Flash Fiction Challenge – Name for Name

Remember this post?

I am once again participating in Rachelle O’Neil‘s Flash Fiction Challenge, in which participants write a flash fiction story based on a prompt given to them by another participant. I received my prompt from FaithSong, who happens to be my sister, and I gave a prompt to Athelas Hale… Who is also, actually, my sister.

FaithSong gave me this prompt:

Your prompt for the Flash Fiction Challenge is this: You must start with, “Darkness.” It can be dialogue, internal dialogue, or narration, but it must be the only word in the first sentence.

After beginning three… No, four different stories, I managed to finish this one (twice, because I never, ever, ever keep my first ending).

I do hope you enjoy it. :-)



Name for Name


It was the only word on her tongue— The name of her poison, twisting white lips around ugly syllables. She whispered it, over and over, though she barely had breath enough to stay alive.

How could a mortal fight darkness like that? More than an absence of light, the darkness I had glimpsed and she had stared at, long and hard, was a Being itself. If I closed my eyes I could see it again— Solid, alive, a Thing my puny lights could not pierce. Only a fool stared so long into darkness like that. Only a fool.

Oh, Azra.

We won the battle, but the cost was dear. So dear.

I clutched her to my chest so hard I could feel my own heartbeat mingling with hers, two erratic rhythms reverberating through both our bodies, with the steady beat of the dragon’s wings beneath us both. Of the three, hers was the weakest; so faint it seemed to fade from time to time, and my own heart would seize in my chest until I felt her pulse, quiet and unsteady, beneath my fingers.

Then I could breathe again, for a moment.

Beyond the glow of Chanan’s scales, emptiness clung to the world; mist collected on my skin, dampened Azra’s hair, and pooled in the gaps between Chanan’s scales. I gripped Chanan’s ribs between my knees, trying to suppress the shivers crawling along the ridge of my spine. Azra did enough shivering for both of us.

A quiet low from Chanan warned me he was about to descend. My stomach lurched and the wind rushed past us, tearing at the blankets encasing Azra’s frail body. I wanted to tuck them back around her, but I dared not loosen my grip for even a moment. I wanted to place trembling fingers over her ever-moving lips, but I didn’t for the same reason.

I could only hold her, tight against my body, as though I could keep her soul from fleeing if I just held her tight enough.

Chanan spread his wings to slow our descent, stretching them like leathery kites, so far the tips disappeared into the cloud. The wind filled his wings and caught us with a jolt.

As we slowed, the wind settled, and I loosened my hold long enough to tuck the blankets around Azra again. Her whispers faltered, and she curled her trembling body closer to mine. My heart thrilled— Such a small movement, but it was the nearest thing to acknowledging my presence she had done since she looked into the darkness.

“Azra,” I whispered, searching her face for a sign of life. “Azra.”

She didn’t move, except to spell darkness into the air. Despair hardened like a rock in my throat.

Chanan hit the ground at a gallop and eased to a walk. Rocking with the movement of his steps, I let my gaze drift to the featureless landscape around us. East, West, North, South—In this waste, under a grey sky, they were meaningless words. Yet guided by an instinct I hoped would not lead him astray, Chanan trotted onward with an arrow-straight pace.

My heart prayed. It burned with a plea words could not express. And beneath my fingers, her pulse faltered and slowed.

Yahweh,” I whispered, a world of prayer in that word. A light sparked in my soul. Yahweh— The I AM God, the One Who Was, and Is and Shall Be. “Yahweh,” I whispered again, her heart beating against my ribs. Could speaking the Names of the Father of Lights call her back from the darkness in which she dwelt?

“Yeshua. Yahweh Raah. Adonai.

Her body shuddered hard, her fingers clutching at the blankets. I shifted so I could cradle her with one arm, and clasped her hand.

Lamb of God,” I whispered, watching her lips spell darkness once again. “Good Shepherd. Lion of Judah. Yahweh Shalom.

She shivered, hard, fingers tightening around mine. Through the spasms, she could hardly take a breath, but still her lips spelled the name of her poison— “Darkness,” they said, “nothing but darkness.”

El Elyon. Prince of Peace. Yahweh Yireh.

As I gave name for name, her nails bit into my skin. She whispered darkness; I whispered light.

Yahweh Shammah. El Shaddai.

Her lips parted and stilled.

Emmanuel. Yahweh Tsidkenu.”

Convulsing, she choked on her breath, lips turning white around the edges. My heart lurched. Shaking my fingers free of her hand, I pressed them against her neck.

“Father,” I whispered. “Father.”

She went still. Stopped breathing.

My hands went as cold as her body had been all this time. Touching her cheek, staring at her closed eyes, I forgot how to breathe.

“Please,” I mouthed. That was all. My heart screamed with a prayer words could not hold, groaning inexpressible.

Gathering her in my arms, I pressed her to my body, close and tight so all the worlds could not tear us apart. For a moment, Chanan’s steps were the only rhythm I could feel.

Then I felt a thump against my chest.

It banged against my ribs, once, then again, the double beat of a heart. Her ribs expanded and air rushed in through her mouth— Her heart slammed against mine, and it hurt.

But she breathed.

Shivers racked her body. A sob broke from her throat and she curled against me, shaking with the cold.

“K- “ Her fingers gripped my shirt. “K- Kurios.”

My own breaths came in halting, painful bursts. I took her hand in mine, and the wind bit at tears on my cheeks.

“Kurios,” she said again, and she buried her face in my shoulder as if to hide from the sight that must have been seared on her eyes still.

I rubbed her back, raised my eyes to the featureless heavens. She shivered in my arms, her heartbeat weak and irregular, her skin frigid. But when her lips moved, they spelled a new Name— Kurios, Lord, Master, King.

It was the only word on her tongue.

To the Woman in the Grocery Store

I wrote this in a journal late in 2011. I am posting it here on the chance that, maybe, the right person will see it.

Dear Unknown Lady,

What were you doing in that grocery store, more than seventeen years ago? Were you looking for food for your family? Were you shopping for only yourself? Were you waiting for God to show you someone to help? Whatever it was, I’m thankful you were there.

What was that ten dollar bill to you? Was it your lunch for the next day? Was it your desert for the week? Or was it nothing, just a scrap of paper you didn’t need? Did you give it away because you knew you had treasure in heaven?

I wonder what went through your head when God told you to give it to that young couple. I wonder if you thought they didn’t really need it. I wonder if you looked at the two young children hanging on their hands and thought that, yes, they did. I wonder if God use their conversation to plant the idea in your head.

Were you nervous as you stepped up to them? Did you heart beat faster? Did you almost change your mind because you were afraid? Or had you done this many times before? Were you “cool as a cucumber”? Did you question God? What did it take to make you step up and say what you said?

“I feel like God wants me to give this to you.” Were those the hardest words you ever said, or did they flow like water from your mouth? Did you wonder how they would respond, this strange man and woman you had never met?

Who were you, Unknown Lady? Did you have a family? Did you know what it was like to eat beans for a month, because it’s all you could afford? Did you know what it was like to be pregnant, and have to learn how to cook beans so you and your family could eat? Did you just feel sorry for the young family in the grocery store? Or were you an angel, sent for that very purpose?

Unknown Lady, did you know that you doubled our grocery money for the month?

I’ve never met you. I was there, that day, but I was far too young to notice what was going on. No, I’ve never met you, but I saw the tears in my mother’s eyes as she spoke of your kindness. You touched her heart far more than you could have known you would. And through her, you touched me, a girl you never even saw. Did you know, then, what a difference ten dollars would make?

I pray that wherever you are now, you are blessed. I pray that your faith in Jesus Christ is strong. I pray that God is still using you to bless others as you blessed my family.

I pray the Lord will bless you greatly. I pray that you will feel His presence, and I pray that He will lead you. I pray that He will let you see what a difference such a small gift can make.

I pray that someday we will meet in heaven, and I will know you for who you are, and be able to say, “Thank you.”



The Baby who

 had yet to be


Want to Win a Set of Audio Books?

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Caiti Marie:

Bryan Davis has been one of my favorite authors for the past several years. I basically grew up on these stories— Some of the first Christian Fantasy I ever read. If you’re interested in winning audio books for all four novels in his “Dragons in Our Midst” series, go follow his blog (which, by the way, is a great resource for writers: he posts writing tips every Monday, and hosts a critique session every Friday, among other things).

Originally posted on The Author's Chair:

DIOMAudioBooksWould you like to win an MP3 set of audio books – all four stories in the Dragons in our Midst series? I am giving away three sets. All you have to do to qualify is “follow” this blog and comment on this post to let me know you’re following.

To follow, look at the right-hand column for the “Follow” button. Click on the button and enter your email address, then post a comment here, and you’re in the contest.

If you are already following and you want to enter, post a comment, and I will look you up on my followers’ list and add you to the drawing.

The deadline is the end of January, and I will choose three winners on February 1.

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Flash Fiction Challenge – Illusions

I’m participating in Rachelle O’Neil’s Flash Fiction Challenge. The challenge was to write a bit of flash fiction from a prompt given to you by one of the other participants.

I received this prompt from Katie Grace:

… Which was definitely a challenge. My limit was 1000 words, which I barely, barely, barely managed… Google Docs says 995, and I’m sticking with their count.

Now, flash fiction is not my area of expertise (I haven’t figured out what is, yet), so this was doubly a challenge… And this is not the best piece of writing I have ever produced either. I’d love some helpful input, if any one has any. :)

If you want to read the stories of the other participants, go here.

And here is mine. I do hope you enjoy it.



They said an untethered man could drift in the void for centuries and never realize he was lost— Drawn from illusion to illusion, never a thought of the reality beyond the infinite boundaries of the dream-like world.

They called it Dreamworld, or Void, or Illusion, but never safe.

Listening to the siren-call of the Illusion as it punctured the walls of the Chamber, Ian clicked the last buckle of his harness into place and tried to forget what they said. “I’ll find him, and you’ll pull me back?”

The Gatekeeper said nothing— Only looked, hard and deep and unwavering. He could see, Ian knew, that Ian’s instinct rebelled at the thought of trusting his life and the life of an unknown man to the plastic buckles and moldy harness that had been here since who-knew-when. Perhaps he could see everything, even hurts and regrets long-buried.

Running the rope through his fingers until he came to the frayed end, Ian looked at the Gatekeeper. “This would be easier if I knew who I was looking for.”

The Gatekeeper nodded, reaching for the old rope with older fingers. Ian fingered the threads before he relinquished it. What stories could the rope tell, of how many travelers lost?

“Okay.” Ian faced the door. “I’m ready, then.”

As the door opened, the whole world peeled away like burning paper, curling at the edges, driven before the force of the Void. The wailing grew, vibrating through Ian’s bones, his heart, his head, until he felt the siren-song of a place of illusions would tear him apart. Instead, it lodged itself in his heart, and faded from conscious hearing.

He climbed to his feet.


They said the Void had no ground, yet he stood on one. They said the Void was cold, yet warmth filled the air, a warmth of laughter and memories, of long days and short nights, of sitting hand-in-hand with a beautiful woman. Swirls of light and shadow obscured his vision like mist, but if he closed his eyes, he felt he stood in the desert’s sun. Now he knew why men feared this place: The warmth brought vivid memories of happier days, and the hurt that tore them from him. He reached for the harness, for reassurance, and touched only the bare fabric of his shirt.

Fear flared in his stomach, but he thrust it aside. He had come to find a man— Find him he would.

As he drew breath to call out, the mist swirling around him rushed in through his nostrils. It tingled in his mouth and throat, at once cold and hot and without temperature.


When he exhaled, his breath pushed aside the mist, unveiling a black mountain inches from him. A light pulsed at the top, brighter than the mist. Was light good in this land of illusions? Ian didn’t know— Yet he had to start somewhere. He reached for a handhold.

With every step, the warmth faded. His feet numbed. His breath clouded. His fingers froze to the bare stones. Every time he lifted a hand, he left behind a part of himself: His favorite color. His nervous habit. His oldest memory.

Halfway up, he realized the stones throbbed with the same beat as the light, c-cold, c-cold, c-cold. He pulled himself up another step and the world throbbed, too, contracting and expanding with inexplicable, endless beat. It pounded against him, forcing him to inhale when it expanded and exhale when it contracted, matching the rhythm of his breaths to the beat of this world.

A massive nest balanced on the mountain’s pinnacle, framed by stars and a clear, clear sky. In the nest, a tree sat atop a lightbulb larger than Ian, and the bulb pulsed light and dark like the beat of Ian’s heart.

“Who are you?” Asked the tree.

“Who are you?” Asked Ian.

The tree paused. “Isn’t my light pretty?”

Grasping the nest, Ian pulled himself to his feet and looked over the side at the thin glass bulb. With each moment of darkness, the light came back a little bit dimmer. “What’s it doing up here?”

“What are you doing up here?”

Ian stilled. A good question. Why had he come all this way? “I don’t remember.”

“Neither do I,” said the tree. The roots caressed the lightbulb. “It’s safe up here, you know.”

“But useless.”

“They broke it.”


The tree shrugged. “Them. Down there. I keep it safe.”

“That’s silly.” Ian reached to touch the dimming light, but the roots slapped his fingers. “It’s not broken.”

“It healed.”


“They might break it again.” The roots tightened protectively around the bulb. “They might, you know.”

“Lights aren’t meant to be protected. They’re meant to give light.”

“It lights up this place.”

“But no-one can see it. How long has it been up here?”

“Not long,” the tree said. “A hundred years.”

“It’s always been this dim?”

The tree paused, leaning down as if measuring the bulb’s light— Now so faint Ian’s eyes strained to see the shape of the tree against the stars. “No,” the tree said.

“It needs energy.”

“No,” repeated the tree.

“You should take it down to recharge.”


“It will die.”

“No,” the tree whispered. “I keep it safe.”

The voice faded into shadows. The light gave one final, shuddering flash and winked out.

The beat stopped.

The world stilled.

And Ian’s heart stilled with them.

And in that moment, he knew who he’d been sent to find.


He felt the door of the chamber shut out the illusions before he felt the rope pull him back, before he felt his feet hit the metal floor of the Chamber. He lay limp on the floor and breathed. The Gatekeeper’s gaze was on him.

“Does it always have to end like that?” Ian asked.

“Not always.”

“Not always,” Ian whispered.

He remembered a woman’s face. He remembered saying goodbye.

And at the end of remembering, he made up his mind.

Beautiful People: Lorcan, the Black Horse

{It’s been a very, very long time since I posted on my blog. I know. Do you have any idea how many unfinished posts are sitting in my draft folder? Neither do I. Today (or tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that) I am participating in the “Beautiful People” blog link-up. This month’s subject is villains. If you are interested in participating, click the picture (Note: I don’t necessarily endorse all of the posts on that blog. Or even that post. It has weird flashy thingies that I think are from a Disney movie… But I’m actually not sure. So browse with caution (Not that I think Disney movies are terrible, I just don’t necessarily endorse them. :p))}

Lorcan is technically the recurring villain from the story-world of my (Lord willing) NaNoWriMo story. He is by nature something of a were-horse, able to shift back and forth from horse to humanoid, while still retaining some aspects of his other nature when he shifts.

1. What is his motive?

Lorcan is either incredibly complex, or complicatedly simple— He hides his motives like some people hide their messes.

At the heart of his actions is a need for purpose, and a need for a King. He boasts of a desire to be God, but he does not really want to— Really, he wants God to be God, and to rule him. He wants a man or being he can follow, who has the power and the will and the wit to beat him into submission. And he wants a purpose; he has an enormous intelligence, an enormous power, an enormous energy. He needs something to do with them— Only, he’s looked so long in the wrong places that he is convinced there is no King, and there is no purpose, and so he is determined to make the best of it, never mind the rest of the world.

2. What does he want, and what is he prepared to do to get it?

He wants to play a game. He wants a challenge. He wants to match his wits with someone of equal or greater intelligence. I think, in a funny way, he wants to be beaten— And losing one battle is not good enough. If he can come back, he will, and his retaliation will be swift and merciless. He is not afraid to murder, or… Basically, do anything else. Yet he is master of himself. Every action is calculated, every thought, every word, is carefully controlled and directed so that everything he does is a manifestation of great control. Unlike some werecreatures, he has his instincts entirely under control, and he uses them to great effect. However, he does not kill senselessly— He will kill for the pleasure of it, but he will not kill if there is no pleasure in it. He will not steal if it is not a challenge. He will not break the law if there is not the slightest (very slightest, usually) chance of getting caught, or, in his eyes, the absolute necessity of doing so. He has no particular goals except these, just as Sherlock Holmes would be a detective for the mental challenge, and the Scarlet Pimpernel would rescue aristocrats for the thrill of it. Everything Lorcan does, he does for the experience. He wants to play a game, you see.

3. How does he deal with conflict?

Deal with conflict? My dear reader, Lorcan does not deal with conflict, Lorcan creates conflict! He can walk into a gathering of peaceful people, and all of a sudden there are blaster holes in the walls and anger on everyone’s faces, and Lorcan will not have moved from his rather comfortable position on the couch. He has been threatened with death for simply opening his mouth. Why? Because he plays with people, plays with their hurts, and their hopes, and their random thoughts, and their pride. They are his toys. He needles them to see if he can get a reaction.

4. Describe his current place of residence.

Lorcan moves around a lot. I don’t know where he is now. He is as likely to be in Middle Earth at the end of the Third Age as he is to be at the battle of Lexington and Concord as he is to be at the opening of the first Mars Colony.

5. If he was writing this story, how would it end?

I believe he would leave the ending open-ended. There’s no fun in it if everyone knows what happened.

6. What habits, speech patterns, etc. are unique to him?

Having been what he is for a very long time (his whole immortal life, actually), Lorcan has picked up a few horse-habits. He tends to snort, and toss his head, and he has a peculiar habit of asking, “What are you supposed to be?” when he meets someone new. His eyes are closed more often than open, and when they are open, it is rarely all the way— He always looks half-asleep.

7. How does he show love? What does he like to do with/for people he loves?

If Lorcan loves anyone but himself, I am unaware of it. If he did, I am certain he would show it the same way he shows contempt; only that he would be a little less scornful, and a little less inclined to needle, and a little more willing to die for the person he loved.

8. Does he have any pets?

Other than the whole of sentient beings? No, no pets.

9. Where would he go to relax/think?

He can relax and think in any location, at any time, almost regardless of the circumstances. If he really wanted to relax and think, though, I think he would go to the mountains, a place of crystal streams and bright flowers, far from the clamour and noise of sentient beings. It’s there that all the noise in his own heart and his head lessens— just for a moment.

10. What is his weapon of choice? (FYI: words, eyes/looks, and fists count as weapons too.)

In a battle of wits, words are, of course, his weapon of choice. If he is angry (he is never angry), he can throttle someone with little effort. He doesn’t like swords— Finds them large and clumsy and so conspicuous. Guns, however, he has a certain appreciation for. Perhaps he likes the distance it allows, I don’t know; he does not like small knives, at all, partly because he does not like getting blood on his clothes and partly because they require so little skill to use. I think he does not like blades; they have no sophistication, in his mind. As for poison, he will only use it if there is enough of a chance of getting caught, or if he needs to kill a great many people at once (as someone would poison rats). He prefers to look his victim in the eyes when they know he has bested them.

In his other form, of course, he has hooves and teeth and an enormous mass, all of which he knows how to use to his advantage.

Character Interview: Stori

Caiti Marie:

Athelas Hale interviewed Stori on her writing blog, Red Lettering. Check it out, and be sure to look around at her other posts.

Originally posted on Red Lettering:

Happy Tuesday, readers. Today I have the pleasure of introducing to you Stori, Companion to Hope Hunter in Caiti Marie’s (who happens to be my awesome sister) episodic Saturday Stori.

Hello, Stori! Welcome to Red Lettering. I’m honored that you were willing to answer some questions. I know you’re very busy–something about saving the world?–so I’ll make it brief.

To start with, could you tell us a bit about yourself?

Stori: *stills, staring into space as she considers the question, then gives a quick laugh* I’m sorry. I don’t introduce myself very often. My name… *forehead wrinkles* You know my name. Well… *quiets for a moment* I was born in Rivervale. You’ve probably not heard of it— It was a tiny village nestled in the South of the Liliwhit Mountains. I am Companion to Hope Hunter, a girl from earth I met a little over eleven years ago.

Actually, I have…

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The Future of Stori

Before I began Season Two of Saturday Stori, I posted on this blog asking for my readers’ opinions about the series; whether they wanted me to continue it, and what changes I should make. When I began to write the first episodes of Season Three, I did not even consider, more than briefly, doing something like that. I probably should have.

This is an official announcement to say there will be no Saturday Stori on Saturday, February 22. And if I got my date wrong, and February 22 is not a Saturday, then this is an official announcement to say that there will be no Saturday Stori on the Saturday immediately after today. I need to take a step back and re-evaluate the story…

Okay. Not really. I actually have re-evaluated the story, a couple thousand times. Now I just need to decide what to do with it. So while I think deep thoughts and try to decide on the future of Saturday Stori — what place it needs to take now, whether I will post it anymore, and if I do, what I will change — The series itself will be suspended. This may mean not only this week, but next week as well— Unless I decide to cancel it, in which case, it will be mean from this week on, to eternity. If readers have any suggestions, or comments, or questions about the series, I would be most grateful to hear them.

Until then, go find something better to read. :)

Edit 03/03/2014: “Saturday Stori: Hope Hunter” has been cancelled. Thank you all for the interest and support you have shown since July 27, 2012, when the first episode of Saturday Stori was published.

Saturday Stori: Hope Hunter, Episode Twenty-Eight

Sweet perfume tinged the air that swept through the hall of trees. Stori pressed her hand to the wound in her side, pressed her lips together, and pressed her toes into the dark, dark soil.

She had known she would find Tamal. Everyone does. She had not known she would find her so quickly.

Stretching before Stori, the trees formed the walls of a vast hall, arching in and meeting at the center like the apex of a roof. It ended in the dark mouth of a cave wreathed in flowers. Filtering through the branches of the trees, the light painted the hall hazy green. Neither remarkably dark, nor remarkably light, but remarkably beautiful. The air buzzed with Tamal’s perfume.

Pulling her collar up over her mouth, Stori took a breath of the barely-filtered air. She may as well get this over with.

She took a step. Spinning wildly for half a second, the world contracted and dropped her in front of Tamal’s cave. The hall of trees that once stretched before her now stretched behind her, as if in impudent declaration that she could not easily escape. Exhaling grimly, she faced the cave.


Without the softness of manners, her voice sounded harsh and dangerous in her own ears. Good. Let Tamal think she was threatening her.

“You came.” A breathy laugh broke Tamal’s words, like a wind through the branches of the trees. “I thought you did not like me.”

Stori growled. “You know I don’t like you, and you knew I was coming. Are you coming out to speak to me, or do I have to flood your cave and come in myself?”

Water would rinse the air of Tamal’s stench, and drown the flowers that filled the air with perfume. Creating such a flood would also drain Stori’s energy more than was safe, but Tamal did not need to know that.

After a pause, a breeze wafted out of the cave. “I will come to the entrance, that we may speak.”


The entrance to the cave was still empty, still shrouded in deep green darkness. Tamal laughed again. “You seem rather bad-tempered today, Warrioress.”

The title brought back a flood of memories it took an effort to quash. Stori fought to keep her expression smooth. “What do you expect? I’m talking to a witch.”

Tamal stepped into the light, her hair loose around her face, pretty mouth stretched in a grim line. “I am no witch, Genoveva.”

“Not technically,” Stori said. Genoveva. Another name from the distant past. What was Tamal trying to do? “But I’m being polite.”

Softly, her voice like a breath of wind barely forming words, Tamal said, “To be polite would be to step into my castle.”

“No thanks.” Scowling, Stori pressed her hand harder against her wound, focusing on the pain to keep her head clear. Tamal’s scent was overpowering. How could most people not smell that? “I want your help, Tamal.”

The wind coming from the cave swirled Tamal’s dark skirt around her legs. She arched her eyebrows, reaching two slender fingers toward Stori’s face. “The Thïl bi Pita needs my help?”

Jerking back, though Tamal showed no inclination to actually touch her face, Stori widened her eyes. “Stop that.”

A wrinkled appeared between Tamal’s eyebrows. “Stop what, Morwyn y Llyn?”

That.” Stori kicked the dirt, gouging a hole with her toes. “Stop calling me by dead names.”

“They are your names, Riona, are they not?”

Were.” So many names, so many stories, so many mistakes. Why did Tamal think it necessary to bring them up? The witch.

“Past, present, and future are all alike to me,” Tamal said.

Stori opened her mouth to reply, then shut it tightly. Tamal would not listen, anyway, and Stori did not have time.

“Az is free,” Stori said.

Her brow marred by soft wrinkles, Tamal dipped her head. “Yes.”

“I need to find Hope,” Stori said. “And Jed.”

“Why Hope?”

The question made Stori stop. For a second, she felt like the world had stilled; Why Hope? Why, when every world was in danger and she needed help to stop the man who could destroy them, did she want to find Hope? Hope could not help. Hope would not quietly sharpen her sword, gather an army of heroes, and stand between a villain and the innocents. Hope would run. Hope would hide. Even if Stori wanted to protect Hope, protect the little girl she had chosen to care for all those years ago, did that justify endangering every world by taking the time to find her?

“That,” Stori said, “is none of your business, witch.”

Eyebrows arching the slightest bit, Tamal nodded. “As you wish, Amaranthine—”

“Don’t.” Stori clenched her hands into fists. “Just tell me how to find them.”

“Do not assume I will help you, Hishaa.”

“Do not assume I won’t kill you, Tamal.”

Tamal’s lips quirked. “It is hardly a dangerous assumption on my part.”

Stori bit down on an acerbic comment. Of course her threat would not intimidate a seer. Stori made an effort to keep her voice pleasant. “Will you help me?”

For a moment, Tamal gazed at her through half-closed eyes, her chin lifted as if she were looking down on Stori— Something that would not be hard to do, as Tamal was at least a foot taller than Stori.

Exhaling the words with a gust of perfume, Tamal said, “I will.”

Before Stori could be relieved, Tamal spoke again. “If you take me with you.”

Stori froze. “What?”

“I will lead you to the proper gateway,” Tamal said. “As I cannot tell you with certainty where it is, there is no other way. After I do, you will take me with you wherever you go until such time as I wish to leave you.”

Stori wanted to shake her head— To draw herself up to her full height, tighten every muscle in her body, and say, I most certainly will not!

The look on Tamal’s face stopped her. The dainty eyebrows slightly lifted, lips pursed in a straight line— No doubt Tamal was serious and stubborn. Without Tamal’s help, finding Hope and Jed would take longer, if Stori managed it at all.

Lord, give me patience.

“Why?” Stori asked, half because she wanted to know, half to give herself time to think.

“I am bound to my castle,” Tamal said. “To step more than a decided distance from it will condemn me to a life of loneliness; I will see no one, hear no one, feel no one,  sense no one, but the two people who hold my life. I hardly wish to return alone, never knowing who I will meet and never see.” For a moment, her voice softened. “I have many enemies, Mary.”

Two comments came to mind, both of which Stori swallowed down. “If you can’t see or hear me—”

“Ah.” Tamal smiled. “I had thought of that.” Lifting her left wrist like a child displaying a bracelet, Tamal drew Stori’s attention to a thin vine tied around her arm, with a two-foot section left dangling like a leash on a dog’s collar. “You shall have to lead me as though I am blind, an affliction you no doubt wish upon me. This only after I have finished leading you, of course.”

The thought made Stori’s stomach roil. Bad enough that she should have to come to Tamal for help and follow her; now Tamal wanted to accompany Stori wherever she went after that? The lead on the vine did not allow for enough room between them. Stori never wanted to be that close to Tamal, not for any reason. And to travel with her, for who-knew-how-long?

Yet Stori had to find Jed, to make sure he was alive and well, and to serve him in whatever way was necessary to have Az chained once more. Seeking him herself would waste time she did not have.

“All right,” Stori said, growling out the words. “It’s a deal.”

* * *

Sounds of rapid steps, urgent scuffling, gun shots, and strained voices pounded into the Lieutenant’s head. Here, on the wall where the fighting had paused, was perhaps the quietest place in the compound, yet to the man of silence and few words, the sound was overwhelming.


Pivoting away from the short wall over which he could see the approaching enemy, the Lieutenant faced the young, breathless messenger standing in the flickering light of the torches. Torches to replace the electric lights they did not have power to keep on.

“The attack on the west is breaking through,” the messenger said. His eyes showed wide, and fear flickered in time with the light. “Captain Aikin said we need more men.”

The words— repeated so many times over the past hour— fell hard on his ears. From the side, a woman shoved a clipboard at the Lieutenant, illuminating the paper with a flashlight. The Lieutenant flicked his gaze over it, glad for something to distract him from the messenger waiting impatiently for an answer. What could he say? There were no more men.

Guns popped, and the Lieutenant instinctively dropped to a crouch, still sweeping his gaze over the number on the paper. Simple numbers in carefully organized lines, indicating the amount of energy and materials it would take to fix the portals in the Passages room. It could as well have been a death certificate.

At the bottom, someone had scrawled a note. “We could call in all Companions from the battleground, and they might be able to hold them open while the women and children go through.”

Might. Every idea had the word might.


Handing the clipboard back to the waiting woman, the Lieutenant looked up at the messenger. “Return to your post.”

No answer meant no admission. Not that anyone doubted their lack of men.

Without waiting for the messenger to leave, the Lieutenant faced the enemy. On this side of the compound, the builders had put a crenelated stone wall which ended six feet from the ceiling. If the Lieutenant looked to either side, he could see an endless row of men and women, most of them too young to fight. They stood with rifles poised in the crenels, or knelt while reloading, or leaned against the wall with their guns propped against the stones next to them. The Lieutenant wondered if they knew how lucky they were, to be in this section of Defense. To have a moment to breath.


He recognized the voice well enough to tense before he turned. Arta, older than she had been this morning and pale as pale, stood a few feet behind him, beckoning him into the shelter of the stairway overhang.

“I won’t tell you to surrender,” she said when they both stood out of earshot of the defenders. “But you should consider defeat.”

The Lieutenant tightened his jaw. He had. Trapped in their own city, out of power, out of men, without the force to break through the endless army blocking their exits— How could he consider anything but defeat?

He was not fool enough to expect mercy, but even so, surrender was starting to sound like a good idea. Perhaps the women and girls would be spared.

He felt Arta looking at him, and could guess her thoughts: Jed could hold the city.

The Lieutenant was not Jed.

“Arta,” he said, lowering his voice so no one would hear them over the noise of stalled battle. “You’re wise.”

“I’m old,” she said. “It’s not the same thing.”

Lifting his head, he glanced over the people fighting to the protect their homes and families— This was a lull, but in a few moments, there would be another wave of men with ladders or explosives, and so much for their wall. His throat constricted. What could he do? They were lost.

“Won’t spare the men or boys,” he said. For a moment, that was all, all that he could put into words. He jerked his gaze back to Arta. “If there’s no hope—”

“Lieutenant,” Arta said, sharply. “You better not say it.”

“What else is there?”

The stress and effort of the past few hours or days— he did not know how long it had been— hung on his shoulders like leaden weights. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, his mouth dry from lack of water. His emotions were a dry husk, burned by a fire that rivaled the one Jed, through his Companion gift, could produce.

“Can’t win,” he said, and his voice was ragged. “Don’t dare lose. Why the…”

“Hang on.” Slipping her hand into his, Arta clasped his wrist with the strength of a warrior, looking straight through his eyes and into his soul. “This will end. It will pass. You know how it ends, fool. This passes.

Her words jogged a memory, and he whispered, gazing into space. “Weight of glory…”

“Doesn’t compare.”

Slowly, he drew a breath, a breath of blood-and-sweat-tinged air. “Surrender’s not an option.”

“Fine.” Arta said. “Pull back.”

He looked at her.

“You can’t hold the city forever,” she said, speaking quick, clipped words. “Too many ways in. Too many wide open gates. Pull everyone back to the Old Fort, surrender the city, and pray.”

The Old Fort was a section of the city built ages before the rest, meant as a refuge in troubled times. It could be sealed off from the rest of the city, and contained a well— but no storehouse, as that section of the compound was now used as a residential section. It was tiny compared to the rest of the compound. Compared to the number of people still in the city.

“They will fit,” he said, thinking through the numbers. “Barely.”

And then what? Close themselves in and wait for help? And if the enemy had bombs?

Sweeping his gaze over the tired, dirty people pressed against the wall, the Lieutenant made his decision.

“Gather food,” the Lieutenant said. He pushed Arta toward the entrance. “Twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. And from there, they needed a miracle.

– –

{Series cancelled, 03/03/2014}

Saturday Stori: Hope Hunter, Episode Twenty-Seven

James had never seen a house so empty.

He stood frozen in the kitchen, the key held loose in his hand, listening to the steady dripping of the Hunter’s leaky faucet. This was insane. He should have had Ivon come in here.

Shaking his head, he shoved the key into his pocket. If Ivon had been the one to come in, it would have been illegal entry; it was probably illegal as it was, but since the Hunters had given James’s dad a key to their back door when they had gone on vacation a few months ago, James at least had unofficial permission to enter. Moving quietly, he closed the door leading to the garage and started toward Hope’s room.

Everything was achingly quiet. No television played game shows in the living room, no argument about dishes drifted in from the kitchen, no laughter filled Hope’s bedroom. In spite of the heat that ruled the outdoors, the house was almost frigid. Mrs. Hunter must have been kidnapped during the night, when she always turned the thermostat down below the temperature normal people could stand.

As he stepped into the living room, he faltered. Something dark stained the arm of the couch, where just a few days ago he had sat and talked to Hope. “You know,” he had said, “We may have known the same Arta after all.”

He curled his fingers into a fist. He should have told her. Right then and there, he should have explained about the crystals, about the underground city and the Companions and Arta, instead of letting himself be driven away by the incredulity in Hope’s eyes and the biting pain of memory. He should have warned her, before he left, about the people who collect crystals like the people of early America collected scalps. Would it have made a difference if he had? If he had talked to her, rather than become angry because she was being foolish?

Tightening his jaw, he stepped around the couch and went down the hall, stopping at the door of Hope’s room. Nothing had changed. Her bed still stood in disarray, the pink comforter she always insisted was too childish hanging half-off the bed. Peeking from behind the comforter, the shirt she had worn the day before her birthday was tangled in a pile of other dirty clothes. Hope’s smell hung on the air, a mixture of sweat, violet-and-sweet-pea-scented deodorant, and the half-perfume, half-must scent of the Hunter household. Tears stung at his eyes. Just a few days ago, Hope Hunter had been here and safe. Where was she now, and how long had it been for her?

One thing had changed. Just outside Hope’s window stood a young man who looked exactly like James but for the white pupils.

Sucking in a breath, James crossed the room and opened the window. He had to stay in the present, think more about what he could do now than what he should have done then.

“Did you find anything?” Ivon asked.

James shook his head. “I just got in here.” Stepping to the side so he would not have to put his back to Ivon, James turned and scanned the room. Even if Hope had left some clue as to where she went or how they could find the man who had kidnapped her, how was James supposed to find it? Organization had never been her strong point.

Ivon cleared his throat. “What’s that?”

James followed his gaze. On Hope’s desk sat a pink book, the color worn off the corners.

“A journal?” Ivon asked.

“I don’t think she keeps a journal,” James said, crossing the room to the desk. “But let’s see.”

The book felt heavy in his hand. He paused a second, holding the journal in one hand, his other hovering over the cover. Should he open it? He was already doing something barely legal. Snooping in Hope’s journal was not only an invasion of privacy, it was unethical.

Gritting his teeth, he flipped the book open to the first page. It was half-filled with a large, childish print.

“Dear Stori,
Mom bot me this journal for my birthday. She sed I shood right every day. I told her I wood right to you. She laffed. I haf to go.”

James stared at the words. “It is a journal.” Hope wrote to Stori?

“Does it say anything about… About the red-haired man?” Ivon asked.

“It’s old. This entry is from almost eight years ago,” James said. He flipped through the book until he found the last page. As he read silently, a knot settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Dear Stori,

“I don’t know why I’m writing to you. Logic and everything I have ever known tell me that you are a fantasy. But this crystal beside me on the desk… Could it really be a gift from you? Could all of this—all my dreams and the strange way James was acting— be related to you? Could you be real? I’m so tangled up inside. I don’t think you could be real, but I keep remembering the way you spoke to me… The way you hugged me, cried with me, comforted me… And I realize I love”

That was where it ended. No ellipse, no period, just an unfinished sentence with a short jerk in the line at the end of the ‘e,’ as if something had startled the writer.

Hope did not know? Did not know her Companion was real, did not know the properties of the crystal she had been wearing? She really did not know. Her Companion did not tell her?

What kind of Companion would not tell someone?

So for years, Hope had loved someone she did not believe existed. Someone who had tricked her in the end.

Ivon leaned in through the window. “James Bowen?”

James shut the book sharply. “Nothing.”

Setting the book on the desk, he glanced around the room again. This time, something caught his gaze. Sitting on the small round table just inside the door, a small silver box shimmered in the light. He had never seen it before.

“Do you see something?” Ivon asked.

James glanced at him. “Maybe.”

He crossed the room and picked up the box, turning it over in his hands. Intricate designs covered it, and on the top, tiny words ran along the edge. He glanced them over briefly and flipped the box open. Black velvet lined the inside, but aside from that, it was empty.


James tightened his fingers around the box. Ivon had not stopped pressing since they left James’s house. “Is this her house?” “Do you see anything?” “Are you going in?” “See anything?” “Find anything?” “Anything?” “Anything?” “Anything?” If Ivon was telling the truth about his sister, of course he would feel a sense of urgency. James could be patient.


But only a little bit longer.

Locking his gaze on Ivon’s face so he would not have to look at the empty room, James crossed the floor to the window.

“It’s empty,” he said, extending the box toward Ivon.

Ivon leaned forward. “What does it say?”

Raising the box toward his face, James squinted at the row of tiny letters that marched along the edge. From desert sands, to ocean’s shores, to see my child I traveled.

James stopped reading and shook his head. “I don’t think—”

“Wait.” Ivon put his hand on the window sill, his fingers trembling. “You probably don’t need to read that.”

Glancing up at him, James tightened his grip on the box. It felt cold in his hand. Had Hope recently touched this? Did it have an answer to this mess? He shifted his gaze to the etching on the top, following the line around the edge until it came to the end. Each letter matched the one before it, in perfect, uniform style; varying in only the way it was necessary to be identified as a letter. The letters carved in a swirl were different, shallower impressions like a random combination of computer fonts.

Blessings emerge cautiously after rain evaporates. Faith understands love, keeping each eon perfect in the sight all families experience.

As James read the words again, mouthing them silently, Ivon put his hands on either side of the window frame. “James,” he said. “Give me a boost.”

James switched his gaze from the baffling words on the box to the white-faced boy standing outside the window. “You can’t come in here. Then it really would be illegal entry.”

“You invited me.”

“I can’t invite you to someone else’s house.”

Clenching and unclenching his jaw, Ivon pulled himself through the open window and dropped to the floor, giving James a look through half-closed eyes. James gave it right back.

With a sharp shake of his head, Ivon turned off to look around the room. James looked back down at the box, fingering the designs and running the words through his head again.

“Blessings emerge…” he said aloud. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ivon stiffen, but ignored him.  That boy…

He repeated the first part of the swirl in his head, and tightened his jaw. Maybe he was being foolish. In all likelihood, this was nothing more than a bit of nonsense marked sloppily on a pretty box.

Yet, the words nagged at him. No, not so much the words as the box itself. He had been in Hope’s room many times, and this had not been in here before the beginning of her headaches— At least, not that he had noticed.

He lowered the box and almost spat a few unpleasant words he had picked up from various places over the course of his life. How was he supposed to find Hope? If this was the best clue he could find…

Looking at it again, he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Maybe it was a code of some kind. Maybe if he took every other word… He read the first word, skipped the second, and continued until he had finished. Blessings cautiously rain faith love each perfect the all experience.

While it made a bit of sense at the beginning, by the fourth word it was more nonsensical than the original words. He tried it with every second word, but that made even less sense. He tightened his jaw, tried every third word, and shook his head.

He started reading it backward, aloud this time. “Experience families all sight the in perfect…” Letting the last word fade to silence, he bit his tongue. Not that, either.

“What are you doing?” Ivon asked, giving James a queer look, one hand clenched behind his back.

Breathing in, sharply, James shook his head. Answering Ivon would just be asking for an argument, and that was the last thing James wanted right now.

He turned the box on its side. If he took the first letter of each word… That would give him Be at the beginning, followed by car… No. Care… Care… Ful?

“Hey!” He darted over to the desk and rifled through her drawers until he found a piece of paper. Snatching a pen out of the cup so quickly he knocked it over, he pressed the paper to the desk and started scribbling the first letters of every word, ignoring the dark-haired Companion who was standing too close to watch.

b e c a r e f u l k e e p i t s a f e

Holding the paper between his thumb and forefinger, James slumped into the chair. Now it made sense. “Be careful. Keep it safe.”

As Ivon picked up the box, slowly, as though afraid to break it, James lowered his head and massaged the bridge of his nose. Rather than solving anything, the inscription on the box raised more questions. Keep what safe? Well, obviously the thing in the box. Why?

He bounced his leg, glancing up. If he assumed that the Hope’s Crystal came in that box, it made a little more sense, but not a lot. So Hope should keep the Crystal safe. From who? And why would any Companion give away their Crystal’s Twin if they were so worried about it being kept safe? And… Well, there were a lot of ands.


Ivon jerked, and brought the box crashing into the corner of the desk. Eyes widening, James lurched to his feet and grabbed for the box. “What are you—”

Throwing the force of his whole body into it, Ivon slammed the box into the desk, then gripped it in both shaking hands and tried to twist it.

James grabbed his arm. “Ivon! Cut it— What are you doing?”

Shoving him off, Ivon smashed it against the desk again, and again, and again.

James grit his teeth. Gripping both of Ivon’s arms, James jerked him away from the desk. The box fell to the floor. Struggling against James’s grip, Ivon stomped toward the box, lurching forward by inches and driving his booted foot into the twisted metal.

“Ivon! Ivon, stop it!”

He broke away. Throwing himself at the box, he tore at it with both hands, as though he could rend the silver with bare fingers. James tackled him.

Slamming his head into James’s nose, Ivon dove for the box again. Pain flashed through James’s head. Without waiting for the fog to clear, he snagged the box with his fingers and hurled it across the room.

As Ivon stood, James spun him around, shoved him against the wall, and held him there, gripping a handful of his shirt. Blood dripped down James’s upper lip.

“What is your problem?” He spat the words through clenched teeth, shoving the Companion with every syllable.

His shoulders heaving with the effort of his breath, Ivon stared at James with wide, almost pleading eyes. Then he twisted violently away and leaned out the window, clutching the sill so hard his hands shook.

James let the moment go, the only sound the harsh whisper of their combined breaths.

After a while, James crossed his arms. “That wasn’t a dizzy spell.”

Ivon shook his head, and all of him shook. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice ragged. “I lost control.” He looked over his shoulder at James. A mixture of stern determination, wild anger, and cool certainty thickened his voice. “It won’t happen again.”

“You bet it won’t.”

With a last, wary glance at Ivon, James walked over to the box. He crouched, lifting the box by one corner of the twisted lid. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ivon convulse and lean out the window. The sound of retching hit James’s ears.

Letting the box drop back to the carpet, James massaged the bridge of his nose. Ivon’s assurance that it would not happen again did not set his mind at rest. There was more to this Companion than he would admit; more going on than he was willing to tell.

James was only sure of one thing: Ivon was keeping a whole lot of secrets.

If only James could remember what Arta had said about that boy.

Next Episode

Saturday Stori: Hope Hunter, Episode Twenty-Six


It had been many long years, but the word rang in Jed’s head as clear as the day he had heard it.

“The energy in his body will build up, pressing against the chain as the whole ocean would press against a dam. If the chain is broken…”

“It would explode,” Jed had said.

It seemed so long ago, now, and yet so recent, when he and an old friend had met in the hall after Az had been chained. Jed had asked what would happen if he was unchained.

“Doomsday,” had been the answer.

And now the memory rolled on relentlessly in his head.

“But,” Jed had said. “That would kill him.”

The old man’s brow had furrowed, moisture gleaming in his eyes.

“No, Jed,” the old man had whispered. “He is already dead.”

Then, the stress and pain of the last several weeks had crashed down on Jed, and he had cried. Now, he swallowed down the emotion and opened another door. Why would a memory from hundreds of years ago be louder in his mind than the cries of Az’s dying faithful?

When an empty room stared back at him, he closed the door and leaned hard against the wall. Maybe he was slipping in and out of consciousness. This search for Hope Hunter’s mother had drained him, leaving him an empty shell without the strength to block painful memories. He did not know how long he had been searching, but it felt like long enough for Az to burn himself out. It should have been long enough for Jed to find a prisoner Az would doubtless want near him.

He curled his fingers and closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to steady. Had Hope Hunter gotten out all right? Had she been able to find the gate back to the underground city? Had he done the right thing in sending her away? If Az had kidnapped her as nothing more than bait to draw Jed back here, the girl would be safer on her own. But if Jed had been right in his first assumption, that Az wanted the girl for the girl’s sake, Jed may have endangered every world by sending her away without protection. Az was not inclined to risk so much for an unimportant person.

Rubbing one hand over his face, he exhaled through barely open lips. So much rested on unknowns. It always had. He acted on unknowns, and prayed with all his might he had made the right decision.


The memory was different this time, but the voice so achingly familiar he could not breathe. It was a woman’s voice, one he had not heard since before Az had been chained.

“Don’t call me that,” Jed had answered, quietly, but more roughly than he ever should have spoken to her. “That is not my name any more.”

“Jed, are you sure—?” She began.

“Not at all.”

He felt it again, all the uncertainty of that day and the days following. Through the woman’s voice, over the cries from Az’s men in the present, he heard the rustling of her skirt and the steady beat of metal on metal. It was so clear. Every sound that had filled the room that day filled his head, from her breathing to the sound of the dwarf forging a chain. As vivid as life. As sharp as pain.

For a moment, neither he nor the woman said anything in his memory. The sounds did not stop, though; he heard the gentle tap of her shoe against the stone floor, and could almost feel her hand on his shoulder. Staring into the emptiness of the hall, he could see a shadow of her face in his mind; hair swept back from her cheeks, forehead bent in pretty wrinkles over prettier eyes.

“Are you all right?” She had asked.

He remembered the next part, too, how the words stuck in his throat as he tried to say them and came out hoarse and ragged. He mouthed them, now, as he heard the memory again in his head. “Not at all.”

He pushed himself off the wall and moved toward the next door, taking each step with care to avoid tripping over his own feet. When he tried the knob, it did not budge. For a moment, he stood with his hand closed around the cool metal, toying with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he had enough energy left to melt it; but if he was going to save Hope Hunter’s mother, as he had promised he would, he could not afford to use his energy so frivolously. He tapped on the door.

“Mrs. Hunter?” He said, and winced at the rasping in his voice.

No answer came from behind the wooden door. With a glance up and down the hall, he twisted the knob and shoved the door inward. The wood gave a little, and when he shoved again, it splintered around the knob. He bent his knees and looked through the hole.

In the light seeping into the room, Jed could make out the form of a person, slumped in a chair.

“Mrs. Hunter?” He called, daring to raise his voice a little louder. The figure did not move.

Jed slammed his body against the door. With a dull crack, it collapsed into the room. Jed stumbled to keep his balance.

A sharply bitter scent assailed him. Without waiting for his eyes, or his nose, to adjust, he strode toward the person in the chair. Shoulder-length hair draped her face, dark with dried blood. Her shoulders moved erratically with her breaths. Sliding his hand under her head, he carefully turned her face toward him, brushing back her hair with his other hand.

Even in the absence of good light, Jed recognized the round face of Hope Hunter’s mother. He flexed the muscles in his fingers. “Mrs. Hunter,” he said, softly. “Mrs. Hunter, can you hear me?”

She stirred.

“Mrs. Hunter, I don’t know if you can hear me,” he said. “My name is Jed. I’m going to try and get you out.”

If she could hear him, that would keep her from reacting with fear when she fully regained consciousness. He hoped.

Letting her head fall back to its previous position, he crouched and felt along the chair-leg until he found the rope binding her ankles. He followed it with his fingers until he found the knot.

Footsteps sounded from the hall. Standing, slowly so he would make no noise, Jed listened as the beats neared the door. Unless they were non-bipedal, there were three people approaching. Az’s men, no doubt. Would they realize as they passed that the prize prisoner’s door was busted, or were they coming here, directly? Either one would be dangerous, especially considering Jed’s weakened state.

He moved his lips silently. God of Salvation.

“I can’t believe we have to do this.”

For a moment, Jed thought the voice came from another memory. Then he realized it did not echo in his head the same way the memories did, and he had never heard the voice before, nor had he learned the language it spoke until very recently.

A quick laugh came from the hall. “Orders are orders.”

“It’s not like anyone’s going to sneak in to a place like this,” the first voice said. “And he’s already got the red-head, so what’s he worried about?”

“Ghosts?” Said a third man.

“Very funny.” There was a pause, and the first spoke again. “Unless he’s worried about a rescue attempt. You know, for the girl.”

“As if,” said the second. “She’s probably already dead.”

After another pause, Jed heard the first voice. “You don’t think he was actually planning to chain her, do you?”

“Nah,” said the third. “Unless…”


“Well, you never can tell with that thing,” the third man said, haltingly, as if he expected to be rebuked at any moment. “He could have been lying when he said she was just for bait.”

“Have a death wish, Farrel?” The second voice said.

“Don’t you think he could have been lying?” The third man, apparently called Farrel, pitched his voice higher.

“Course,” the second voice said. “But I don’t want to die for asking the wrong questions.”

“I’m not asking questions, I’m just—”

“Hey,” said the first voice. One pair of footsteps stopped. “Isn’t that the room the other one was in?”

The other two men stopped, and Jed tensed.

“Yeah,” Farrel said. “Why?”

One of them took a few steps closer to the room.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be like that.”

“Who cares? We’re on patrol, not maintenance,” Farrel said. “Let someone else deal with it.”

“What if she…” The first man faltered. “You know.”

“In her condition?” the second man said. “As if. The dwarf probably just lost his key. Let’s go, Kian, before we end up in there with the others.”

“Myron’s right,” Farrel said. “If it bothers you that much, Mr. Conscience, we can tell somebody to check into it on our way out.”

Kian did not answer, but after a moment, Jed heard their footsteps fade down the hall. When the dripping and the cries of men were again the only sounds drifting into the room, he dropped to his knees and started working at the knot. Exhaustion, fever, and urgency shook his hands. He was bound by oath to get Mrs. Hunter out of here, but if the patrol kept their word and told someone else to check on this room, he might have as little as twelve minutes before it was too late.

Tightening his jaw, he moved his fingers in short, violent jerks. If Hope Hunter was not out of the building, she had better get out, immediately. The patrol would have to follow this hall to the only exit in the building— If Hope was not out before they got there, she would be trapped like a kitten up a tree.

* * *

Hope Hunter pressed her hand against the stone wall of the passage, ignoring the slime between her fingers, ignoring the bricks under her feet, ignoring the faint echoes of cries that still reached her. The dripping sound had steadily increased in volume the farther she went, and now it filled her head, and she focused on it, focused on the perfectly normal drip, drip, drip of water.

Raise an army. Stop Az. Fight. How was she supposed to do any of that?

She raised her head. For the past several minutes, or hours, she had been able to see where the hallway ended in a wall with a grey hole in it. Grey, because nothing in all the world was as black as the portal Mei had led her through. Just like nothing in all the world was as lonely as this endless hallway and the brick floor and the sagging ceiling and stone walls and endless dripping.

As she got closer, she could see that the hole in the wall was a clean-cut rectangle, half as tall as she was. She stared at it, hard. Was that what Jed had meant when he said she would find “it”? The exit? Was it a door leading outside? Was it night outside?

She had wondered more than once what would happen if she had missed a turn or a door, or if the entire hallway had just rearranged itself since Jed came through here. He had seemed to think it would be obvious, but nothing obvious had presented itself to her, except the violent bursts of light coming from pipes that lined the wall near the ceiling. Hopefully Jed had not meant she should go through a pipe. They were far too small.

If she had missed it, it did not matter at this point. She was too tired, too confused, to go back. Unless she saw another way to go, she would just keep following the hall, wherever it led. And if she lost herself in this dismal place and wandered until her death?

Well, then. She would have to miss the war. Pity.

Stopping at the hole in the wall, she dropped to a crouch and peered in. A short tunnel kept the opening cloaked in shadow. Just beyond that, she could see into another room. Water, tinged red by light spilling in from the other side, lapped against steps that led down into the room. Past the steps, a tangle of pipes that reminded Hope of a jungle gym stood out of the water. Small pipes, attached to pipes almost large enough for Hope to crawl through, twisted in seemingly random directions and disappeared into the walls.  The dripping sound was definitely coming from in here. It bounced off the walls of the room inside, danced around her head, and slipped over her shoulders to flavor the air in the rest of the building. Drip, drip, drip.

Hope shivered. For a few seconds, she entertained the thought of turning back, of telling Jed “No.” She would do a lot of things, but having to walk through a room full of water carrying who-knew-what diseases went too far. Yet she had neither the energy, nor the option, to turn back. This was her path, cliché as it seemed. Until she got somewhere, she had to keep going this way.

Besides, this was rather noticeable. Maybe she was going the right way after all.

She ducked into the tunnel and walked bent double, her back pressed against the top of the ceiling.

Her feet splashing in the water, Hope started down the steps. Scum from the surface clung to her clothing as if drawn there by magnetic force. By the time she descended into waist deep water, her skin was numb with the cold of it, and the edge of her shirt sagged with the weight. Images of tiny parasitic creatures and large, slimy, tentacles crowded into her mind. What had she read, in years past, about water? In every story, something unpleasant always lurked beneath the surface.

At this point, she thought she would settle for something unpleasant. As long as it was not fatal or terrifying, she was happy.

She reached the pipes, great black tubes connected to smaller white-and-grey ones. One pipe, passing directly from one side of the room to the other, was half-submerged in water, and covered by small grey worms that swarmed in an ever-moving mass. She pressed a fist to her stomach and stopped. The pipe blocked her way; she would either have to duck under it, into the murky water that filled the room, or she would have to climb over it, squishing the tiny grey swarm under her hands as she pulled herself on top of the pipe. If she ducked under it, she would probably run into some other pipes, or get tangled up in something under there, and die a horrible death. She had no choice but to go over it.

“Ugh,” she said. Her voice echoed off the walls. “Gross.”

If she was going to do it, she could at least complain about it first.

Gritting her teeth, she placed her hands on the pipe, nearly twelve inches apart. The creatures squirmed under her skin, crawling up between her fingers to escape the pressure. Shivering, she shifted her weight to her hands and lifted her feet off the floor, trying to vault onto the pipe.

Half a second. Then her hands slipped, and she fell forward, slamming her chin on the pipe as she fell. The water rushed into her mouth and nose. Panic throttled her. Just as quickly as she fell, she was on her feet again, and stood gasping for breath, choking on air, not for the time she was not breathing, but for the fear pounding through her veins and tightening like a hand around her throat.

She coughed out the taste of green things and dead water, tears spilling down her cheeks.

I can’t do this, she thought. I can’t.

She balled her hands into fists and lurched forward, throwing both arms across the top of the pipe. Shoving dignity aside, she wriggled up onto it, lips clamped tightly shut as she pressed her face against the pipe. Worms squirmed through her clothes and against her skin. Gritting her teeth, she wiggled until she was on top of the wide black pipe, and swung her legs off the other side.

She fell faster than she meant to. Her feet hit the floor hard, and she pitched forward, crashing into a jumble of pipes. She clung to them and breathed.

The light tingeing the water like blood came from a ragged opening beyond this tangle of tubes. Another flight of steps led up to it. From this angle, Hope could see nothing but the sky; a red sky with shreds of black cloud, about as welcoming as the rest of this world. Instead of a door frame, the inside edge of the opening was spilling grey fuzz, as if the space between the exterior and interior walls had been filled with mold, or spider webs, or dirty fiberfill. Though it looked like someone had hacked through the wall to make the opening, at least it looked full-size.

Weaving through the forest of pipes, ducking under some, she made it to the steps. Rather than the sturdy stone steps that had brought her into this room, these were as make-shift as the door. Bricks stacked at varying heights led up from the floor and met with wooden planks screwed to each other and to the stone wall. These steps were longer than the ones she had already survived, giving her the impression that the entire building had been built under ground.

Wind, sneaking into the building through the opening, bit at her skin. She slid her foot forward until it bumped the first step, hidden by the water, and tested it with her weight. It held.  As she climbed, she kept her eyes on the sky outside, feeling for the next step with her feet. A kind of morbid curiosity settled in her stomach. What kind of world would have a red sky?

She slowed when she reached the wooden portion of the steps, but kept moving. The steps creaked a complaint.

Then she stood on bricks, under the red sky. She shifted her gaze and looked at the world she had stepped into.

A city stretched before her, clusters of blackened stone buildings stretching toward the sky, divided by red brick streets stained dark in places. But for the wind, nothing moved; Even the sun, a dark orange ball of flame hovering on the horizon, seemed frozen in space. She wondered if the planet no longer turned. No people lay on the streets, but cars did— bright metal skeletons sitting deathly still in front of the decaying buildings, as if they were waiting for their owners to step into them and drive away. Off to the side, scorched vehicles lay scattered around the edge of a crater, a pockmark, six feet across, marring the bricks.

She shuddered. A feeling of sick horror spread from her heart to the tips of her fingers, a numbness that rivaled the numbness from the water. It was dead. Utterly dead, but for the green and grey things in the room behind her. What an awful place to choose as headquarter, even for a monster like Az.

From here, nothing was obvious. She did not know which way to go.

She forced herself to take a step, and another, until she was moving at a deliberate pace down the street that bent away from the building she had just exited. As she moved, she saw the details she had not noticed before; a trail of muddy footprints on the bricks; a hole in the grating on the gutter; a metal doll lying in the street; rust around the edges of the holes in morbidly cheerful cars; rot clinging to the wooden doors that were, without exception, closed. These were houses, she realized. Great sky-scrapers of houses, perhaps apartment complexes, now falling to pieces, so that the highest levels were only metal beams like exposed rib-cages. Through the gaping wounds in the buildings left by shattered windows, she could see couches, beds, and electronic screens. Through one window, she caught a glimpse of a screen glowing with the familiar speckled mess of static.

When she looked up, she realized the lights lining the street were also on, as though in preparation for the night that had no interest in falling.

Voices unsettled the air. Fear shooting through her, Hope slid into a space between two buildings and crouched, covered by the shadows. Her heart hammered in her ears.

Footsteps pounded the street beyond her hiding place. Scooting further into the darkness, she flattened herself against the bricks. She could not understand the language they were speaking, or see who they were, but she had no friends in this world.

The footsteps stopped. The voices paused. One set of footsteps drew closer to her hiding place, casting a shadow across the bricks— A shadow carrying a rifle.

Hope held her breath, closed her eyes, and prayed.

Someone said something. With a bit of laughter, the people moved off again, the sound of scuffling clear between their steps.

Before the beats had quite faded into silence, Hope released her breath as calmly as she could manage. Trembles started at the space between her shoulders and spread outward, until her whole body quivered in great, hard shudders. Pushing herself off the street, she climbed to her feet.

She waited a few moments before leaning out of her hiding place. Down the street, in the direction she had been going, she could barely make out the forms of three uniformed men.

She did not move until they were out of sight.

If they were leaving to go somewhere in particular, she could not guess how long they would be gone. If they were on patrol— Well, if she were a villain in a place like this, she would definitely send out a regular patrol— they might turn around and come back any minute. She had to do something. Go somewhere.

Stepping out into the street, she looked around at the rows of identical buildings; all of them metal, all of them missing the windows, all of them coming to pieces in this world where night was always falling but never fell. She turned full circle, looking at all of the buildings.

Finally, she saw it.

In a world of closed doors, one door was ajar, a black door in a stone building at the end of the street. The street turned off at both sides at the building, as if it was a rock diverting a river. It just happened to be in the direction the uniformed men had gone.

Of course.

This time, she did not even bother to consider the possibility of going back.

She moved toward the building, resisting the urge to run, for fear her footsteps would be too loud and would bring the uniforms back. This may not even be where Jed had meant for her to go; and the way this day had been going, it would not be a safe place even if it was the right one. Still, she wanted to run into the building, slam the door, and hide away from this dead world with its dead villain and his very much alive guards.

She hoped Jed could rescue her mother.

Reaching the door, she realized someone had propped it open by a headset, like the one Stori had worn when she was running delivery back at the underground city. Hope felt a wave of comfort, and a bit of excitement. If this was here, it meant she had come to the right place. Jed probably left it to mark the door. Using her shoulder to shove the door further open, she slipped into the room, stooping to pick up the headset. The door clicked shut behind her.

“Hello,” said a pleasant female voice. “How may I help you?”

Yiping, Hope pivoted toward the room. On either side of the door, two long, cushioned benches lined the walls. Several yards into the room and to Hope’s right, a stocky black podium stood as though waiting for a preacher or politician to make a speech. Beyond that, black lines marked the floor in a half-circle.

The room was empty otherwise.

Hope sucked in a breath and took a careful step forward. “Hello?”

“Hello,” repeated the voice. “How may I help you?”

Hope shivered, and not for the cold. The woman speaking— Whoever she was— had said everything the exact same way she had the first time, with the same intonation and all. Almost like…

Relief flooded Hope. Almost like a recording, or a computer.

Now she just hoped the computer was not anti-stranger.

“I’m looking for a gateway,” Hope said. “Back to—”

Rectangles of rippling light shot out of the floor, forming a semi-circle opposite where Hope was standing. Gaps in the row of portals stood out like missing teeth in a mouth full of perfect ones, with nothing but black lines on the floor where gateways used to be.

“Please make your selection.”

Hope’s heart thudded. How could she tell which one led back to the compound? She did not know what it was called, aside from “the compound” or “the underground city.”

“Which one leads to the underground city?”

There was a pause the length of a breath.

“Please make your selection,” the voice said, as polite as ever.

So that would not work.

“God, help me.”

The pause was shorter this time, before the computer said, “Please make your selection.”

Wait. Jed had used this to get here from the underground city, right? Hope cleared her throat. “Which gateway was used last? I mean, most recently?”

All of the rectangles of light winked out, save one standing to Hope’s right, like a promise that she had gotten it “right.” Taking a breath, she crossed the room and stepped into the portal.

Pain tore at her stomach for a split second. Light rushed by her and settled, and birds were singing nearby.

She opened her eyes.

Before her, hills rolled on until they met the horizon. Behind her stood a familiar grey cliff, bare as death.

And because she was tired, slimy, scared, and did not want to cry, Hope stated the obvious.

“This isn’t the underground city.”

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