Authors: K.A. Parkinson
The sun had set as a subtle breeze ruffled her hair and a chill she knew wasn’t from the wind tried to force its way along her spine. There was still one creature of darkness she feared. One she never allowed herself to think about. One that hadn’t been seen since the night she’d been chosen. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the thought from her mind. With her eyes closed, she became aware that she wasn’t alone.
Crap!
She’d gotten distracted just like Bastian said. She would never live it down.
She felt before she heard the approach of Raksasha. Their vibrations were intent. They’d caught her scent.
She twisted out of the sand, her knife already clutched in her fist. She would have to kill them silently, no Kuna. The Suppressor couldn’t find out she was there or its masters would know a Chosen was in the area.
She felt at least two Raksasha flank her little hill. She couldn’t feel any more, but as Bastian said, they could be masked. She’d have to be quick.
The top of the first Raksasha’s head appeared and Macy readied her knife. “
Mig’nata,
” she whispered and felt strength surge to her arms. As soon as she saw his yellow eyes glowing deep within the sockets of his black, leathery, skull-like face, she snapped her wrist forward in one lithe movement, and after a brief whistle, her knife reappeared—lodged between the Raksasha’s eyes. The creature fell back onto the sand with a soft thud.
Her feet barely shifted the sand as she ran nimbly forward, feeling for the direction of the other Raksasha. She’d just pulled her knife from the creature’s skull when she felt the second jump up behind her.
Macy twisted in the air and tossed her knife the same moment the Raksasha threw his spear. It grazed her right arm just before her knife embedded in the center of his forehead. She ran over, pulled her knife out of the creature’s head, and cleaned it in the sand.
She waited, crouched beside the dead Raksasha, for fifteen minutes before she was sure there were no more creatures surrounding the area. She quickly buried the Raksasha and went back to her hiding place to wrap her bleeding arm and finish out her watch for the night.
o o o
Hundreds of miles away a teenage boy bolted upright in his bed clutching his right arm.
Chapter Two
Games
Tolen Parks stared at the sparkly popcorn ceiling in his room as the sun rose slowly outside his window. His right arm still tingled a little, just above the elbow, but the strange dream that had sent him flying awake in a cold sweat was trickling away like sand through his fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember, but it was gone. All he could recall was the intensity of the moment right before the pain shot through his arm.
He kneaded his forehead with his fingers. He was so sick of weird dreams. At least this one hadn’t had the half-dead zombie guy in it. The creepy man had starred in his dreams all too frequently the past few months. He just wished he could have at least one night where he dreamed of something normal, or maybe didn’t dream at all.
He heard his mother’s rusty Honda start, the belt squealing loudly in protest. He glanced at his clock, 7:30, surprised that she was actually going to work. The Honda idled for a few minutes and died. She attempted it twice more, slammed the door shut, and then Tolen heard her walk back into the kitchen, pick up the phone, and call her boss.
He covered his face with the pillow so he didn’t have to listen to her excuses. She was going to lose her job. He knew it was only a matter of time. Between their car constantly breaking down and the steady decline in her health, she’d missed more days than she’d worked in the past month.
A soft breeze moved the thin curtains covering his window as he climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of shorts. The hot desert sun pushed its rays forcefully into the room. He sighed as he tugged on his sneakers and searched his closet for a shirt with the least amount of holes.
He’d been saving a little of his earnings from his job at the local grocery store in the hopes that he’d be able to buy a couple new shirts and some clothes for his mother, but he was beginning to think he’d barely have enough to help cover this month’s rent, let alone buy them clothes.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought about having to ask Mr. Grange for more hours. It was no secret that the freak Tolen Parks and his weird mother were the poorest family living in Green River—a tiny, nearly-abandoned town nestled near the base of the Book Cliff Mountains in southern Utah. This quiet place housed many destitute families, but Tolen and his mother surpassed them all. They lived in the oldest rental, on the oldest street, in the furthest, most forgotten part of town.
Mr. Grange would feel sorry for him and give him the extra hours. It was humiliating knowing they needed the sympathy if they were to survive.
He fought back the resentment he felt toward his mother. It wasn’t her fault she was too ill to work. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. He didn’t like to think about her strange abilities that she would use to heal the smallest cut on his finger, or the tiniest sniffle, but for some reason couldn’t use on herself.
The sound of his mother’s bedroom door closing had him clenching his fists. She’d be spending another day in bed. He took a deep breath, grabbed the first shirt he touched, no longer caring about holes, and strode into the bathroom, his long legs carrying him across the cramped hall in two strides.
He closed the door softly, leaned against the cracked pink sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His wavy brown hair stuck out in every direction as if he’d just stuck his finger in a light socket. He turned on the water and dunked his head in the sink without waiting for it to warm up. The ice-cold stream distracted him from thoughts of his sick mother, responsibilities, and weird dreams.
Today was Saturday. A day off from school, from the outside life he pretended to live, and the people who, without always meaning to, made his life miserable. He didn’t have to be to work until three and his best—and only—friend Dane had promised him a
The Lord of the Rings
video game marathon.
The idea of spending the day with Dane at his house in a video game coma, without having to think of anything other than how best to destroy Sauron, sounded like a slice of heaven.
He rubbed his hair dry with the ratty towel on the rack, and ran his fingers through the tangled locks until they finally lay semi-straight and shadowed his strange eyes. He didn’t like to look at his reflection very long; it was just one more thing that kept him from fitting in. If he turned his head to the left, he looked normal. Brown hair, brown eye. Turn to the right however, and everything changed. He had the strangest blue eye he’d ever seen; so light it was almost translucent, with dark cobalt lines running out from a pupil that every so often would dilate and contract without the normal stimulant of light. Even weirder was what it showed him when it did this. It could pull in a bird in flight a half mile away. It could show him the sleek movements of the coyotes that hunted near his home in the dead of night.
He pulled out the box of brown contacts behind the mirror and popped one into the blue eye. It was uncomfortable. This eye, that so often seemed to think for itself, always itched behind the contact. Even though Dane had caught him without his contact once and understood that it was a rare birth defect, he couldn’t take a chance that someone might see him as he walked to his friend’s house and spread more rumors.
Suspicion made his mother do rash things, like pack their bags and move in the middle of the night. Tolen liked it here in this mediocre town better than anywhere else they’d lived in the last seventeen years, so he wore the stupid contact. He went to school and pretended to be like everyone else.
He waited for his eye to stop watering and pulled a blue shirt over his head. It clashed with his orange shorts, but he didn’t care. He’d be coming home to change into his uniform before work anyway.
Not wanting to bother his mother, he tiptoed past her door and into the kitchen. He quickly scribbled a note reminding her where he would be before hurrying out the back door.
He sucked in a deep breath of warm summer air, appreciating the sweet smell of his mother’s daylilies and rosebushes. The dirt crunched under his feet as he walked the half mile to Dane Smithy’s, feeling the despair dissipate the closer he got to his friend’s home. Dane, just by being himself, could make anyone forget his troubles.
“I still don’t see why you would pick to be Legolas over Aragorn. He’s the king, dude!” Dane stuck his thick fist into the bowl of popcorn between them, grabbed a handful, and shoved it in his mouth, shaking his head.
Tolen pointed to the TV screen. “Who else could use a bow and arrow, and double swords, and move the way Legolas does?” He took a bite of Dane’s homemade jerky and titled his head. “Aragorn is good, but Legolas is awesome.”
Dane rolled up onto his knees,his head barely as high as Tolen’s shoulder where he lay propped up on one elbow. “Whatever.” He looked in the bowl. “I’m going to make more popcorn. Do you want some more jerky?”
“Nah,” Tolen shook his head. “I’m good.”
Dane used Tolen’s shoulder to lift his tiny frame off the floor.
Tolen flicked through Dane’s pile of games on the floor deciding which to play next.
Guardians of Middle Earth
looked good. He opened the case and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked toward the hall to see Hank, Dane’s father, standing there staring at him, his dark eyes brooding and unfocused.
Tolen swallowed. “Hi Hank.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed and he grunted once before shuffling in the direction of the kitchen. Dane met him halfway and they shared a muffled conversation in their native tongue. Tolen always thought it sounded German, but he didn’t know German or any other foreign language enough to venture a real guess.
Dane sat back down and placed the now full popcorn bowl on the floor between them. He glanced over his shoulder. “Annoying old man.”
“Is he mad? Were we being too loud?”
“No. He’s out of booze. He wants me to run to town and get him more. Idiot forgets I’m underage.” Dane shoved more popcorn in his mouth and spoke through full cheeks. “Like he needs more alcohol anyway.”
Tolen held up the game. “One more round before I leave for work?”
Dane grinned. “You’re on!”
o o o
Macy chewed slowly, savoring every bite of meat-loving goodness. “Mmm, perfection.” She mumbled between bites.
“Completely unnecessary.” Bastian shook his head as he watched her in disbelief. “Technically, you did not win. I am merely indulging your adolescent growth spurts.”
Keeping one hand on the wheel, Macy wiped her mouth on a napkin before shoving a fry between her teeth. “Whatever. I’ll take it.” She swallowed. “But, I was right. Those Kreydawn weren’t mining anything but a bunch of gray rocks. And those Raksasha deserved to die.”
His eyes narrowed. She shifted uncomfortably against the worn material of her seat, and turned her attention back to the road and the mouthwatering scents wafting from the bag beside her. She popped another fry in her mouth and started humming to the static on the old radio, waiting for the lecture to begin. She counted to twenty in her head before he started.
“And you find nothing suspicious in their actions at all?”
Macy’s fingers scrambled around the bottom of the bag searching for loose fries. “No, Bastian. I told you. I watched all freaking night. They dug up nothing but rocks.”
“And the digging up of pointless rocks does not seem suspicious?”
She sighed. “Maybe?”
He dropped his chin.
She blew out a loud breath. “Fine. You bought me a burger so I’ll admit it did seem a little weird. They kept putting the rocks in the carts, but there was no rhyme or reason to the type, shape, or color. I would have guessed they were looking for something else, but then why keep the useless rocks too?”
“Why indeed?”
Macy flashed a glance his way to see his eyes shifting. He couldn’t see the future of the Kreydawn and discover anything more unless she was somehow directly involved. His Watcher gift only extended to as far as she was concerned. “Will we go back tonight?”
He closed his eyes and brief flash of pain crossed his face before he quickly covered it up. “No. Not tonight.”
Macy’s heart sped up as he leaned against the door with his eyes still closed and his hands started to shake. “Bastian?”
“I’m all right Macy. Just go home. W-we will resume our watch tomorrow.” His chin dropped to his chest and he started to snore.
Macy’s full stomach turned. He used to be able to go days without sleep, rarely needing to regenerate. Now, he seemed to drop off all the time, sometimes sleeping for days.
His time
was
short. And she was
not
ready.
Chapter Three
The
Watcher
Death approached in the wind. The Shadow Wraiths were hunting.
For two days Forrest Bastian had regenerated, unaware of the danger moving its way toward them. The elusive monster he had felt finally made its first move while he’d slept and left his ward unaware and unprotected.
He sat beside the dirty window, his translucent blue eyes dilating and contracting—focused on things only he could see stirring in the bleak May night. Flickers from the dying embers in the fireplace deepened the worry lines on his ancient face as an old carriage clock silently timed the advancing storm.
The battered radio on the coffee table cackled out another warning. Bastian sighed and glanced at the newspapers littering the floor, grateful that Macy never read the papers she scavenged for him, choosing rather to ignore her human connections.
Each headline debated the sudden rush of thunderstorms suddenly attacking the southwest. The icy temperatures and frigid winds were peculiar, especially in Nevada, but their journalistic guesses as to the
why
of them stood as far from the truth as the earth from the sun. The storms did not come from ordinary weather phenomena.
Shadow storms did not come from this world at all.
Thunder crashed. The Shadows were restless.
Bastian’s thick white brows wrinkled in concern. The Shadows were not headed in this exact direction yet, but it was still too risky. The house was no longer safe. No matter how weak he might be, it was time to leave.
Macy would not be happy. This tiny shack had begun to feel like home to her, but he knew despite how far she’d come in her abilities, her past would render her powerless against the frightening effects of the Shadows. They would use her fear against her.
He grasped the crystal shard that hung from a strand of old leather around his neck. This gift from the dying Radia star allowed him to stay in sync with Macy’s thoughts and emotions. It felt warm to the touch and glowed softly with the turn in his thoughts.
He glanced again out the window. Far in the distance, the black mists of the Shadow Wraiths writhed and twisted amongst the gray clouds. Even this far away, their evil pricked at his heart and mind.
Macy was feigning sleep in her tiny back bedroom. He wished he did not have to tell her what was coming. The Shadows had slept for centuries until they’d been released over ten years ago, specifically to find and destroy
her
. His hands trembled. If he’d reached her a second later than he had, they would have succeeded.
He balled his hands into fists. If he had gotten to her sooner—he shuddered at the memory—he could have saved them all. The image of her dying parents would haunt him forever.
The Shadows had disappeared right after. Not once since then had he felt their presence. Strange that they would give up so easily . . . until now. Why had they returned?
The clock chimed twelve low notes. Bastian slowly stood, leaned heavily on his cane, and shuffled to the window. His carpet slippers caught on the frayed rug and he stumbled into the window ledge. He took a steadying breath, rested his hand over the ache in his chest, and pushed aside the moth-eaten curtains. He leaned his wrinkled forehead on the cold glass and focused. The night seemed to squeeze into the room as he massaged his temple and allowed his Second Sight to search for any unseen danger.
He felt the shift in the Balance seconds before a small glowing orb appeared in the darkness. Before he could blink, it burst through the window. He threw his arms up to shield his face as flying glass sliced into every inch of exposed skin and his blood splashed onto the dirty floor.
Wind lashed into the room, extinguishing the last spark of light in the fire. Bastian’s chair slammed into the wall of bookshelves and the table swirled into the fireplace. A cascade of bricks tumbled free and twisted up into the vortex. Tattered books flew from the shelves, as chunks of old plaster and faded wallpaper ripped loose from the walls and mixed in with the debris.
The Radia shard against his throat glowed brightest blue, a warning.
Tremors shuddered through his body and he fell to the floor. The heavy mirror from above the fireplace shattered to the ground beside him. The fragments reflected the fear in his eyes as the wrinkles on his face smoothed, the liver spots disappeared, and the cuts on his arms healed. His gnarled knuckles softened, lengthening his fingers. His scalp began to tingle and the little bits of white hair he had left turned charcoal black. More hair grew in until it hung in thick waves that blew about his shocked face. His back aligned and his body filled out with ropes of thick muscle.
Strength surged through him and he slowly pulled himself to his knees. The wind continued to howl and pelt him with rubble, but he hardly noticed.
He raised his hands to his face in horror. Moments before it would have taken every ounce of power in his life force to make his ancient body run short distances, and then only if there was life-threatening motivation. Now he knew he could run miles without stopping, face a hundred Dark creatures, and still not need to regenerate afterwards.
This realization terrified him.
The glowing orb hovered just above his right shoulder, bringing a strange warmth with it. He lowered his hands from his face and the orb dropped into his open palms. The moment it touched his skin, the radiant mist surrounding it vanished, revealing another small, glowing, Radia shard.
It was the shard of the Ninth Chosen and the reason for his miraculous restoration of youth.
Bastian squeezed his eyes shut and image after frightening image flooded his mind.
Over the howl of the wind, he heard the high-pitched shriek of Raksasha and his eyes snapped open.
The Shadow Wraiths were coming.
o o o
The wall behind Macy’s bed trembled, interrupting the relaxing sounds of the Rachmaninoff concerto. She jerked out her ear-buds and cocked her head to the side. The wind was always loud as it passed through the thin walls of this ancient house, but it had definitely gotten louder since she’d gone to bed. She shrugged. Maybe another dead tree had blown over. She was just about to push the buds back into in her ears when a second muffled thud shook the wall. This time she was certain it came from
inside
the house.
She rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Bastian. Chill out. You don’t have to start throwing things.” She’d promised him, the third time he’d come to check on her, that she’d really go to sleep. That had been over an hour ago. She punched her lumpy pillow into a more comfortable shape and started to lie down again.
A powerful gust of wind slammed into the house and an icy chill ran over her skin. Her eyes caught a sliver of movement beside the door and she paused with her head above the pillow. She twisted her old school MP3 player until the dim light cast from the tiny screen pointed at the doorframe. Dust swirled in strange spinning patterns through the crack beneath the door.
A boom of thunder resonated through the room, and pieces of plaster rained down from the rotted ceiling, sprinkling the top of her head. A familiar ominous feeling filled her body and her heart sped up, the Kuna within her reacting to the vibes of the Dark moving nearby—closer than they’d been just an hour ago.
She rolled off the bed in one swift movement and pulled her knife from a rip in the mattress.
“
To’ konsh’la
,” she whispered, and every sound around her intensified. She could hear the wind tossing the leaves in the trees outside, the brush of the tumbleweeds as they scattered across the dry desert floor, and the scurry of frightened animals.
She focused her hearing inside the house, searching for Bastian’s familiar, wheezy, old-man breathing.
Instead, she heard strange whooshing, like wind through a tunnel, echoing from the direction of the living room . . . and moaning, soft, pitiful moaning . . .
Bastian softly called her name.
Her heart jumped to her throat and heat flooded her palms, but she willed the Kuna to stay inside her body.
Slow down. Gauge the threat first,
Bastian’s constant warning murmured in her head.
Save your strength.
She clenched the knife in her fist, opened the door, and slipped silently to the end of the hall.
If this is some training exercise Bastian, or you fell again while fixing a midnight snack, I’m going to kill you.
She edged along the wall, peeked around the corner, and her breath caught in her throat.
Books, papers, bricks, the remains of Bastian’s favorite chair, and the coffee table were flying around and around in some sort of freak indoor tornado. A huge man knelt in its center, pale blue light issuing from his cupped hands. The odd light eerily accentuated his horrified face. He seemed completely oblivious to the remains of the living room furniture slamming into him.
He closed his fingers. The light and wind vanished, and the broken furniture crashed to the floor.
He gasped and fell forward, catching himself with one hand while the other remained in a tight fist by his side.
Macy’s ears rang in the sudden silence.
“
To’ inreedo
,” she whispered, and the man’s frame came into perfect focus through the darkness. Even though she was certain she’d never seen the man in her life, there was something oddly familiar about him.
“Who are you?” She held her knife in front of her. The blade trembled in her fingers as her Kuna fought for release.
He didn’t move. His eyes stayed riveted on his closed fist.
“What do you want?” She cast a quick glance around the room, but there was no sign of her ancient Watcher. “Bastian!”
The man finally looked up and turned toward her. Lightning flashed through the room and his eyes mirrored the glow—unnaturally bright, sapphire-blue, those eyes could belong to only one person.
Macy took a hesitant step back. “You can’t be . . . ”
The man stood up. He was
enormous
, well over six feet, and covered in thick muscle that bulged beneath his tight flannel shirt. His face held an expression she knew well—only on a different, much older face.
“Who
are
you?” Macy took another step back into the hall. The man’s blood-splattered shirt looked exactly like the one Bastian had been wearing—the one with the missing front pocket.
She glanced down. Same faded jeans, same nasty old carpet slippers.
“Macy, I
am
Bastian.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not possible.”
“I promise to explain but we must leave,
now
! Go to your room, get your things.” The voice was close to Bastian’s tone, it held the same hurried finality he used when danger was near.
She didn’t move.
If you really are Bastian—my Watcher—then you’ll feel what I am thinking.
She cast about in her mind for something only Bastian could know. The first thought that came seemed stupid, but it was the best she could do.
What did you give me for my sixteenth birthday?
The man gave an exasperated sigh. “You do not allow gifts or even the acknowledgment of your birthday. This is ridiculous. Close your eyes. Look inside yourself. Your life force knows your Watcher.”
Macy’s hands shook. This guy appeared to be aware of her thoughts but that didn’t mean it wasn’t some trick of the Dark. “And my Watcher has drilled into me never to close my eyes when an enemy is looking right at me.”
“I am not your enemy!” He threw his hands in the air. “Macy, there is no time for this! It is the will of the Balance. You have to trust me!”
That was definitely Bastian’s matter-of-fact, annoyed voice.
With one last threatening look in his direction, she closed her eyes. A familiar quivering began in her heart and filled her whole body. Her life force
did
recognize the man standing in front of her, not because of the eyes or the familiar voice, but from the power that emanated from him. The evil did not come from him. It was outside, traveling to them swiftly from the northwest.
This man was her Watcher. It really was Bastian. This didn’t make her feel better.
“Okay, fine. You’re Bastian.” She glared once in his direction before turning to run down the hall back to her bedroom. “The Balance has been known to do worse.”
Her battered backpack sat propped against the wall. Her hands shook as she pulled a purple sucker from the front pocket and stuck it in her mouth. She rolled up her ragged blanket and tied it to the bottom of the pack.
Seconds later Bastian followed her in and waited in the doorway. His creepy new face a mask of impatience, his wavy hair tied back into a ponytail, his favorite carpet slippers swapped for hiking boots, his blood-spattered shirt traded for a clean one. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be as fast as Bastian.
“Feels like Raksasha.” She spoke through her teeth as she rushed to tug knee-high leather boots over her jeans.
“Yes.” Bastian glanced over his shoulder. “I sense at least four, but there could be more. They are moving as quickly as they can. They will be here in less than ten minutes.” He held out her belt, and she stood and tied it around her waist. Her knife was back in the scabbard, and her survival pouches dangled beside it.
Macy lifted her eyebrow. “How did the Raksasha track us here? Do you think someone noticed me spying on the Kreydawn?” She thought back to the reconnaissance mission. She’d only noticed the mindless Kreydawn being controlled by one Suppressor. She’d killed the only two Raksasha guards that had been stationed outside their mining field . . . or so she thought. What had she missed?
Bastian didn’t answer. His eyes remained focused out the window.
She knew when he purposely avoided an answer. She tried not to worry as she threw on her sleeveless jacket and pulled a hair band out of her pocket. Turning to the cracked mirror she quickly twisted her waist-length, dusty blonde hair into a haphazard ponytail. She met her wide green eyes in a scrutinizing stare for a split second before she looked down at the glowing face of her watch.