by D. Fischer
She stretches in her seat, lifting her arms over her head in a cat-like arch. The plastic chair squeaks, protesting the pressure against its back. “Nah. I have a few more good hours in me. Besides, we have surgery this morning.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Mrs. Tiller still wants her Gastric Bypass?”
“Yep.” Cassandra yawns. “You know what this means? You owe me that fifty bucks.”
“There’s still time for her to back out.” I check the clock. “She has one hour left to change her mind. The bet has yet to unfold.”
“I guess we’ll see who’s fifty bucks richer in an hour,” Cassandra says. She grabs her lab coat off the chair next to her and stands.
*****
I rip the wad of cash from my pocket and slap it in her hand as soon as we exit the scrub room. Mrs. Tiller indeed did have the surgery. But Mrs. Tiller never made it off the table. Her heart gave out. The monitor’s flatline remains embedded in the back of my eyelids. The green line taunts me with every blink I make.
Fighting the lump in my throat, I scrub my face with my hands as Cassandra and I walk down the hall, the squeak of our sneakers against the tile louder than usual. She grabs my shoulder and stops me, tilting me to face her.
“I can tell the family,” she mumbles, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “Why don’t you get some rest. You don’t look so good.”
My jaw ticks and I fight with the words that want to lash off my tongue. I bite them back, chanting to myself that this isn’t anyone’s fault. Death happens, and we can never predict when it will. This is a lesson I’m well versed on.
My first death has haunted me since it happened. Her name was Tanya, and she was alone, just like me, just like the dead man that plagues my dreams. I never forget a death and it never gets easier to deal with. Her heart gave out during a routine surgery.
I give a curt nod. Her eyes travel my face once more before bringing me into a warm embrace. Her hands leave before I’m ready to let go of her, and she heads down the hall, her sneakers leaving black smudges against the white tile. I watch her walk away, her shoulders sagging as she deals with her own emotions, her own grief.
I sigh and swallow my tears, heading to the nearest on-call room. Opening the door, I kick it shut with my foot and rest my back against it, closing my eyes. To my relief, the room is empty, the beds vacant.
My head thumps against the door and I rip off my scrub cap. My fingers tremble and my throat constricts as it desperately tries to dispel the cemented lump threatening to choke me. Anger, grief, guilt, sorrow . . . they rip through my body without my consent, tumbling within my heart before spilling down each limb. She’s gone. She no longer exists. Her spirit—her soul—never to walk this planet again. Just like him.
Taking deep breaths, I concentrate on the flow of air moving in and out of my lungs. The sound it makes, the feel as it travels, the rise and fall of my chest.
A familiar spicy, earthy scent trickles into the room, subtle at first before it grows and pulls me from my concentration. My nostrils flare as I inhale, the scent swirling in the pit of my grief-stricken, tight lungs, treasuring the aroma.
He’s here. That’s not possible.
And that’s when I feel him. I tense when an invisible hand cups my cheeks and a thumb brushes my tear away. My heart thuds, his touch easing the crippling emotions that are settled there. I open my eyes, but nothing is there.
The other hand settles over my other cheek, rubbing a thumb back and forth over my cheekbone. My eyes flutter shut, letting his breath fan over my face, soaking into my pores. He’s so near I can almost taste him.
What is he? Why can’t I see him? Is he real? Am I losing my mind?
As a doctor, I know hallucinations come with a variety of illnesses. Is this what that is? But what about the string from his sweatshirt. How did that come into my possession?
Something brushes my nose. His nose? The scent fans my lips and I open my mouth, consuming him, embedding him in my soul. A sense of calm replaces my sorrow, his presence the only song my heart beats to.
One more brush of a newly fallen tear, and the touch—my anchor—leaves. The dam breaks, the flow of moisture from my eyes replace where his invisible hands once were. I slide down the door and sink to the floor, sobs wracking my body.
DYSON COLEMAN
THE TWEEN
My body shakes as I return, the feeling of reentering my shade’s form is unsettling and draining. I draw in an unnecessary breath and quickly open my eyes. The conversation I just heard about Kat is a revelation itself. It leaves me to question what she is, but I’m without a doubt certain that she’s the reason for the shift. I’ve never believed in coincidences.
Reaper’s Breath hovers in front of my face, its tendrils urgently stroking my cheek, pushing my face—a warning. I glance around, searching for this means of it.
There, off in the distance, a hooded, cloaked figure floats across the forest floor, hovering inches above the dirt. Its face completely concealed as if nothing is there to begin with.
In a haste, I move to the side of the tree, concealing myself from view. I lean my head against the bark, closing my eyes and flattening myself further against it, before shifting ever so slightly to catch a glimpse. If I’m caught by a reaper it’ll surely be the end of me and my rebellion.
The forest is silent, Reaper’s Breath hovering over my shoulder as I remain as still as possible. As soon as the edge of a black cloak comes into my peripheral vision, I shimmy over, using the tree to keep me hidden.
The reaper pauses its step and if I were to have a beating heart, it would have surely stopped. Reaper’s Breath freezes beside me, coming to the same conclusion that the reaper senses me.
As the reaper shifts, Reaper’s Breath swirls around me, beginning at my head and working its way to my feet so fast that I barely register what’s happening until I’m completely invisible.
I glance back at the reaper, its black hood tilted in my direction. Ragged breaths leave the creature, its face hidden. Even with it so close, I can’t make out any details of its face. It it weren’t for the breaths leaving the creature, I’d believe it was only a floating hooded cloak that stands before me. It’s wide shoulders rise and fall with each inhale and exhale. The movement is so exaggerated, so creepy, it it makes me gulp.
The reaper lingers for a moment, the hood slightly shifting from side to side as it scans the forest for me, before turning its head back to his path.
As it floats by, I catch a glimpse of the shade following it. It’s a plump older woman, a frightened look on her face as she follows the creature with no soul. She glances around the forest, taking in her surroundings. Even from here, I can tell she’s unwilling, hesitant to keep taking those steps forward.
I wonder what Kheelan will have in store for this one. I shudder at the thought.
TEMBER
EARTH REALM
Erma tells Erline the entire story, and together, they stand in front of me like parents reprimanding their unruly adolescent. I shrink back into the couch, my resolve faltering under the gaze of these two powerful beings.
Erma glances at Erline. “Can you find her?”
Erline’s jaw ticks as she continues to glare at me. Her long blond—almost white—hair cascades down her shoulders and back, blending with her flowing, moving dress and her pale, alabaster skin. “No.”
Pacing the floor, Erma curses in a language I’ve never heard before turning to face Erline’s back. “Tell us what you know.”
Erline straightens and slowly swivels her body, angling it toward Erma. “I know everything that crosses my realm. Every being, every creature that isn’t my creation—I know when they’re here.”
She pauses, and my impatience grows thin. “And?”
Her head whips back to me, a snarl curling her lip for speaking out of turn. “Shades are crossing over, collecting the dead in place of the reapers. A few months back, Kat assisted in destroying a horde of vampires on shifter territory. A
member of their Pack was found dead and Kat used Myla’s magic to find who was responsible. He was the first to cross over, the first to haunt this realm since Myla was alive.”
Erma crosses her arms. “The realms are shifting more than I realized.”
“Yes,” Erline answers, softening her gaze before she turns it back to her Fee sister. “If you’re accurate, and the sandman connected to Kat is indeed, feeling emotions, it’s likely all the realms have shifted because of her connection to each creature.” She glances back at me. “Has anything else happened?”
I chew the inside of my lip, going over the last few days I’ve spent with Kat. “Corbin,” I whisper. “She saw Corbin.”
Erline’s shoulders sag. “It was only a matter of time. They’re connected, bound by my magic.”
“How?” Erma asks.
A sigh escapes Erline’s perfect lips. “In Myla’s first life, Corbin found her and threatened to expose her whereabouts to Kheelan. He swore he wouldn’t if I allowed a union.”
I frown, my chin tucking slightly. I hadn’t taken Kat seriously when she said as much. “A marriage?”
Erline nods. “They had two daughters, beginning the era of the witches.” She frowns, her lips forming a hard line. “You said there’s been an increase in vampires?” I nod, my curls bouncing and brushing my cheeks. “That explains the outbreak of a new flu virus.”
My eyes close briefly. “It’s not the flu, is it? It’s the side effects from a vampire feeding.”
“Correct,” she answers, her tone flat. “Kheelan knows she’s here.”
“I don’t understand,” Erma begins. “When Myla died, didn’t she travel to the Death Realm?” Her voice is thick with sarcasm. She already knows the answer.
Erline draws in a breath, her head tilting toward the ceiling. “No. I stole her spirit.”
“Erline,” Erma breathes in disbelief, her eyes grow wide. “You planned this? You planned the resurrection of your daughter?”
She doesn’t answer Erma’s question.
Erma’s voice dips, her words full of anger, “You planned this, didn’t you? What about the Red Death? Did you know a witch would beg for help? Did you bring that disease?”
“No,” Erline whispers. “Kheelan did. It was his last attempt to flush out Myla. Since she didn’t arrive in his realm, he knew she was still here with me. His vampires weren’t aiding him as well as he’d like, so he sent the disease.”
Erma contemplates, her Adam’s apple bobbing as she swallows. “Why did you bring her back, Erline? Why did you keep her spirit?”
“So no one else could have her.”
“You used the Red Death,” Erma whispers. “You used it. You knew a witch would come to you – would beg you – and you used it to your advantage. And for what? To bring back your daughter? To threaten the realms? Everyone is in jeopardy because of you. Myla – her beast – is powerful, Erline. More powerful than you or me. And now it’s in the hands of a witch who has no control over it.”
“What do we do?” I ask, changing the subject before the Fee unleash their wrath upon each other. This apartment isn’t the right size for a miniature Fee war and an angel with no wings isn’t enough to stop them.
Looking back to me, Erline’s eyes grow soft in defeat. “We need Corbin. We need her location, and he’s the only one who would be privy to that information.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELIZA PLAATS
EARTH REALM
I brush my teeth more eagerly than the previous times of my life. In a few short minutes, I’ll be asleep, I’ll be with him.
With nervous energy, I glance at the ball of string beside my sink. I have no doubt he’s already there, standing in the fog, searching the empty space by the train tracks waiting for me to appear. With no clue to who he is, I’m resolved to get answers. Why does he haunt me? I brush faster, spit, and rinse my mouth.
I shouldn’t feed my subconscious’ lunatic thoughts. What is happening to me is completely impossible. If this were real, it would go against every scientific fact known to mankind. Yet, I can’t stop myself from believing it’s all real—all true.
Crossing the hall to my bedroom, I flick off the lights and climb under my comforter, my sheets cold against my bare legs. My large shirt bunches around my waist and my head sinks into the pillow, my eyes on the white ceiling. Under the blankets, my toes wiggle with impatience. Come on, Eliza. Fall asleep.
I begin counting non-existent sheep. One . . . two . . . three . . . I don’t know what number I reach, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep descends, and with it, my heart sings only for him.
*****
Vivid. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. Everything is so vivid. There’s no fog. I can see the top of the trees blowing in the slight breeze. They wave and sway, a dance of their own. The way this dream feels so lucid fascinates me.
Trees are everywhere, fallen logs and limbs at their bases. Dead leaves in a variety of colors crunch under the soles of my feet as I shift to get a better view. This place looks so familiar and my eyebrows knit together as I try to remember.
These are the tracks I cross over the bridge before I reach the edge of the city. Yes, that’s it!
Train tracks part the trees, and my purpose for being here comes into the forefront of my mind. I turn so fast I almost lose my balance, desperate just to see him—anxious to touch him, concerned he may not be waiting.
But there he is, his hands at his sides, hood removed . . . and my eyes catch his. He stands before the track’s curve around the trees, feet side by side. A small smile lights his transparent face—the face of an angel.
He shifts his weight a little, tilts his head to the side and blinks.
Dark, unruly hair waves in every direction. The tousled look makes him real.
My heart skips a beat.
He’s dressed in his sweatshirt and blue jeans, just like before. Without the dense, unnatural fog, I faintly see the scene behind him, right through his skin.
My heart skips another beat . . .
I smile and dig my bare feet into the ground. I run for him, my arms propel my steps. His arms wrap around my waist before mine wrap around his neck. My face buries under his jaw and I breathe deep, smiling against his skin as my eyelids flutter shut and skim the surface of his translucent skin. He rubs his cheek against my neck, holding me in his arms while he waits for me.
He knows. He knows he’s my anchor.
I lift my head, my lips searching for his. He responds easily, the hard edge gone, and I think . . . maybe, just maybe, I’m his anchor, too.
Did I pull him from his inner darkness as he did for me?
A stroke of tongue.
Am I what he waits for?
A brush of lips.
Do I remind him of who he is?
I run my hand through his hair, feeling its coarse texture through my fingertips. He lifts me up, though I don’t know how. How am I even touching him when I can see through him?
I tilt my head, deepening the kiss. Another stroke, another touch, his taste igniting a blaze.
He walks a short distance, his feet never rustling the leaves, never snapping the twigs, before he stops and places me on a fallen log just off the train tracks. Leaning me back against the bark, he doesn’t break the kiss as he settles between my thighs, overtop of me. His jeans brush against the woven threads of my underwear. The back of my bare legs scrape against the rough edges of the fallen tree enticing a new level of pleasure.
His hands travel up my leg, skimming the top of my underwear and under my shirt. It’s slow, agonizing. It’s too fast, not fast enough. My stomach dips at the sensitive touch and he splays his hands across it. His tongue dives in again, slow and gentle just like his trace against my abdomen. Loving. Caressing. One thousand words in one touch. One thousand emotions.
The fingers travel further to my rib cage, to the swell of my breast. I sigh into his mouth as his fingers brush against my nipple. Heat travels from my peaks
to my core and I shiver. My hand grips the back of his hair, gently running through the short strands.
For a brief moment, my subconscious screams at me that this isn’t real, that I shouldn’t be able to touch something unless it’s tangible. But here I am, doing so, feeling his body with my own touch, with my own nervous system. I squash my subsconcious’ voice like a pesky bug beneath my foot.
He brushes my nipple again and my hips thrust against his. I feel his erection from inside his jeans, and I apply more pressure. Wanting more, needing more, while knowing this shouldn’t be real. He bites my bottom lip and our eyes open at the same time. Such heat, such passion, such . . . love.
The blue eyes drink me in, searching my face, memorizing it. I brush his swollen lip with my pointer finger, testing my own theories, and he closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath, his chest presses against mine on the inhale. He opens his eyes again, determination now within their pools, his jaw set.
Removing his hand from my breast, he traces down the same path he entered, down to the rim of my underwear. The trail is deliberate, warm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He watches me, tilting his head, as he carefully removes the thin cloth. His tongue slides out, licking his bottom lip, leaving moisture there. His body’s pressure briefly leaves mine and he pulls my underwear the rest of the way down, dropping them to the leaves.
Unbuttoning his jeans, he lowers himself back overtop me. I hear his fingers lower his zipper as his lips massage my collarbone. Small pecking sounds reach my ears with each carefully placed kiss.
I inhale the scent of his hair, my eyes opening and shutting in slow waves. My heart fills, my body whole, and I feel everything. Every stroke of his lips, every swirling breeze against my exposed skin. I’ve never felt so alive.
He lifts his bottom a tad, lowering his jeans, before settling between my legs once more. I suck in a breath, his erection against my most intimate parts. He lifts his head, searches my eyes, and places a kiss to each lid.
