake Kat.”
Erma’s body remains still, her eyes unblinking, watching me as she connects the pieces. Her eyelids begin to squint in a glare and she slowly stands, facing me with her full force of anger. “You should have consulted me on this, Tember. Sureen is known for her sleeping spells.”
My face relaxes and I take a deep breath. “So, she’s just sleeping? Good. All we have to do is figure out how to wake her.”
The growl that begins in her chest is so low and threatening it startles me. It would make a lion proud as it rumbles from her chest and spills out those perfectly plump red lips. Erma has never spoken to me this way. “You don’t understand. Her spell sends the dreamer into a reality. Where ever Kat’s dream was, that is where Kat is, in full corporal body.”
I freeze, unblinking, staring at her with complete shock. My heart beats faster as my mind works to convince me that Erma’s words are false. “I don’t know where her dreams take her. I never asked Kat the exact location of her dreams – I was waiting to ask those questions until Kat worked them out herself. I never asked the sandman. I only instructed him to bring light to Myla’s memories.”
She lowers her torso, bending her hips and leaning toward me with menace. “Where ever it is, it’s back in the 1600s when Myla was still alive. You’ve sent a witch back to the era when witch trials just began.”
Gulping, my hand flies to my mouth and I lean back into the couch with more force than necessary. My eyes wildly search the living room, as if the shelves and furniture hold the answers I need. “What do we do?”
“Erline,” Erma mumbles,
but she’s not talking to me. She’s calling her fellow sister. They rarely do this—call upon each other. Fee cease to get along, which is why there isn’t a realm full of them. They’d destroy it within minutes of being placed there.
Curls bounce as my head whips back to hers. Forceful winds pick up inside the tiny space of the apartment, announcing the incoming arrival of Erline.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DYSON COLEMAN
THE TWEEN
Leaning against the rough bark of a tree, I rub the back of my neck with stiff fingers. The pressure reminds me of my death. To have a rope painfully constricting around my neck, hung and dangling from a tree similar to the one against my back, and my lungs fighting for a sliver of air. I remember the rogue wolf-shifter’s faces as they watched with wonder, like watching someone struggle for oxygen—for life—was the most fascinating thing of the century.
Their eyes were wide, unblinking, their lips parted in awe. I remember the burn of my lungs, the chafing of the thick, rough strands weaving the rope together. The black that consumed my vision, erasing all my thoughts and feelings. Stealing my life. Their profiles are what I remember most, though. Every fine detail along their face, every muscle tick under their skin. I remember wanting to beg, to shout at them, to plead for my life.
My mind drifts—my last goodbye to my best friend, Flint. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t make it back. I had mistakenly double crossed my Pack, my family, to save his life. Do they miss me? Am I worthy of being missed?
A thought crosses my mind and I glance around before hesitating. I flex my jaw once before coming to a decision.
Bending to the dirt-covered ground, I hold out my hand. Nothing grows here, the trees are long since dead and brittle with disease that isn’t immediately transparent. This is the Tween. The place between life, and death. It seems fitting that neither life nor death has dominance here.
Reaper’s Breath slithers to me along the dirt, reaching my fingertips before swirling up my arms, licking my transparent skin. It knows what I want—it always does. Just like Kheelan, it’s able to read my thoughts, my desires, my hopes and dreams.
