
# The Mirror Wars

Part One

Sean M. Hogan
The Mirror Wars

Copyright © 2018 by Sean M. Hogan.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact :

<http://seanmichaelhogan.weebly.com/>

Book Formatting Template by Derek Murphy @Creativindie

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ISBN:

ASIN: B073NFQCYK

First Edition: March 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS

The Mirror Wars

The Crow Behind The Mirror

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part Two

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

The Marauder

Prologue

Episode One

Chapter One

A Halloween Carol

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Email List

About The Author

Acknowledgments

# The Crow Behind The Mirror

The Mirror Wars, Book One

Sean M. Hogan

# Part One

Haunted

# Chapter 1

The Barbarian and the Boy

**THE BOY WAS DEAD** —his lips blue, his eyes placid, and his skin egg white. The snow and ice had claimed him days ago, to sit by Ordin's side in the Great Hall of Eternal Dreams, where all lost children must go. From the suffering of cold, toward the warmth of light. The final reward.

At last this boy knew peace. And yet his exposed naked heart still beat.

***

The men had regressed into chanting, thrusting their spears and swords and axes into the cold night air. The men of the Western clans. Eric should have been one of them. He had seen forty harsh winters pass and this winter marked his twenty-eighth as a warrior. Yet he did not share their drunken enthusiasm or their blind courage. He already knew the outcome of tomorrow's war. The North would be victorious. The West would fall. The big fish would swallow the little one. These men marched to their deaths, and Eric's fate marched with them.

Eric slipped away from the ranks unnoticed, without regrets, without looking back.

The winds howled. The hail pelted. Eric raised his arm and fur cloak and pushed on.

He would have passed the snow-entrenched road none the wiser, if not for two shimmering lights piercing the darkness. Two crystals, one blue and the other red, reflected the moonlight in a brilliant haze. They called to Eric, beckoned him with a siren's candlelight. And Eric pursued, chasing the flame into the void as all moths do. To the bitter end.

When he came upon the crystals, he fell to his knees and brushed aside the snow. He took them into the palm of his hand and reveled in their glory. Their light reflected in his blue eyes and basked his face with warmth. Then he noticed the chain. The crystals were attached to an exquisite gold necklace. _What luck,_ he thought, _the gods surely blessed me with riches tonight._ He tugged and found resistance. He tugged harder. Still the chain did not budge. This time he pulled with all his strength and unearthed the boy.

Eric stumbled backward, fell on his ass, and fought back the urge to scream. Once composed, Eric studied him—this young boy with raven black hair and olive-colored eyes. The tail end of his purple cape, made of the finest fabric Eric had ever seen or felt, flapped in the wind. He was bundled up in it—a silent caterpillar cocooned for all time.

Eric slowly unraveled him. Resting on the boy's breast was a large book, bound in blood-red leather and clutched tightly in small, dead, frostbitten hands. On the cover three circles overlapped—one red, one blue, and one black. He peeled back the boy's fingers and took the book, exposing a gaping hole in the boy's chest, his heart beating like a furious drum.

Staring into dead eyes, Eric reached for the heart. He held the boy's life in his hand. Beyond reason and logic, life still pumped through this boy.

The gods had a hand in this no doubt. Fate deemed our paths should cross.

The boy lived, but could he be saved? Eric scooped the boy into his arms and headed into the blizzard to find the answer.

***

Shadows cast from the flames of the fireplace danced across the boy's face. His eyes fluttered open. Bloody bandages lay a few feet from the boy's bed, fresh ones wrapped around his waist and chest. He scanned the den of the primitive cabin built of clay, straw, and wood. The stale air tasted of sweat and ash. A large figure draped in animal furs hunched over a red book—a hooded barbarian with a thick black beard—and flipped through the pages feverishly, devouring each one after the other. The boy smiled at his first reader. He attempted to rise but sharp seething pain shot through him and he only managed sitting up.

The boy's groan alerted the barbarian and his eyes rose from the book. Eric pulled back his hood, exposing his weathered face.

"I should warn you," the boy said with much weakness. "There is a price for that knowledge you hold in your hands. A price that must be paid in blood."

Eric studied the boy for a quiet moment. Finally, with caution, he spoke. "Your wounds healed themselves in one night. Are you man or god?"

The boy shot him a hearty smirk. "I've killed far too many to be called a man."

Eric searched for the right words and failed in finding them. "Surely you jest. You're but a boy. A child."

"A child older than the oldest mountains."

"Yes." Eric returned to the book. "The one called Able. Ruler of a world beyond the mirrors. Beyond the stars. So, your book says." He rose from his chair and handed back Able's book.

Able glanced down at the book. "You don't believe my words?"

"Books lie as much as men do. Children even more."

"But I am neither man nor child."

"What are you then?" Eric forced the next question out. "A _demon?_ "

"Many have called me that. Among others. Prince of Crosses. Lord of Lashes. Emperor of Skulls. So many titles it's hard to keep track."

"Then you are like our Demon of the North. A would-be conqueror."

Able relaxed against his pillow. "He sounds fun."

"He invades the Western lands as we speak. As he did with the others." Eric took his battle-ax in his hands, hoping it would imbue him with courage. "But he shall find our wills not so easily broken."

"Why did you save me, barbarian?"

"Ordin rewards those who do good deeds. And saving children is the grandest act one can perform in this life."

Able's eyelids narrowed. "So, it's a reward you're after?"

Eric put his ax down and sat in his chair. "In this life or the next."

"Well, I know _nothing_ of the next. But if it's a reward you want, perhaps I can be of service. After all, I owe you my life." Able flipped through the pages, searching for the right one. "It's only fitting I be the one to reward you personally."

"Save your gold." Eric waved Able's offer away like smoke. He did not want to sully his deed. "The dead and the dying have no need of wealth. Tomorrow I will go to war. I cannot hide from my fate forever. Soon the North will break through our frontlines. Then they will come here. Better to die among kin with honor than be butchered on the run like a stray dog." He poured himself a mug of mead. "Pray for me instead."

Able raised an eyebrow. "And _whom_ shall I pray to?"

"Ordin and the Seven Maidens. That my everlasting dreams be pleasant ones." Eric downed his mead.

"You believe this Ordin to be a god? _How amusing_."

Eric wiped his mustache clean with his sleeve. "It is not wise to mock the gods."

"I mock nothing. Ordin died long ago. He had his chance at godhood—yes—but he threw it all away."

"He resisted temptation." Eric poured himself another drink. "He chose the eternal dream over this waking life. Even now he resides in the Dreamtime. Waiting for our return."

"The dead wait for nothing."

Eric stopped mid-sip and slammed his mug down on the table. His hand shook as much as the mead. "And how are your dreams, _boy?_ "

Able laughed. When his laughter died, his voice grew calm and callous. "Horrifying—as I suspect yours are. __ Oh, the sweet irony. I have _nothing_ to look forward to in the _next_. While you have everything. Well, pleasant dreams at least. But you're trembling. And I am simply bored. Why is that? I always thought humans invented religion to ease such fears. Yet here you are. So full of faith and yet so full of doubt."

Eric calmed himself with a few deep breaths and averted his eyes. "Even Ordin had doubts."

"Not doubts. _Choices_." Able ripped out a page from his book. " _A choice_." He folded the pure white paper and tossed it into Eric's lap. "Would you like the same?"

# Chapter 2

The Crow

**CLOUDS BLEW BY** as a jet-black **** crow rode on the currents of the autumn winds. The crow glided through the crystal blue sky and over a sea of modern suburban homes. The wind gushed past the trees and stripped them bare of orange and yellow leaves. The dying leaves hurled into the wind, dancing the way schools of multicolored fish swim in elegant formations while the crow speared on through. He tilted his sleek feathered head to the side and blinked his oil black eyes, scanning the scenery below to observe the orderly chaos of the civilized. Honking cars waded through congested traffic. Fashionably dressed people watered perfect little gardens. Designer dogs defecated on symmetrically carved lawns. A world in and of itself concerned only with its self. The American dream. A world the crow possessed little concern for. For he, unlike them, had a destination.

The ring of a school bell ensnared the crow's attention. He circled the school. A noisy flood of gray-uniformed girls spilled out from the building, swarming like frantic gray ants over the yellow lunch tables. He glided in, swooping down to a gentle perch on a telephone wire. The crow peered at the busy students, his gaze zooming in on one empty lunch table, devoid of occupants save for one lone girl.

_Sharon Ashcraft ate alone._ It was better this way. Best to avoid conflict with the other girls for now. After all, teenage girls can be more vicious than a troop of crazed chimpanzees—ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Any girl unlucky enough to get bullied will testify to this fact. And Sharon was at a disadvantage today. She was the dreaded new kid. At an all-girls' Catholic school, no less. Stuck in one of those humiliating skirts pop-singers wear to fake the appearance of innocence and chastity. But the _color_. Her uniform's color made it unbearable. Gray. The depressing shade of gray that steals your very soul and identity. The kind of gray that makes little orphan sweatshop workers chew off their own fingers so they don't have to sew another damn uniform. Sharon wondered if there was the word _conform_ written in secret on the back of her shirt. Maybe if she had a pair of special _alien-exposing_ sunglasses like from that old eighties movie _They Live_ she would be able to read it. The horrid color made her appear even paler than she already looked. And with her long raven black hair cascading down her slender shoulders she might as well scream Goth at the top of her lungs. She looked around. Goth didn't seem to be _in_ this year.

Sharon swallowed another spoonful of blueberry yogurt. She closed her blue eyes and fantasized about having friends. Other girls her age sitting across from her, talking, laughing, gossiping about cute boys and even hotter guys. _Hell,_ they could be talking about stamps for all she cared. Ironic that the solution to her problem was so simple.

_Just get up,_ she told herself, _just stand up and walk over to the nearest table full of smiling happy well-adjusted girls. Introduce yourself. Talk. Tell a joke. Laugh at theirs. And talk... just talk damn it._

She was sweating now. Drops formed from the pores of her forehead. Her hands clammed up. The nape of her neck cooled to a chill. Her knees threatened to buckle. Her stomach knotted to a nauseating rat's nest. _Another attack._

Sharon tried calming her racing heart—to slow the frantic beats with controlled, paced, and rhythmic breaths. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Good. That's good._ She was back in control now, freeing her up for another round of self-loathing.

_Sharon Ashcraft is a pathetic pitiful creature,_ she berated herself, _a coward beyond all measure._

She dug her nails into her thighs. Sharon hated being this way. Hated being "shy". Shy: another word for anxiety-ridden. Irrational crippling fear. _Why even bother trying?_ She knew what would happen. She'd freeze up. Fumble her words. Speak so softly no one would understand. Become a deer caught in the blinding beams of oncoming traffic. Social road kill.

Sharon wished she was back at her old home in California, back at her old school where she had one friend at least. Sarah Herman, Sharon's partner in petty crimes and misdemeanors. Her sole social circle—if you can call one friend a circle. Truth was Sharon had never actually made a friend, Sarah _made_ her, doing all the hard work for her back in second grade. Simpler times. Sharon knew the reason for her suffering. It boiled down to science, as everything usually does. She had missed that critical window of adolescent brain development. Where the skill of making friends, like language and reading human faces, imprinted itself. Sharon was socially blind the way feral children raised by dogs can never truly comprehend complex language. She might as well have been _Jane Goodall_ and the other girls: chimps wearing lipstick and mascara. No matter how hard she tried, socializing would always be _awkward_ and _foreign._ Pretending _to be_ was never the same as just _being._ No matter how much she observed and imitated, she could never be one of them, one of the happy, well-adjusted troop. Sharon felt like she was always carrying around a large scarlet letter B sown to her chest. B for broken.

Three shadows descended on Sharon and swallowed up her sun. Sharon gave a quick sly glance over her shoulder. She spotted three girls horde around her like a pack of hungry dogs sniffing out a foreigner intruding on their territory.

"So, you're the new girl?"

Sharon gave no response.

One of the girls sat down next to her. Too close. Invading Sharon's personal space and rubbing her shoulder against hers. A clear display of dominance. Sharon had watched far too many nature documentaries on the _Discovery Channel_ to miss this. The girl brushed back her blonde hair from her eyes and smirked at Sharon. Another power play. She wanted Sharon to know she was in control. Fearless. Of course, she was _fearless_. She had back up and home field advantage. _Lucky her._

"My name's Alice Gordon. You've probably heard of me. I'm the cheer squad leader and class president. My father's a senator, Charles Gordon. I know you've heard of him." Alice snatched up one of Sharon's French fries from her plate and bit the top half off like a hen chomping the head off a caterpillar.

A shining portrait of American teen superficiality. Alice Gordon and her two friends came jam-packed with glittered bracelets, too much makeup, and overpriced earrings. Anything to standout in this sea of gray uniforms.

"And you are?" she asked, cutting Sharon short before she could muster up an answer. "Well, it doesn't really matter _who_ you are. All that matters is that you understand the rules."

Sharon just ignored her and continued eating her meal, hoping Alice would just get bored and go pester someone else. She didn't.

"I'll cut to the point," she said growing irritated in Sharon's lack of response. "Do you know what the rules are here?" Her question hung in the uncomfortable silent air. Alice's face tightened as she gritted her teeth. No one ignores a Gordon. "I guess not. Because if you did you would know this is where we eat. _F.Y.I._ no freaks or emo-bitches. This means _you._ "

Alice plucked Sharon's soda can up into the air, as if her hand was a metal claw hunting for cute fluffy stuffed victims in a vending machine. She poured soda all over Sharon's food, soaking her fries and chicken sandwich in a pool of black bubbly carbonation. Alice was marking her territory. Her friends covered their mouths, a halfhearted attempt at containing a brew of wicked giggles. They were self-esteem vampires, the lot of them, thriving off the misery of others. Vultures feasting off Sharon's suffering and delighting in her eternal torment.

Sharon shot up from her seat and stared down a smug Alice, her fists clenching and nostrils snorting out furious air. Alice took her time standing up, bolstering unapologetic and unwavering eye contact. She was daring Sharon to do something, to act on her emotions.

Alice Gordon was the kind of narcissistic brat who always got ahead in life. Not because of her charisma or character or work ethic or something of that nature. But because she was born with a little less fear than everyone else. Something Sharon envied Alice for as much as she despised her for. But as Alice would soon learn and Sharon would soon teach her, a little fear can be beneficial to one's health... given the situation _._

Sharon gave Alice no time to react, hurling her fist into Alice's smug face, crunching her nose like a fortune cookie. Alice lost her balance and fell, the back of her skull bouncing hard off the cement. Her friends were speechless, their mouths dropping in a breathless gasp. Alice jerked her hands back cupping her now gushing nose. The blood seeped out from between the cracks of her fingers. The red drizzled down the backs of her hands and dripped off her elbows. What came out of Alice next shocked even Sharon. Alice wailed a shrieking bellowing cry, kicking the cement with the back of her heels and flailing her whole body around. A true spectacle of convulsing agony.

Sharon turned around and, to her horror, discovered everyone was looking her direction. Dozens of yellow lunch tables filled to the brim with girls, strangers, their attention focused on her. A thing of nightmares. Hundreds of eyes, their cold stares confirming her worst fears: She was an outcast, a freak, a monster, and worst of all, _alone_.

***

The crow extended his wings and took flight. Off to find a place less crowded, a place where he and Sharon could be alone. He circled the sky above the school, biding his time for her. Finally satisfied enough time had passed, he descended and landed on the branch of an old oak tree stripped bare of leaves save for a few dozen colorful stragglers. The crow's focus came to a second story window just a few meters away. His ghostly black eyes reflected a figure inside. A girl. Sharon Ashcraft.

***

A woman with gray hair flipped through a blood-red file folder, scanning over the papers inside. Her gaze moved up to Sharon's high school photo paper-clipped to her transcripts. Sharon frowned in the picture, might as well have been her arrest mug-shot with her holding up a plaque with her new serial numbers.

Sharon sat on the other side of the desk staring blankly at the principal's shiny brass name plate. One word: Stone. _Not a good sign._ She squirmed in the small, cheap, plastic chair. She looked around the office. Everything else seemed so new, especially the principal's business chair—made with real leather. Must have set her back a grand at least. As if she was some corporate bigwig or something. The contrasting chairs were no accident. Another power play.

A weathered woman in her fifties, Principal Stone's humorless face said everything Sharon needed to know. Stone had lost all joy for this job. And accounting for her bland colorless suit and masculine hairdo Sharon bet she hadn't got laid in years. Principal Stone placed the file folder down, massaged her temples, and took in a heap of air. Sharon braced herself for the worst.

"This isn't _prison_ Miss Ashcraft. We don't pick fights to sort out some survival of the fittest hierarchy on the first day of school. This is not a good start for you. Not the _start_ I wanted for you in the least."

Sharon glanced at the door's fogged up glass window. Outside, stood the school security guard. He had marched Sharon from the lunch tables to the principal's office, squeezing her arm tightly along the way, as if she was some common criminal. She glanced back at Principal Stone.

"Government forced attendance in an institution full of mentally unstable strangers," said Sharon. "Uniforms, metal detectors, and police guards. The way I see it high school couldn't be _more_ like prison."

"Those metal detectors keep guns and knives off my school grounds," Principal Stone snapped back.

"And your uniforms reduce violence by stripping the biggest cause of strife known to man." Sharon's grin returned. " _Individualism_. Tell me _Miss_ Stone, do you get all your policies from _1984?_ "

Principal Stone stared back at Sharon unimpressed and even less amused. She was nowhere near the mood required to engage in philosophical debate with a seventeen-year-old high school junior. So, she cut straight to the point. "Sharon, why did you assault Miss Gordon?"

Sharon shrunk in her chair and averted her gaze out the window, unwilling to give an answer.

"Are you _aware_ of the seriousness of this?"

Sharon shifted her gaze toward the old oak tree. She spotted something. A crow sat motionless on a branch staring at her, his eyes beyond piercing. And though the wind outside grew, swaying the leaves back and forth, the crow remained still as a statue—not a single black feather catching and lifting on his sleek form.

"Understandably her parents are very upset. They have threatened to take legal action, against the school and against you."

Sharon's gaze met the crow, his mysterious bottomless eyes entrancing her, pulling her in, and dragging her down into a black void. To her, his eyes were two black suns set ablaze with phantom flames. They turned the sky amber, muting all sound, and bronzed her vision like an old sepia photograph.

"I'm having a hard-enough time talking her parents out of assault charges as it is."

Sharon's mind cleared itself of all thoughts, tuning out Principal Stone and the rest of the world. She surrendered her consciousness, her being. There was only the now.

"Are you _listening_ to me?"

Neither dreaming nor awake, her mind was drifting away from her body and the shackles of the real. Her consciousness lost at sea, swept away with the currents of the walkabout.

" _Sharon!_ "

Like the flash of a light bulb from an old-fashioned camera Sharon snapped back to reality, as if someone shook her out of a deep sleep. Her trance broken she shifted her gaze from the crow back to Principal Stone.

"I called your mother. I am well aware of your past, the good _and_ the bad. I think you have underlying issues regarding the situation with your father."

Sharon's eyes lit up at the mere mention of that man, her father _._

"I'm going to request that you seek some counseling."

Sharon's breaths came fuming out of her lungs. Her chest expanded and contracted erratically. Her face burned bright red. "Why stop there?" she asked barely containing herself enough to form sentences. "Why not prescribe me some antidepressants? Hell, I found my US Constitution class boring. I probably need Ritalin, right?" She leaped up from her chair, the flimsy, plastic chair falling back, and stared down Principal Stone. "I'm not some _problem_ to be fixed!"

"I'm sorry." Principal Stone closed the red folder. "This isn't up for negotiations."

***

Large brown and orange leaves crunched under the force of Sharon's feet as she stalked toward the oak tree. A voice, beyond the range of human ears, sang to her like the sirens of legend, commanding her to step forward. And when she reached the base of the tree, stepping up onto exposed roots, she gazed up. The crow gazed down, pulling her in once more with his bottomless eyes, slicing through her soul with a simple look. Sharon's breath turned to white smoke as a cold breeze ripped past her. She huddled herself, wrapping up in her thin sweater. The crow let out a deathly caw, spread his wings, and took flight. He glided in the air above her, encircling, and calling out to her with a crow's song. And in that moment Sharon knew what he wanted. No sixth sense required. Even if he spoke her native human tongue, he could not be clearer of his desires. He wanted her to follow _._

The crow hopped along the white picket fence. He stopped every post or so and gave a caw back Sharon's direction, ensuring she kept pace and trailed along the chosen path he laid out for her. She continued down the sidewalk in rhythmic steps, following like a lost child ensnared in the _Pied Piper's_ tune. The light died and shrouded Sharon in shadow. She stopped and looked up. Monsters, devils with jagged wings, beasts with silent roars, all formed from stone and carved and chiseled to hideous perfection. Each one observed Sharon from their Gothic perches. Gargoyles guarding their master's castle. This mansion of red brick and overgrown vines and thorns.

The crow landed on a broken fence leading into the mysterious property. He parted his polished black beak and let go a penetrating caw. Then he glided down, disappearing into the thicket of weeds entangling the back of the yard. Sharon hesitated, the thought of trespassing popped into her mind but just for a moment. The need to follow too great. Sharon slipped through the broken fence with ease. She pushed aside a loose weathered post that dangled from one lonely nail. She brushed past the tall grass and weeds, parting them like jungle vines, and peered through the thicket.

Two blood-red cellar doors hung open, the smell of water damaged wood and mildew leaking out, revealing the mute darkness of the basement within. The crow hopped down to the edge of the entrance—to the edge of darkness.

Her eyes focused on the crow. Then, shifting her gaze to the entrance, she lurched forward. She strained her eyes to see beyond the void of the shadow infested basement. Her heart raced, her throat struggled to swallow, and her skin paled. Her feet moved by themselves. To her it felt like they were marching her up to her own casket at her own funeral. But she needed to know what lay inside, even if it meant her own oblivion. She was a moth beating its dusty wings in a final dance, one last fluttering duet, with the raging flame. Now it was time to fade to black.

Sharon jumped back, breaking from her trance as a vibration jolted through her body. Was someone behind her? She made a sharp spin, scanning her surroundings. She was alone. The vibration hit her again. She reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out her cell phone. The screen lit up a vibrant green, text flashed in the middle of the screen. A five-letter word: GRACE. Her mother's name. Sharon canceled the call and took in a deep breath. _Great_. _Now I almost wished I had been caught trespassing. At least in jail I wouldn't have to sit through another 'talk' with Mom._ She headed back, ducking under the broken fence. Sharon gave the crow one last look over her shoulder. A reluctant fleeting glance before her reflection disappeared from the crow's haunting eyes.

# Chapter 3

The Color of Thoughts

**THE FRONT DOOR** slowly cracked open. Sharon tiptoed inside. She scanned the kitchen, all empty save for a few pots and pans resting on the counter. _Good_. The kitchen looked untouched, exactly how she'd left it this morning, which meant her mother was still at work. She closed the door as quietly as she could—just to err on the side of caution—and scurried off to the living room. Her mother's voice stopped her mid-stride.

" _Sharon,_ you need to sit down."

_Crap! So close to the stairs, too._ Sharon, with much reluctance, turned to meet her mother.

Grace Ashcraft, a unique combination of beauty, elegance, and purity, sat at the head of the living room table. Her purple long-sleeved turtleneck sweater rested tightly against her skin. Her slender face strained with desperation. All to hold back what her brown eyes were screaming out in deafening levels: sadness, _overwhelming sadness._

" _Please,_ " Grace said in an almost pleading tone. "We need to talk. Have a seat."

Sharon stepped forward but didn't pull out the chair to sit down. Instead, she just gripped the top of the chair and squeezed the way a flogging victim bites down on a piece of wood. There was a small stack of books next to Grace on the table. Sharon read the spines. They were all parenting books. Books for the troubled teen, for the teenage mind and soul. New aged psychobabble nonsense books talking about positive emotional energies and spiritual cores. _Books written by morons for the naive,_ thought Sharon. _Books written for desperate delusional people like my mother._

"It's okay, I'm not going to yell," said Grace, with a quality of softness in her voice.

Sharon tightened her fists. "I don't know, Mom. Maybe we should yell. Yell, scream, and fight. I mean, isn't that what normal families do? It's better than just pretending everything's _okay,_ right?"

Grace shook her head. "You think fighting is going to solve anything? Did you think hitting one of your classmates would make things any better?"

"No, maybe not," Sharon fired back. "But at least I don't run away from my problems."

Grace placed her glasses down and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "This was supposed to be a fresh start for both of us. Moving was supposed to be a good thing."

"How was leaving everything and everyone I cared about a good thing?"

"We just have to give it some time. They'll warm up to you, I promise." Grace reached out to touch Sharon's hand. "These things just need time."

Sharon stepped back and folded her arms, avoiding her mother's touch. "You never listen."

"I'm just trying to do my best here, Sharon. Some parents don't even—" Grace stopped herself.

"Don't even what Mom? Care? Go on. _Say it. Say his name._ "

"Sharon, you know your father still loves you."

" _Love?_ I swear to god, if ignorance is bliss then denial must be a freaking orgasm. He ran out on us, Mom. The word 'deadbeat' comes to mind."

"That's enough Sharon!"

"Why, because he might hear us? He'd have to actually be here for that. Wake up. You don't just decide one day to pack up and leave your family. That's not something you do out of love. Why can't you see that? Why are you so blind?"

"Sharon, I know you're angry but—"

Sharon cut her off in a burst of rage. " _Angry? I'm furious!_ " She slammed her fist onto the counter that divided the living room and kitchen. A basket of fruit tumbled to the floor, apples and oranges spilling out and scattering. A picture frame crashed and its glass cover shattered. Tiny shards of glass sprinkled over the tiles like snowflakes. Sharon stormed off toward the stairs. When she got midway up the stairs, she glanced back at her mother. "Why aren't you?"

The question hung in the silent air.

Grace stood to speak, to scold her daughter for making a mess and leaving it, but nothing came out. She just averted her eyes.

Sharon went into her room, slamming her door with a thunderous boom.

Grace grimaced as the force rattled her. She stood for a quiet moment before pulling out the dustpan and broom from the closet and gathering the glass shards with care, sweeping them into the dustpan. She came to the picture frame, picked it up, and stared at the picture behind a spider's web spiral of cracked glass. A photo of Sharon as a child in a yellow-flowered blue dress. Five-years-old and smiling with all the unbridled joy of a rainbow hanging in a virgin blue sky.

***

Silhouetted in the warm glow of morning sunlight, a magnificent blue butterfly stretched out its elegant wings as if it were yawning. Two large blue eyes descended on the butterfly. They widened with wonder and dilated with amazement. Five-year-old Sharon slid her tiny hands underneath the butterfly. The small winged insect crawled into her palms, tickling her skin with its spiraling feeding tube. She folded her fingers around her catch, imprisoning it in her hands and lifting it off the blueberry bush. She scurried off with a spring in her feet.

A man in a long black coat sat on the park bench, watching the children build castles and skyscrapers in the sand, his face hidden in the blinding glare of sunlight. He turned his head to Sharon as she ran to him and parted her hands to present her prize.

"Look, Daddy," she said with a smile, squinting her eyes from the bright sun as she gazed up at her father. "I caught one."

"I can't look, Sharon," he said. "Grown-ups can't see them. Only children."

Sharon looked down at the butterfly then back up at her father, confusion written all over her face. "Why's that?"

"Because they're scared of us. Because we think bad thoughts."

Her face lit up with excitement. " _They can read minds?_ "

"Of course, our thoughts and emotions are made up of energy just like everything else."

Sharon could make out a slight grin on his face.

"Each energy has its own color so it's easy for them to see which type you're giving off." Her father reached down into his shirt and slid out his necklace. Two glowing crystals dangled from the silver chain. One red and one blue, each encased in a silver cross. He held them out for her, their sparkling light reflecting off her face and cheeks like the glare of a grinning jack o' lantern. "Positive energies come in shades of blue, like the sky or the ocean." He frowned as his fingers grazed the red encased crystal. "And negative energies burn bright red." He dropped his necklace down his shirt and out-of-sight.

"So why can't I see them?" asked Sharon, her face drooping with disappointment.

He smiled with all the warmth in his heart. " _Close your eyes, Sharon_."

Sharon closed her eyelids as hard as she could. She strained with all her might, as if she was climbing Mount Everest and had just looked down. It wasn't long before she couldn't help but peek, the temptation stronger than the willpower of a thousand little girls. So, her father turned her around until he was behind her and she faced outward, resting snuggly between his knees.

He placed his hands over her eyes. "Clear your mind of all worries and doubt," he whispered into her ear. "Focus on everything blue."

Sharon tried her best to concentrate.

" _The ocean..._ "

Blue waves rose and crashed onto a golden pebbled beach in Sharon's mind. The cries of seagulls overhead and the taste of salty air on her lips.

" _Blueberries..._ "

She could now taste the sweet flavor of her favorite food, blueberry yogurt, on the tip of her tongue. It brought on an involuntary smile.

" _Blue flowers..._ "

One of her most vivid memories came flooding in. She was in a flower nursery with a stained-glass ceiling overhead, images of angels and white doves painted above her. Hundreds of blue wildflowers surrounded her, engulfing her in their brilliant hue. The scent of moist, black soil mixed in with the fragrance of pollen carried on the breeze. Flowers of exotic shapes and designs blanketed the nursery: blue sage, bluebell, morning glory, bachelor's button, and baby blue eyes.

" _Your mother's blue dress_."

Another memory bled in like ink spilling on paper. This one of her mother dancing with her father in the living room. Grace's radiant blue dress swayed back and forth as she stepped in rhythm. His hands resting on her hips. Her hands wrapped around his neck and her cheek pressed against his chest. His chin nestled atop her head. Sharon watched them in her pajamas from the top of the stairs, peeking out between the posts. She added her own hum in place of the missing music.

Her father removed his hands from Sharon's eyes. He leaned in, his lips to her ear, and whispered. " _Now open your eyes._ "

Sharon did as he bid her, struggling not to blink as her pupils adjusted to the light. She squinted down at her hands and parted them like the blossoming of a rose. Her fingers peeled back to reveal a vibrant glow of blue. The light emanated with such a force it was as if Sharon had plucked a shooting star from the night sky and now the star slept in the heart of her palms while she waited to make her wish.

Sharon's eyes widened as she glimpsed something strange. There was movement. The light was alive. Her breath was stolen from her lungs. A small impish creature emerged, birthed from starlight, stretching out its tiny butterfly wings and gazing up at Sharon with bug eyes. It blinked at her before cracking a smile. Sharon smiled back at the fairy, her disbelief swallowed up by her delight.

***

Sharon looked on with disdain at the blue teddy bear with fairy wings and black button eyes. Lying back against her pillow, she held it up to the light, examining its knitted yarn smile and heart-shaped nose. This furry creature had been the last gift her father had given her before he left. Without a word, without a note, without justification, without even a simple wave good-bye. Sharon tossed the stuffed animal to the floor. She had spent far more nights than she cared to remember squeezing the life out of that teddy bear, all teary-eyed and sobbing wet from crying for her father to return. He never did. That first Christmas without him had been the worst. All Christmas Eve she prayed and wished with every ounce of her heart. To God, to Santa, to anyone who was listening to show her mercy and grant her one and only desire—to bring her father home for Christmas. All she got was a stocking full of broken hearts. She had looked up to him. He had looked straight through her. He was her rock, her world entire. She was sand slipping between the cracks of his fingers, a speck in his ever expanding and indifferent universe. Sharon was seventeen now and no longer naive. There was no such thing as magic and fairies didn't exist, except in little girls' imaginations.

"So, let me get this straight," Sarah Herman said, her voice distorting over the live video chat feed on Sharon's laptop. "A crow wanted you to follow it into some old creepy basement?" Sarah forked up a bite of lemon meringue pie from a slice sitting on a small white dish in the space between her crossed legs. "And you're sure it wasn't just trained? Some old perverted man's way of luring naive little underage girls into his creepy pedophile dungeon?"

Sharon couldn't hold back her smile. "I know, Sarah, it sounds bizarre, another in a long laundry list of crap that keeps happening to me since I moved." Sharon's smile disappeared as her mind wandered off. Memories of that crow and its hypnotic ghost eyes raked through her thoughts. "It's hard to describe the feeling when I looked into its eyes. As if I was being pulled into nothingness. And worse yet, I wanted to go. To fill it up."

" _Uh-huh..._ " Sarah swallowed a mouthful of pie as she studied Sharon's uneasy expression. After a moment of careful thought, she let a grin break free. "Wait, dost thou hear that rapping at your chamber door?" she said, tapping the camera lens on her laptop. "Perhaps it's your new boyfriend come to pay a visit to your Plutonian shore, my little Miss Lenore. Quoth the raven _give-me-some-more_."

Sharon smirked. Sarah's lame jokes never failed on Sharon no matter how bad they were. Maybe that's why they were friends. Who else would laugh at Sarah's weird stand-up? "Thanks for the poem, Poe, but my lover's a crow not a raven."

Sarah shrugged. "What's the difference?"

"Ravens are intelligent scavengers that live in the woods. Crows rummage through dumpsters for leftover hamburgers," Sharon corrected her.

"Well, I think you should do it."

"Huh?"

"Follow your feathered admirer into the basement. Why not? It could be fun. Imagine all the dark sinister secrets this old pervert could be hiding down there."

"Like what, laundry detergent?"

"I don't know..." Sarah grinned devilishly. "Maybe there's the corpse of his dead wife buried down there."

The thought filled Sharon with unease. Not the prospect of finding dead bodies as much as the idea the crow might mean her harm. Strange, the thought hadn't entered her mind until just then. Her encounter with the crow was fading like a dream, slowly slipping into the sea of distant memories. Each time her mind wandered to another subject, she lost a bit more. Soon returning would be all but impossible.

"Can't you hear her screams, Sharon?" Sarah raked her long punk-green nails, which matched her spiky blonde hair in attitude, across her keyboard. "Her scratches as she tries to claw through her coffin? _Help me Sharon. Don't leave me!_ "

"Maybe I'm just imagining things." Sharing her experience with the crow with Sarah was stupid in hindsight. Sarah couldn't take her own funeral seriously.

"Maybe you're just scared." Sarah hollered like a banshee.

" _Right..._ Or maybe I'm just crazy. My principal certainly thinks so. She even suggested therapy."

"You do have that habit of blacking out and waking up with someone else's blood on your hands, now and then." Sarah grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

" _Har, har._ " Sharon fell back against her pillow. "My mother is the one who needs therapy."

Sarah frowned. "She still not past that first stage of grief?"

"Not even close." Sharon shifted her gaze over to her bedroom door. _Mother should be asleep by now. Good. I don't have to worry about her coming in for another talk._ "She still thinks he's gonna stroll in one day through the front door. As if we'd all go back to being one happy family, even if he did."

Sharon wished Sarah a goodnight and closed her laptop. She fell back against her pillow with a sigh _. Some things, once broken, can never be put back together, even with the strongest glue._

The day her father left, she lost much more than just a parent. She lost who she was supposed to be. No, he stole it from her. The girl she was. The woman she was meant to grow into. Her very identity robbed. Scientists have studied lab mice and how they raise their young, measured the success rates of mothered mice. Those cubs that were _un-licked_ , uncared-for, and unloved turned into timid adults. Anxiety prone, weak, and sickly creatures that made less love and died short, sad lives. A life sentence spent cowering in the farthest corner of the cage. That was the fate he left her to. After he was gone she simply grew quiet, folded in on herself, and became adrift in an endless sea of terrible self-loathing thoughts.

_The reason why people throw things away_ _is because they no longer hold any value_. _They become worthless and are soon discarded._ "Why can't you understand this, Mom?" she whispered silently to herself. "Why couldn't you just accept the truth? We were _trash_ in his eyes."

She curled up under the covers, too tired to form any more thoughts. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier until she finally drifted off.

***

Sharon opened her eyes. The black button eyes of her blue teddy bear stared back. But the bear wasn't back on her bed. The bear was floating, bobbing up and down at her eye level. Sharon shot up, mortified. Her room was filled with water. No. She looked around. She was no longer in her room. She was adrift at sea, her bed swaying with the currents of the oily black water. She grabbed the sides of her bed, holding on with a vice grip. At the foot of her bed, the oil bubbled. Two blood-red basement cellar doors rose to greet her. Sharon gazed back with the stillness and rising terror of a rabbit caught in a wolf's stare. The doors swung open with a hurricane's force, revealing pure darkness within.

Sharon peered into the void, motionless, breathless.

Without warning, the entire sea tilted to one side, letting gravity take over as the black water poured into the entrance. Sharon panicked, plunging her hands into the oil and paddling with desperation through the thick muck. A hopeless endeavor. Her bed swept with the racing flow into the void. Sharon flung her arms over her face and screamed. She passed between the blood-red doors. Her scream muffled as the darkness devoured her.

# Chapter 4

Ripples

**BLACK RED CONSUMED** the pure white. Fresh blood devoured stale snow. The blood stretched out over the stone floor like the veins of a river, beating a path between the cracks, and digesting the top layers of snow with wicked heat. The remaining ice crystals eroded to a ravaged state of deluded red slush. The source of the blood, a man hunched back against the dungeon cell wall clutching to life with all the terror of inevitability.

_Eric was dying._ His abdomen soaked red and his face drained of color, fading to a ghost white from a night spent bleeding out. He tried focusing his blue eyes, but they remained blurred, his vision turning sickly green and blackening with each failing pulse and deadening heartbeat. The desperation swelled inside Eric as the air grew thick with metallic scent. The odor so overpowering it left the taste of blood on his tongue. Death was coming and Eric could _taste_ him, feel his presence with every inch of his dying flesh. His very bones ached with the sheer indescribable horror of void. And he could do nothing. _Nothing_ but cling desperately to consciousness in a halo of moonlight while snow blanketed his limp body, sprinkling in through the opening of a barred window. His thick unkempt black beard bristled with sharp ice and his animal fur garments bleaching white from the cruel hail.

_The devil does not reside in a lake of fire,_ Eric theorized, _but a beach of ice._

Eric was numb to the pain now, the cold stealing the warmth from his insides and sapping the strength from his legs. He wanted to run but could not will his knees to bend. He wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs, nothing but a wheezing gasp of white breath escaped his lips before dying back into silence. _Silence._ He was dying in absolute silence. Disappearing into perfect _maddening_ quiet. And worst of all he was dying alone. Or so Eric believed.

A woman's voice, mysterious and full of age, echoed out—murdering the dead air. The voice jolted Eric back to clarity, back from the depths of no return. "Our deeds are like _ripples_ in the water, bending and distorting the entire pond. Forever changed by these ripples, what once remained of the pond then slowly slips into the sea of distant memories. In my time, I've witnessed many ripples, Westerner, most from _despicable_ men. Mothers were not meant to outlive their children. Sons were not meant to die meaningless deaths. An empty war gaining nothing but empty tears. The pond has become... _cold_."

Did the voice belong to another prisoner? Eric's mind raced to find the answer. _The voice is feminine beyond doubt. That excludes the guards. They're all Northerners, brutish men with heads full of drink and little else, who are nowhere near as clear and soft spoken as this woman. Perhaps she's another tribal leader being held captive for information or ransom, left to bleed out in the cold from drunken negligence like me. But from which tribe?_ Surely not his own, the Western tribes, for as a sitting member he knew all the heads of council personally. The South and East were long since conquered and assimilated by the North. And Eric never knew a Northern woman to speak let alone give speeches. Even the most honorable Northern men, who considered the womb sacred and held life-bringers in high regards, were not above silencing vocally defiant women. With their _fists_ if necessary. _Would they go so far to lock up one of their own for speaking out against the war?_

He glanced up at a small brick-shaped hole in the dividing cell wall on his right side. Too small to squeeze one's body through but just large enough to pass a note or tiny trinket on to the other side.

The shadows and light shifted inside the other cell.

His suspicions were dead-on. The woman was in the cell next to him. And, more importantly, he could reach her.

"You must forgive the _ranting_ of an old woman. I just feel the need to bare the soul... to say my peace before the cold air—" The old woman's own chattering teeth cut herself short. The cold breeze died and she regained control of her shaking body. "—takes me home to my children. You're _too_ quiet. Are you still alive, Westerner? Or am I exchanging small talk with a corpse?"

Eric tried to answer, to vocalize a simple yes, but something else slipped out. "Are you afraid of dying?"

"I've lived too long already. Besides I would welcome warmer surroundings. _Are you?_ "

" _Terrified,_ " Eric answered, his voice trembling, the desperation overtaking his senses as he patted down his waist in search of his salvation. Though what exactly he was searching for he was no longer sure. He moved on pure instinct now. His thoughts vague and dreamlike, flowing from subject to subject. His mind reflected on a fun-house mirror. And worse still, there were gaps in his memory, the last few days were as blank as the final pages in an unfinished book.

He lifted his hand to his face but only frozen blood rested in his palm. He tried again, this time patting his chest. Crumpling paper alerted his ears and snapped his mind back to focus.

He pulled a sheet of paper out, unfolded it, and stared back at an illustration of three circles. One red, one blue, and a final smaller black one intertwined with the others. Odd symbols were sketched around the three circles. The all-seeing-eye, the black sun, the white flower, and the human skull.

Eric remembered now. This paper had been his reward for rescuing that boy from the snow a few nights ago. _The ritual page._

He recalled Able's instructions and planned his next step of action carefully. "Is it all right if I ask a favor of you?" His voice now steadfast and calculating.

"What is it you want me to do, Westerner?"

Eric grimaced from the pain as he plunged his index finger deep into his gaping stomach wound. The finger came out drenched in warm dripping blood. He dragged his finger along the floor—like a piece of chalk—drawing a small bloody circle in front of his feet and a larger one around his body. He refolded the ritual page and slid it through the hole.

An old wrinkled hand with loose frostbitten skin took the ritual page.

"Draw the bottom blue circle around your body," he instructed her.

"These markings are _foreign_ to me." Her voice hesitant. "What are they for?"

Eric's eyes scanned for an answer. Suddenly, his eyes jolted to a stopped. _Foreign?_ _That's right, she called me a Westerner. Those of the Western tribes just refer to one another as brother or sister. So, she is a Northerner. Deceiving her will take little effort._

"A Western prayer ritual of last rites," he lied. "Please, I cannot pass into the next life unless you assist me."

Stone scraped stone, shrieking out like nails on a chalkboard as the old woman carved out the circle on the stone floor. Once finished she slid back the ritual page.

Eric snatched it up without a moment's waver.

"It's complete, now what do you want me to do?" she asked.

" _Forgive me._ " He pressed his palm against his stomach—soaking it red like an ink stamp—and slammed his bloody hand into the center of the circle before him.

The circle lit up with blinding hellish red light. The magic roared like an uncontrollable flame with dark intent.

A flash of lightning struck, illuminating the room.

His hair whipped across his face as the dead air resurrected itself into a terrible twister, engulfing him and hurling the fallen snow into the wind. Shielding his eyes with his forearm, he glanced back at the small hole.

Blue light shined through from the other side, like an ocean that swallowed up the moon reflecting its glow in translucent waves of shifting light. But it was just for a moment though as red light cracked through, consuming the blue with the hunger of a disease, infecting every ray and inhaling its beauty the way dragons breathe fire.

And when the red took control the old woman screamed a deafening cry. Her cry echoed through Eric's cell and drowned his eardrums with pain.

He cupped his ears and curled up into a ball, shielding himself from the onslaught.

Then, without warning, the screaming stopped. The light spectacle went dim and shriveled back into the shadows. The wind died.

He raised his head and saw two bright glowing crystals, one blue and one red, appear within the blood painted circle before him. They sparked into existence like the birth of a phantom's lantern in the dead of night. For a moment, he stared unbelieving, still and thoughtless. As if they were as unattainable as two dying stars shining a thousand galaxies away. But this wasn't fantasy nor trickery of the mind. They were real. Able's story was true.

Eric reached forward the way a child stretches out their hand to pluck the sun from the sky, disbelieving and naively hopeful all at once. He stopped midway before touching the crystals and shifted his gaze back to the hole. What of the old woman? He peered into the other cell for endless seconds, watching for the movement of shadows, listening for the rustle of feet and the faint panting of breath. Nothing. He almost turned away when he caught something in the corner of his vision.

A silk cloth—set ablaze with moonlight—flowed with the wind.

He inched forward. _Able said there would be consequences, but of what nature he was intentionally vague._ Eric had to know whether she was still alive or dead. He inched closer.

A veil curtained a figure within.

Closer still he inched in, fighting the urge to blink for fear of missing any signs of life.

The figure's head moved, turning with purpose.

His eyes widened.

The wind grabbed hold of the veil ripping it from the face. The shadows melted off in the moonlight exposing a horror he had never know before. A monstrous skeletal face—dipped in black oil—lunged at him. Its mouth gaping, teeth baring, and shrieking a blood chilling inhuman shrill.

He fell backward, landing hard against the stone floor scraping his temple raw. He fought back the pain on sheer adrenaline and, in a feverish panic, he dove for the two crystals with his last conscious breath. Their light snuffed out as he closed his fist around them. Eric's world faded to black.

# Chapter 5

The Crow

ABSOLUTE DARKNESS. Sharon opened her eyes to sheer void. Her hands in front of her face muted by blinding night. She felt the ground, smooth as glass and devoid of any dirt or oil. Rising to her feet she walked a few steps before the panic struck and she took flight, running as fast as her feet would let her, screaming for someone, anyone. She stopped, caught her breath, and sprinted off in another direction. Again and again, she changed directions until exhaustion set in and her lungs were on fire. Only then did the tears flow.

A crack snaked out in the darkness behind her, leaking golden light like fractured tinted glass. She turned in time to witness the golden cracks expand, parting way like the opening of a hungry mouth, shattering the darkness in a silent scream of light. She shielded her narrowing eyes with her forearms as an enormous golden eye emerged, glowing as bright as a blazing sun. Flames leaped out, transforming into the tongues of serpents licking and distorting the air with waves of heat. The eye's shape was held together by thousands of living fused crows. The crows flapped their wings, squawking and pecking in torment. They vibrated to a blur of wet paint, each in their own separate rhythms and unique fluctuations. Their horrible cries deafening, their pain and anguish seeping into Sharon's skin and filling her stomach with sickness.

Sharon vomited. Her knees buckled and she toppled backward, hitting her head on a stone. She curled in agony, cupping the back of her head, her blood pouring onto the smooth floor. The blood painted the stone red, giving it dimension and form, resurrecting it from the darkness. She lunged for the stone and hurled it at the eye with all her strength. The stone crashed dead center shattering the eye into shards of golden glass. The darkness melted away and the light spilled in.

Peering through the light, she staggered back a few paces in disbelief. Sharon was now back at the same gargoyle-infested mansion the crow had led her to yesterday afternoon. She stood in the backyard, huddling from the night's breeze, a few feet from the basement cellar doors. She felt the back of her head and discovered it dry. No blood.

"What the hell..." she muttered shaking her head. Was it all a dream? Was she walking in her sleep? She had never done such a thing before.

_The crow... he tricked me, invaded my mind, and possessed my body. He brought me here for another go._

A light flickered on in the third story window. She focused on the window itself, now a spider's web of broken glass.

The stone I threw at the eye... No, I smashed the window in its place.

"Who's down there?" a voice boomed down at Sharon.

She spotted a shadow move across the room toward the window.

" _Crap,_ " she cursed under her breath.

"I'm armed and I'm calling the police!" A figure peered down through the jagged glass hole Sharon just conveniently installed. "You— _girl_ —stop right there!"

Sharon took off in a mad sprint toward the gate. She got to the middle of the street before two blinding beams of light froze her in place.

The police officer slammed on his brakes with the force of a bucking bull. He spilled his hot coffee and box of doughnuts all over his crotch as his squad car shrieked to a sudden halt just inches from Sharon.

They locked eyes.

The cop turned on his siren and flashing red and blue lights.

Sharon cringed. _Busted_.

***

"Assault, trespassing, and vandalism all in one day. You seem to be working overtime, Miss Ashcraft," said the overweight police officer with a bushy orange mustache as he glanced over at Sharon. She sulked across from his desk while he sipped his new cup of coffee with extra care. "Luckily, we bumped into each other when we did, huh?"

" _Yeah_ —lucky me," Sharon groaned, utterly humiliated by the fact she was stuck in a police station while wearing her pajamas.

Another police officer opened the main entrance doors and pointed Sharon out from a distance. To Sharon's horror, her mother stepped on through. Grace's face was a glorious mixture of anger, shame, and utter disappointment. Sharon braced herself as her mother marched over.

"What were you thinking?" Grace stood almost on top of Sharon and blasted the words out like an old Civil War cannon. "You could have hurt someone or worse!"

"It was an accident," Sharon said with the volume of a mouse's squeak.

"Right, you just accidentally _snuck_ out of the house in the dead of night and broke some poor man's window."

"Would you believe me if I said I was sleepwalking?"

"Please tell me you're not on drugs."

" _No._ "

"Are you robbing homes to steal money for drugs?"

"God no, Mom, you're _embarrassing_ me."

" _You?_ I'm the one who's embarrassed here. Your actions are a reflection of my parenting." Tears swelled in Grace's eyes. "I'm not a bad mother."

"There's also the matter of some other property damage." The officer checked his computer. "It seems you broke a vase."

"From the Ming Dynasty to be exact and _quite_ priceless."

Sharon froze. She'd heard that voice before—just hours earlier at the mansion.

She turned to the voice.

A regal man in his sixties hobbled over, leaning on an ivory cane for support. The cane was garnished with an artful African design that spiraled downward to the tip and a jackal's head carved into the handle. He wore an old-fashioned tan suit framed with a golden bowtie that looked like it hadn't been in vogue since the twenties. However, despite his age and disability, an aching chronic case of arthritis, he carried himself with an air of dignity and pride. He was somebody __ important.

"The Emperor of China once entertained foreign diplomats and political dignitaries with that vase," he said, overemphasizing his elegant English accent. "Now it's a jigsaw puzzle." He shifted his gaze to Sharon. "I suppose I have this _hooligan_ to thank for that."

Sharon glared at him.

He shot a cocky smirk back.

" _Alex?_ " Grace asked, dumbfounded. "Alexander Morrie? Is that really you?"

Morrie adjusted his thick glasses, squinted hard, and sized her up head to toe before breaking a smile. "It's been awhile Grace," he said laughing and stretching out his arms. "It warms my heart to see you again in such good health."

Grace embraced him, hugging him the way one would a grandparent. Sharon looked on with suspicion. Old people were not to be trusted.

"My god, I haven't seen you since Sharon's baptism. How have you been?"

" _Fine... fine..._ and don't worry Mrs. Ashcraft, I don't intend on pressing charges. Granted _justice_ is served." Morrie glanced at Sharon.

She glared back.

"Perhaps some time in juvenile hall will teach you to respect Mr. Morrie's property," the officer said as condescendingly as possible.

" _What?_ " Sharon shrieked. "This is bull! None of this would've happened if it wasn't for that damn crow."

The old man's face hardened to stone. " _Crow?_ " He placed his hand on Sharon's shoulder. "What's this business about a crow?"

Sharon and Morrie locked narrowing eyes, suspicion written on both their faces.

Grace defused the tension in the air as she took Morrie by the arm. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" she asked the officer, escorting Morrie out toward the hallway. "I need to speak with Mr. Morrie alone."

Sharon and the police officer just stared at each other for an awkward moment as they waited. A black ticking clock became their elevator music. She took a mint from the bowl of candy reserved for guests on his desk. He made her put it back.

***

Grace rested her head against the hallway window and observed the birds, they glided above as if they were carving out their individual worlds from the clouds and the orange-dyed sunrise. The sun peeked over the horizon while dark thick clouds gathered in the south.

"Looks like rain is coming," she said, peering beyond the horizon. Almost as if she was searching for the right words and if she looked hard enough she'd find them written across the sky in white smoke. "I'm sorry we have to meet again under—"

She stopped herself, the words too painful. The truth was the last time she and Morrie met wasn't at Sharon's baptism. It was five years later. The night the only man she ever loved disappeared. She had come to Morrie's doorstep for answers. He had none to give.

"I just don't know what's gotten into her. I swear we become more like strangers every day."

Morrie, seeing her pain, took his place by her side and followed her gaze out to the horizon. "Your daughter is supposed to hate you, Grace. You wouldn't be doing your job if she didn't." He grinned, tilting his head in closer to her. "What your daughter needs is an introduction to a belt." He was half-joking, trying his best to lighten the mood.

She didn't break her focus, her face still and somber. "What my daughter needs is her father."

Morrie's face saddened as he took in her words. He placed his hand over hers on the window's ledge and locked eyes with her. "I wish I knew where your husband was, Grace. But for whatever reason he left. It must have been a _damn_ good one to leave a woman like you behind."

Grace's smile returned, her face lighting up the way the sun lit up the morning sky.

"I suppose we can work out a punishment for Sharon that both of us can be satisfied with," he said.

"Eric was always an excellent judge of character." She placed her arms around him, gently pulling him in for a hug and kissing the top of his forehead. "I guess that's why he chose you as a friend."

He gave her a genuine smile. "Your faith in that man astounds even me."

A tear ran down the side of Grace's cheek. "Sometimes faith is all one has."

***

Sharon had spent most of the Saturday morning car ride staring out the window, watching the passing scenery, and not talking to her mother. She spent most of the past week like this. Since getting suspended from school she remained grounded in her room, stuck in solitary confinement without the aid of electronic entertainment. Her iPhone, tablet, and laptop under lock and key. The only thing she had left to look forward to now was dinner spent in silence across the table from her mother. Neither making an effort for polite conversation nor eye contact. Sharon's solution was to eat quickly.

"I don't see why I have to waste my weekends helping some old geezer out," Sharon grumbled, breaking the unbearable quiet. "Something about him gives me the creeps." She thought of his expression when she mentioned the crow, his eyes reeking with fear.

_He's hiding something._ _I'm sure of it_.

"Tough luck," Grace said, without averting her gaze from the road. "You vandalized his home. Now you can help clean it. You're lucky Mr. Morrie was kind enough not to make _both_ our lives difficult _._ "

Sharon opened her mouth to protest, but her mother cut her short.

"So, you will be on your best behavior and you will treat him with the utmost respect while you work off your debts."

Sharon fumed in silence, her black leather jacket scrunching as she crossed her arms. She had made a point of dressing as rebelliously as possible this morning, sporting a pair of black torn jeans and some punk biker boots to drive the point home.

" _Got it?_ " Grace's voice cracked, jolting Sharon from her slumped posture to a straight up position in her seat.

Sharon nodded with wide eyes. "Yes."

"Besides, Mr. Morrie's health has been fading with his age and he can no longer keep up with the day-to-day maintenance of his home. So, this is an opportunity for you to help someone in need and grow as a person. It's the _Christian_ thing to do."

"Too bad I'm not Christian," Sharon snapped.

Grace bit down on her teeth, vice-gripped the steering wheel, and slammed on the brakes.

The car skidded to an abrupt stop in front of Morrie's mansion.

Sharon had gone too far this time. Her lack of faith had always been a sore issue and a source of much of the conflict between the two over the years. And one of the main reasons her mother enrolled her into Catholic school. To bring her back on the right path. Another thing Sharon resented her for. Grace believed her daughter just needed time to come around. Sharon thought her mother was delusional. Both never giving an inch.

Grace unlocked the car doors, the lock knobs shot up violently with a click. " _Get out._ "

Sharon stepped out onto the sidewalk and slammed the door behind her. She shot a glare back.

Her mother stared ahead, taking off with a roar of the car engine and squealing tires.

Sharon turned her attention to Morrie. He stood outside his front door, leaning against his cane and shaking his head with a smirk. She marched up to him, doing her best to avoid eye contact.

"Ah, if it isn't _Little Miss Felon,_ " joked Morrie. "With you here I wonder what the police will do with all their newly acquired free time."

"Just show me what you want done so we can both get on with our lives," she said gritting her teeth.

"No manners what-so-ever. In my day, little girls greeted their superiors with a smile and a curtsy."

She glared at him. "Well, things have changed a little since the Renaissance. I'm sure you'll adjust."

He stared her down unfazed. "As will you."

***

Morrie pushed against the front door and it swung open with a creaking ache. Sharon stepped through into the shadows. He flipped on the lights and she was greeted by a cobweb-infested mansion. No, it was more museum than mansion. She scanned the walls, each one filled with more than a lifetime of hoarded artifacts and ancient foreign treasures from civilizations scattered across the globe.

"Welcome to my humble abode," said Morrie.

She cringed at an old hideous shriveled up African boar's head mounted above the front doors. Its mouth gaping and eyes glossy with thick milky fog.

" _Creepy,_ " she said, scrunching up her nose in a sour expression.

"Yes, well, let's get the ground rules straight," he said as they toured the living room. "There will be no touching of the artifacts, no blaring of your hippie-hop music, no party fouling, no joyriding, and—"

Sharon enacted an invisible battle with an old Zulu spear she found, stabbing an imaginary enemy. Ancient killing tools had a way of bringing out her inner child.

"—no touching of the artifacts." He yanked the spear from her hands.

A fancy bronze plaque ensnared her short attention span. An award for teaching. She brushed away the dust and read the inscription. "So, you're a professor of archaeology?"

"Aren't you the _quick_ one."

"So— _Professor_ _Morrie_ —do you like animals? Apart from the decapitated ones, of course."

"What are you getting at?"

"Got any pets I should be aware of?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't worry. I don't have any dogs if that's what you mean. I have neither the time nor the patience."

" _Really?_ " she pried. "Not even for a cat or a _bird?_ "

He studied her face. It was obvious what she was after. The crow.

"Come, there's much work to be done," he said, deflecting the question and pushing on ahead.

Sharon gave one last glance back at the boar's head, before following Morrie. " _Creepy._ " Her final verdict.

***

A light bulb flickered on above Sharon and Morrie, illuminating a large storage closet. An assortment of cleaning supplies, brooms, mops, and old-fashioned vacuums lined the walls.

"From now on you're going to be my new errand boy... errand _girl,_ " he said, giving her a glance. "Your job will be to keep this place clean and orderly. Hopefully, you'll do better than the last one."

" _Last one?_ " she asked. "What happened? You scare him off with old reruns of _Bonanza_ and stale peppermint candy?"

He snatched up a broom. "This is called a broom. You use this end to sweep. Am I going too fast?"

"Light speed."

"Good to see they _do_ teach you things in the farce they call modern education." He tossed her the broom. "How about we start with the basement?"

His words put her visibly off balance. The basement, her final destination, the crow's deathtrap. She took a step back, entertaining the thought of running while she still had a chance.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, giving her an odd look.

"No, nothing's wrong," she lied.

He tugged the dangling brass chain, and the light bulb fizzled out.

***

Aged photographs and framed, weathered news clippings decorated the piano room, filling up the black piano with old memories and past regrets. Most were caked with dust, muting the figures in the photos to faceless phantoms. Morrie led Sharon into the room.

"Before I leave you to your work I thought you might want to see—" He contorted in a sudden gasping cough and fell against the wall, dropping his cane. His eyes bulged and his face reddened. Reaching into his pocket he slid out a handkerchief, covering his mouth as he tried regaining back control of himself.

Sharon retrieved his cane and rushed to his aid. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, regaining his balance. "It's just a..." His eyes scanned for an answer. "...cold. Nothing worth fretting your pretty little head about."

As she handed him his cane, she spotted something odd on his handkerchief. The white fabric was stained with fresh blotches of blood.

_This is no cold._

But she kept her thoughts to herself, deciding against prying any further. Instead, she walked to the center of the room, looking at the pictures on the wall. Some contained photos of her father with Morrie. Together they posed with strangers dressed in suits and ties, shaking their hands and accepting awards.

"So, you knew my deadbeat dad?"

"We were colleagues at the Department of Archaeology in Oxford University."

Her attention came to an old framed newspaper clipping resting on the black piano. The image was hard to make out, the picture faded orange and a layer of dust coated the glass.

"You could say we were both obsessed with the past," said Morrie. "We just couldn't escape it, no matter how hard we tried."

She picked up the picture frame and wiped away the dust, unveiling two figures next to a tall freestanding mirror. The figures stood in front of some Egyptian tomb, posing for the camera in the hot sand and bright sun. She lifted the picture closer to her face.

Her father was smiling with sand riddled hair and sunburned cheeks.

Sharon frowned back.

Her gaze shifted to the man on the other side of the mirror. A younger man, mid-twenties, with long blond hair tied into a ponytail. His style of dress was old fashioned. He wore long socks that went up to his knees, simple black shoes, oval shaped glasses, and a newsboy cap.

She turned to Morrie. "When was this photo taken? It looks like it was shot over a hundred years ago."

His face saddened. "Sharon, your father wasn't a saint. I'll be the first to testify to that. But he was the finest man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was a better man than me, or at least he tried to be. Whatever grievances you have toward—"

Sharon cut him short with an abrupt cynical laugh.

_The absurdity_ — _the hilarious absurdity._ Was he really trying to defend the character of the man who took so much from her? _Not a saint? What a laugh. He's more devil than man._

"I'm not a big fan of history, Professor Morrie. It's just that some things are better left buried."

She set the picture frame down and walked away, unaware her thumb had wiped a little more of the dust off in the process. Now below the photo in the bottom right corner some text was clearly legible. _Eric Ashcraft, Alexander Morrie._ The date of the paper: _July 24_ th _, 1914._

***

The seven-foot-tall, freestanding mirror rested at the back of the shadow-infected basement, surrounded by a hoard of cardboard boxes, rusting tools, and broken furniture. A blanket of dust covered everything but the mirror. Framed in heavenly silver, the mirror glistened and sparkled as if carved straight from diamonds. The mirror stood perfect, unblemished, without a single scratch or the slightest smudge. Lost to the sands of time and unearthed by two archaeologists. The mirror was once resigned to be gawked at by school children and overweight tourists in England's most prestigious museums. Now it was retired to Morrie's private art collection, never to witness the rising Egyptian sun again.

Two figures appeared in the reflection of the mirror. Clouds of dust stirred in the air as Morrie and Sharon descended the creaking wooden stairs.

Sharon coughed, covering her mouth with one hand and beating back the dust with the other. " _Eww, it's dirty._ "

"I'll be sure to inform Prime Minister Churchill," said Morrie.

She took in the cobweb-infested room. There was nothing unusual about it, just dust, cardboard boxes, and the mirror.

He glanced back at her puzzled face. "What is it?"

"It's just a normal basement," she said, taking a few steps to look around. She stopped in front of the mirror; her reflection stared back.

"You were expecting neon lights and whistling bells? Just remember not to touch anything that looks..."

She posed for the mirror's reflection, admiring herself. Her reflection was different somehow. Better. _Flawless_. Her hair elegantly smooth, her teeth bleached to a movie star's smile, her lips fuller, her eyes bigger and brighter, and her figure curving to sexual perfection.

"... _priceless,_ " he finished, watching her with nervous eyes.

She reached out to touch herself in the reflection of the mirror.

"That includes my mirror, unless of course, you want seven years' worth of my wrath."

She paused before her fingers connected and withdrew her hand. "Relax, I'm not gonna break it."

"Like my window and vase? You'll have to forgive me if your words don't exactly fill me up with confidence."

Sharon turned from the mirror.

Her reflection didn't.

Morrie observed the mirror with unease. His reflection was paler, sicker, older—emaciated with sunken eyes and caved in cheeks. His face, the face of a dead man rotting in his coffin between seven feet of soil and the gnashing teeth of hell. He turned from his own _Dorian Gray's_ portrait and ascended the wooden stairs.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to lay down for a bit," he said. "I think I'll go take one of those afternoon naps we old people like so much. Dust, sweep, mop, vacuum, and try to resist your criminal urges to rob me blind while I sleep."

His back turned, she stuck out her tongue and waved him the bird. He shut the door and she was finally alone.

Sharon turned back to the mirror. She smiled. Her reflection smiled back.

***

Morrie clung to his white sheets while he slept in his small bed. His bedroom was sparse and empty, nothing like the rest of his mansion decorated with art and culture robbed from the dead skeleton hands of forgotten nameless corpses. The walls carried no family photos or heirlooms or anything personal. There was an air of coldness about his room, like an abandoned hospital.

The clock struck three A.M. The witching hour.

The wind picked up, howling and hurling rain against the window in machine gun bursts. Tree branches raked across the glass in twisted claw swipes. Lightning struck, bleaching the room with suffocating white.

A human shadow darted across his bed.

Morrie's eyes flashed open—his pupils expanding—as he shot up in bed. He scanned the room, his heart racing. The faint whimper of a weeping child caught his ear. Morrie's focus fell to the sound's origin. His heart skipped a beat as a figure shifted in the darkest corner of the room.

" _Who...?_ " His voice trembled, his next words forced out in a painful gasp. " _Who's there?_ Sharon, is that you?"

Lightning struck again, slicing the darkness in half.

A naked pale-skinned boy with jet black hair, no older than thirteen, huddled in the corner of Morrie's room. The boy rocked back and forth, crying black tears that streamed off his face and collected into puddles on the carpet. They rotted the fibers away like battery acid. His arms rested on top of his crossed knees in front of his chest, as if he was cuddling some not yet visible creature.

"What's _wrong_ child?" Morrie's throat thickened as he gazed upon the pale weeping boy from behind his bedsheets.

The boy gave no response. He just continued his compulsive rhythmic routine.

Morrie took in a hard breath and willed himself out of bed. He stalked forward toward the boy. What should have taken seconds stretched into minutes. With each step, time slowed to a syrup's drip. The shadows invaded the light behind Morrie, encroaching on him with malice intent. The walls expanded and contracted like pulsing intestines. He quickened his pace, the air growing cold and burning his throat. Finally, standing over the boy, Morrie got a good look at him.

The boy was wrapped in phantom chains and glowing shackles that faded in and out of existence like moonlight reflecting back on crashing ocean waves.

Morrie reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, halting his hand inches before the boy's naked flesh.

The boy clutched something between his arms and chest.

"What's that in your arms?"

The boy jerked his head up with the force of a cracking whip and flashed his eyelids open. His eyes were missing—empty sockets revealing exposed red flesh inside.

Morrie lost the air from his lungs.

The boy glared at Morrie with hollow sockets and peeled back the skin of his chest like he was ripping open a button shirt. A large golden eye opened inside the boy's chest cavity and peered up at Morrie. The eye fused with squawking and flapping crows, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees.

Morrie staggered back, almost collapsing at the horrendous sight.

The boy stretched out his lower jaw the way a snake swallows an egg and from the void of his throat, a crow flew out.

Morrie jumped back, throwing his arms over his face to shield himself. He lost his footing in the process and tumbled helplessly to the ground.

The crow descended upon him with dark beating wings and gouged out his eyes in a flurry of violent, stabbing pecks.

Morrie shot up in bed with a screaming gasp. He ran his hands over his face. There was no blood, and his eyeballs were still there. He peeked out from behind his sheets, eyes darting in all directions. The room was empty and he was lying in a pool of sweat. It was only a nightmare.

He turned to the window. Outside, perched on a tree branch, sat the crow.

The crow stared back at him, motionless, with piercing wraithlike eyes.

"Every night it's the same," he said as he sneered at the crow. "You won't be satisfied until you get _every last bit,_ will you?"

The crow remained still as a Greek statue.

Morrie slid his necklace out from underneath his shirt. Two glowing crystals hung from the necklace, one blue and one red _._ The blue crystal was fading, and his health followed suit. His skin paled and shriveled, his muscles shrunk, his vision blurred, and his heart ached with every beat. He convulsed into a violent cough, blood spraying all over his palms and the white sheets. At last the attack passed and his blue crystal stabilized. Though much dimmer than before.

"I should have never placed faith in that boy," said Morrie, his breaths growing heavier and heavier. "Where are you, _Eric? I'm running out of time._ "

# Chapter 6

Strings

London, Friday, July 24th 1914

It was dark. Heavy breathing muted all other noises. The air was stagnant and stale, the taste of sickness catching in the breeze. Small white beds lined the room, neatly and orderly. Their occupants were undersized, frail and sickly children dressed in white hospital gowns. Eric sat hunched over a bed in the back, placing the chest-piece of his stethoscope over the heart of a little girl with brown hair and olive-green eyes.

The little girl watched him with a glazed delirious look, remaining quiet and still as if her limbs were weighed down by a thousand pounds of iron.

Eric listened with a purposeful intensity. Her heartbeat was erratic and weak. He frowned. Even to an untrained ear it would sound bad. A sudden swell of sadness rushed over him when he placed his hand over her forehead. She was white-hot to the touch, sweating profusely, and the panic movements in her darting eyes told Eric of the worst. Her fever was literally cooking her organs.

Eric removed his stethoscope and rested it on his lap, rolled up his sleeves, and placed his hands over her chest. His hands bobbed up and down like a tiny sailboat at sea in harmony with her expanding and contracting lungs while she inhaled rough gulps of air with a crackling, wheezing struggle.

Then the light came.

Blue light filled Eric's hands. The light flowed down to the tips of his fingers and formed into a glowing circle of living energy above the little girl's chest.

***

An eighty-year-old man, as frail and fragile as the sick children just behind the door, sat impatiently in the children's hospital waiting room with all the anxiety of a stampeding buffalo. He clutched the fabric of his black pants, scrunching them up in his fists. Bright blue light shined through the cracks around the doorway. The light went dim, and his heart sunk like a dead goldfish. The doorknob turned and the old man rose to his feet.

Eric stepped into the full light. No longer was he the spitting image of a savage barbarian, having discarded his unkempt beard and fur garments for a clean-shaven face and a black and white suit. He was a proper English gentleman, cane and all.

" _Is she?_ " the old man asked, without a beat of thought or hesitation.

"She will live," replied Eric.

Tears swelled in the old man's eyes. " _Bless you._ " He swung his arms around Eric and pulled him in for a passionate embrace.

Eric gently pushed him aside. "I'm not someone who deserves things like blessings," he said grabbing his coat and top hat and heading for the front door. "Just remember our agreement."

"Don't worry," the old man said with tears flowing. "Not even a _whisper_."

***

Horse-drawn stagecoaches rode down the street in the hot English sun. A fat man with a curling mustache bought a bouquet of yellow roses from the flower shop. A policeman shook his fist and blew his whistle at a group of running boys as they weaved through the moving crowds. The sickly-sweet scent of imported overripe watermelons lingered from the fruit stands. The noisy chatter of gossiping women with exotic feathered hats and the lively haggling of gentlemen with fat cigars filled the air. Folks of all shapes and sizes went about the hustle and bustle of English life.

A young man in his early twenties with blond hair and a newsboy cap leaned against a lamppost. His face buried between the folds of the morning newspaper oblivious of the world around him.

Eric exited the children's hospital, sliding on his coat and positioning his top hat to its proper place on his head. He descended the steps leading to the sidewalk and passed the young man without a moment's glance.

The young man lowered his paper and, after adjusting his circular glasses, leered at Eric. "We made the paper, Professor Ashcraft."

Eric turned to meet the youth. The young man held up the newly minted paper. In the middle, there was a photograph of Eric and the young man posing next to a mirror outside an Egyptian tomb.

"'The pharaoh's magic mirror', they're calling it the 'find of the century'."

Eric's face tightened. "Alex, what are you doing here?"

Alexander Morrie's smile widened. He had caught Eric off guard.

"Me?" asked Morrie. "Oh, I'm just admiring the summer air. But you, _you_ never leave your precious study without good cause."

Eric preened and straightened his coat. "I was visiting an old friend. His granddaughter was not well." He pointed to the hospital with his cane.

" _Was?_ So, I take it she's better now?"

He tugged at his tight collar. "You'll have to forgive my rudeness, Alex, but my driver is waiting." He started off down the street. "Perhaps we could chat at a later date?"

Morrie trailed after him. "I took the liberty of translating some of the text around the mirror's frame."

"Oh?"

"It seems that it was used as a gateway of some sort, to someplace called the 'God Realm'," he said, keeping pace at Eric's side. "Once I finish the rest I'm sure we'll be able to operate the mirror. That is, __ if you _haven't_ already _._ " He waited for Eric's reaction, studying his every movement.

But Eric was steadfast and calm, his face and body language giving away nothing. "You're my brightest student, Alex. It concerns me that you of all people would indulge in such fantasy."

A flash of annoyance streaked across Morrie's face. "All human societies were born from beliefs rooted in the mystical and supernatural. Why is it now that we deny our heritage?"

Eric glanced back at him. He stopped mid-stride, freezing in place, his expression dropping like a stone.

Morrie tried his best to analyze Eric's bizarre reaction. Was it something he said? He followed Eric's line of sight down to the newspaper in his hands. His face now matched Eric's as he read the headlines. _'_ Archduke Franz Ferdinand Assassinated, July Ultimatum Issued, Austria-Hungary and Serbia at odds'.

"War is coming," said Morrie.

"Wars come and go. All things come in cycles. This will be no different," said Eric, his words more for himself than Morrie's comfort.

"You're wrong, you know. This time is different. This time the whole world will be involved. A war to end all wars."

"No such thing. As long as humans continue to practice the philosophy of apathy and indifference there will always be conflict. Not even I could escape that reality."

"You talk as if you're not one of us."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Morrie let go a depressed cynical laugh. "We must look like children to you, am I, right? We gamble our lives away in such needless causes and petty squabbles. I wager it's hard to believe in anything when you can see the strings."

"You're not making any sense, Alex."

"Don't be _coy._ I've done my share of outside research. I know you've published other books on certain taboo subjects. _Subjects_ that could do more than just muddy your reputation. Subjects like _alchemy_ and _witchcraft._ "

Eric's face went grim, the color draining from his cheeks and bleaching them ghost white.

"Published under different aliases of course, but your writing style gave you away like a sore thumb. That's not what interests me though. It's the fact that they were published over sixty years ago. Quite the feat for a forty-year-old man, don't you think?"

Eric tightened his grip over his cane.

"I know there's more to your story than what you've told me."

His voice devolved to a growl. "Haven't you heard the term _curiosity killed the cat?_ "

Morrie called his bluff with a grin. "Then it is my good fortune that I do not drink my milk from a saucer. Shall we start with those exquisite little gems around your neck? And I want the truth."

Eric grabbed the two crystals dangling from his necklace, snuffing out their light inside his fist, and tucked them underneath his shirt. "What you're looking for is _not_ truth, Alex. What you're looking for..." He paused, taking in a heap of air to quell his pounding heart. " _..._ I _can't_ give you." He turned his back on Morrie and headed down the street.

"Fairies, unicorns, dragons," Morrie said with childlike enthusiasm. "They're all real, aren't they?"

"Good day to you, Alex."

"You've seen empires rise and fall. Entire worlds fade into the sand. I just want the same _gift._ "

Eric stopped and spun around to face Morrie, his face reddening. "You know nothing. Just like her! She thought she could escape too. But there is always a price. _Always,_ " he shouted, his sudden outburst catching Morrie off guard.

Morrie staggered a few paces back. He had never seen his mentor this enraged before.

"That is the curse of being an absolute." He fought back tears as he forced the words out from his mouth. "The horrors you see—what I've seen..." He locked eyes with Morrie, passion overtaking him. " _You know nothing._ "

Eric stormed off to his stagecoach. His driver opened the door for him and he stepped inside. After shutting the door behind him the driver took his place at the helm, taking hold of the horse's reigns. But before he could motion to his driver Morrie opened the door and hopped up inside, plopping down on the seat across from him.

"Then _teach_ me, professor," said Morrie.

The veins in Eric's neck pulsed as his face reddened. " _Get out._ "

"You can't run forever." He folded his arms and crossed his legs. "At least not from me."

Eric collected himself, gazing out the window in deep thought, his leg shaking uncontrollably. At last, he motioned to his driver and they started off down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust into the air.

"Excellent," said Morrie, proudly wearing his victory on his face. "Now I want to know everything. Even the _ugly bits._ "

# Chapter 7

Through the Looking-Glass

Sharon swatted back a cloud of dust as she surveyed the basement. Night had already set in and she was still only halfway done and poorly at that. Each time she finished one section she'd discover more dirt and filthy disasters lurking behind boxes and under shelves. She plopped down on one of the cardboard boxes with a long sigh of defeat and glanced over at her reflection in the mirror. Gone was the perfect model she had last posed as, and in her place a pitiful, dust riddled, make-up smudged, and hair frizzed mess of a creature. Sharon cringed at the sobering sight of reality, trying her best to wipe the dirt from her face. She failed miserably at that as well, smearing and mixing the dirt with her make-up and sweat.

Now she wished she had never put on make-up in the first place. _Not like there's anyone to impress here anyways. That is, aside from one grumpy old man and a few wandering house spiders._ And Morrie was beyond manipulation through feminine charms. _I'd have better luck with the spiders. Less abrasive._ But at least here, alone, she could clear her mind, focus her thoughts, and think of an excuse to get out of coming back to Morrie's tomorrow morning.

A shadow moved over her.

She gazed up.

The crow was in the reflection of the mirror, perching on the middle step on the stairs behind her. She spun around. No crow, just empty stairs. She turned back to the mirror. The crow was still on the stairs in the reflection, staring back with bottomless charcoal eyes. He hopped down to the mirror and tapped the glass with his slender beak. The reflection in the glass distorted with liquid ripples, like the crow was stabbing a pond with his beak. She inched over, examining the mirror from a distance. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. She checked behind the mirror and found nothing but the back of the solid silver frame.

"Another one of your _tricks?_ " Sharon asked, kneeling to the crow's eye level. "So, you got me here." She locked eyes with the crow. "What the _hell_ do you want from me?"

The crow pressed his beak to the glass. A hint.

She stretched out her hand toward the crow, extending her index finger to the glass. When her finger connected with the crow's beak the reflection in the mirror flooded with blue light. The light rippled out in vibrant pulses and dazzling rays of pure energy. The image dissolved away revealing a new reflection. An ancient stone temple's interior appeared before Sharon, snow and ice blanketing the walls and much of the floor.

" _Whoa._ " She removed her finger from the mirror. "So now what?"

A cold breeze blasted Sharon with the force of a bucking pony. She curled up into a ball, tucking in her knees and wrapping her arms around her chest. Quelling her chattering teeth, she slowly turned from the mirror. She gasped, finding herself inside the ancient temple room. She spun back to the mirror. No, it was a different mirror, both in design and markings. It was if she had traveled through Morrie's mirror and came out on the other side of this one.

She gazed down to find not one but two crows. One in the reflection and the other standing before her feet on the cold stone floor.

"What the hell..." _Is this another dream?_

The crow took to the air, flying over Sharon's head and out the temple window.

She slowly rose to her feet and followed the crow. _Please let this be another dream._ When she got to the window, she froze in place.

An alien pink sky stretched over the horizon. Dark murky clouds floated above snow covered forests and mountains. A huge moon orbited above in broad daylight.

Sharon had gone through the looking-glass, like the infamous Alice before her, and stepped out into her own personal wonderland of horrors.

" _No, no, no, no..._ " The sole word Sharon could utter _. "No!"_

She ran back to the mirror, slamming her hand against the glass with a loud wobbling thud. She clenched her eyes shut, waited a few painful seconds, and opened them. _Nothing changed._ She was still in the temple.

She panicked, banging her fists against the glass. "Work damn it, work. Take me back. Open sesame, _please..._ " She rested her head against the glass, defeated. "Okay, just stay calm," she told herself, taking in rhythmic breaths to subdue her racing heart and shaking hands. "Calming down. Calming down. _Calming down._ " She exhaled a heap of breath. "And calm. Now think Sharon, _think._ " She cleared her mind. "The crow." _If he brought me here, then he can take me back. But how do I catch him?_

Another shadow moved over her _._ She turned. The shadow's source was coming from the stairs in the back of the temple. _Something's coming down._ She rose to her feet.

"Alright, you flying rat. Come out. I need you to..."

What came down wasn't the crow. The shadow belonged to another animal. A snarling wolf-like beast with hooves and sharp spiraled antlers sprouting out from its head.

The gray furred beast with black tiger stripes lurched toward her in a predatory stalk. A stance that gave Sharon a deep instinctual chill down her spine. Its two pure black eyes fixed on her, unwavering and unrelenting, as it bared its fangs with a baboon-like curl of its top lip and vocalized a lion's chatter.

"And no longer calm."

Sharon took off in a mad sprint to the temple doors.

The creature chased after her.

# Part Two

The Ritual and the Walkabout

# Chapter 8

Hunter's Moon

Sharon's feet hit the snow. After sinking down to her knees, she fell forward and her face crushed the soft virgin snow. She dug her hands deep until they hit solid ground underneath the powdered snow, regained her balance, and pushed off. She glanced back to the temple doors. They had no lock but they were heavy, carved from stone, buying her a few precious seconds as the hooved wolf pounded against them.

At last it ripped the doors open, splitting them apart with its antlers in a single powerful upward thrust, and stalked into the sunlight.

Sharon sized up her pursuer. Its ribs were visible and its flashing gums pale. Clearly the beast hadn't eaten in some time. Whether or not this was to her advantage, she had no desire to stick around and find out. She scrambled to her feet.

The hooved wolf spotted her and bolted into the snow. But once it hit the deep snow it stumbled, having as much trouble as Sharon.

She kept digging and pushing forward, but fell again when she reached an even deeper patch of snow.

The hooved wolf lunged, leaping into the air and descending upon her.

It missed by inches, caving deeper into the snow than even her, scraping her side with its antlers as it thrashed and struggled, drawing blood.

She bit her bottom lip, muffling her scream.

Unable to find stable footing, the haggard creature toppled over.

Sharon recovered quickly, digging herself out of the heavy snow, and reached the foot of a hill. She climbed like a madwoman in a delirious frenzy. The hill was steep and littered with jagged rocks that cut into her palms as she pulled herself up. She glanced back.

The hooved wolf made it out of the deep snow and darted up the hill after her. To her horror, it was a better climber than her, armed with sharp hooves and powerful leg muscles. Her soft palms and worn out boots paled in comparison.

She grabbed hold of the end of a boulder on her left side. But before she could pull herself up the boulder gave way, tumbling down.

The hooved wolf leaped off the hill, just narrowly dodging the huge rock.

Sharon made it to the top of the hill, pulling herself up and over, not stopping to look back this time. She ran down the other end of the hill to a frozen lake below.

She sprinted on top of the ice, hoping to gain more speed and distance from her pursuer, but it was like trying to run across a skating rink. She lost her balance and slipped on the ice, landing on her ass with a painful thud and slide.

Once she slid to a stop she took the opportunity to catch her breath and look around. _Empty forest in every direction. I'm alone. Good. I think I lost him..._

Off in the distance a howl echoed out, rattling Sharon more than the cold ever could.

Crap.

She trained her ears to the woods. Behind her another howl sounded off, louder than the one before. A third howl echoed out, a different direction this time, to her left side and closer.

Crap. Crap. Crap!

Sharon was no longer dealing with just one ravenous beast but a whole pack.

***

The forest canopy had kept the snow from piling up. The pack of hooved wolves gained full speed as they raced across the forest floor. One, two, three, four predators, united with one singular purpose. The pack weaved between trees and bushes in a focused gallop, hunting Sharon down in an instinctual flawless formation. They stopped and circled in unison, sniffing the ground and combing every inch of dirt coated snow and frozen leaves. One picked up Sharon's scent, gave out a chatter of its teeth, and changed course. The others followed suit.

***

Sharon spotted a fallen hollowed-out tree ahead of her. She made it inside just in time to avoid snapping jaws a breath from her feet.

The hooved wolf lunged farther into the mouth of the hollowed-out tree, its antlers scraping the insides like rusty nails across glass. Its lips curled, exposing glistening fangs, as puffs of white-hot stench leaked out from its throat.

Wham!

Sharon kicked it back, giving it a mouthful of boot. It grabbed hold of her boot and started dragging her. She clutched to the innards of the tree, raking her nails against the hardwood till they broke. The boot gave way and the hooved wolf fell backward, rolling into the snow.

She crawled to the center of the tree, minus one shoe but still in one piece, hoping their antlers would prevent them from squeezing all the way in. The tree rocked with the clatter of hooves above. She gazed up.

The other three hooved wolves circled Sharon in her little wooden deathtrap. They took turns jumping on and off the tree, searching for another way in. She was running out of time. Even mice with pea-sized brains could navigate through obstacle courses to earn their prize, their cheese at the end of the maze. And predators like wolves were smarter than dogs, possessing bigger brains for organized, social hunting. And four brains working together on one goal divided her time horridly. The one on top of the tree dug in a frenzy—spraying bark into the air—chiseling away the cold brittle wood with its sharp hooves.

Light broke free, shooting down on Sharon in tiny beams. Splinters and wood-chips sprinkled over her head and into her hair as the hooved wolf stripped apart the bark. She had to do something and fast.

"Get off my log," she screamed as she slammed her shoulder against the side of the hollowed-out tree. She planned to shake the hooved wolf off but only managed to stall its dig. She put all her weight into it the second time and the tree gave way, wobbling out of its resting place.

The hooved wolf lost its balance and fell off. Another one jumped on.

Sharon kept pushing, rolling the log away and praying she wouldn't hit another tree. She got her wish when the tree moved on its own, rolling down the mountain and picking up speed.

The hooved wolves backed off.

She spun inside like she was stuck in a dryer, tumbling with the socks and underwear. The log launched off a rocky ledge—slamming into another tree down below with a terrible crash. Sharon felt the whack of her head against the cracking wood, her body becoming weightless, the cold snow, and... nothing.

***

A hooved wolf with charcoal black fur and one eye emerged from the brush, sniffing the ground, tracking Sharon's scent. The beast paced about searching from a less steep and hazardous way down the mountain.

_Whoosh. Thud._

An arrow zipped through the air—slicing the cold wind—and struck the hooved wolf in the chest. The poor creature slumped to the ground like a tumbling stack of sandbags. A weak whimper poured out with its choking breaths, each one fainter than the one that proceeded it. Its dim yellow eye overflowed with tears, distorting the image of a small boy with light brown hair.

The boy was dressed head to toe in animal fur garments, his somber eyes pale gray. He knelt beside the hooved wolf, stroking its bristled icy fur, and rested his hand on its chest. His hand rose and fell with each breath as if adrift at sea and riding the dying waves to shore. Finally, his hand grew still and the darkness came for the antlered creature. The spark in its eye was gone, slipping right between the boy's fingers and passing on like a floating balloon drifting behind clouds never to grace the soil and flesh again.

"So, this is him? The one who took Mom and Dad?" asked the boy, turning to the thick of the woods.

"No, it's not him, Matthew," a voice rang out. "It's not the _monster._ "

A knight stepped out from the shadows. Polished plated armor glistened in the sunlight. A golden lion coat of arms sigil graced across the chest plate. A fur cloak flapped in the wind. His face hidden behind a golden mask molded in the shape of a man's face, expressionless and cold like a Greek god with hollowed-out eyes. He stalked out with bow in hand, another arrow pulled back against the string, ready to be fired again if necessary.

Matthew turned to face the knight.

"His coloring is different and he didn't have antlers," he said, walking over to the hooved wolf. He yanked out the arrow. "But _good riddance_ all the same..."

Suddenly, he froze in place.

"What's wrong?" asked Matthew.

"Human tracks," he answered, kneeling to the ground to examine the footprints in the snow. "And they're fresh."

"Up here? That's _impossible._ Not in this weather and not this deep into pig-run territory."

A howl echoed in the distant forest. Matthew and the knight both glanced back at each other in unison. They knew what the howl meant. The hooved wolves were hunting. And human was on the menu.

***

It was a beautiful sunny day. Perfect. Sharon was attending class in her cheerfully colored underwear. Rows of empty desks surrounded her while Morrie scribbled on the chalkboard. He wore a bright yellow suit with smiley stickers spread about it like polka dots and, oddly, scuba flippers. But that wasn't the problem.

Sharon gazed down with frustration at the sheet of paper in front of her. A very important exam that would decide the rest of her academic future. Unfortunately, the words were all jumbles and scribbles dancing and vibrating on the page. She panicked as the clock's hands spun wildly in opposite directions. They came to an abrupt stop. The clock blared out a loud alarm buzz.

"Time's up. Pencils down," said Morrie.

She peered up at Morrie. But he didn't move. He just stood there with his back to her. She tried to speak, to ask for more time, but found her mouth sealed shut with dozens of Band-Aids.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning at last.

To her horror, his eyes were gone and in their place two crow heads, black as sin, violently thrashing, vibrating, and shrieking high pitch shrills.

Oil spilled out of Morrie's mouth. His voice melted to something truly demonic. " _You stuck?_ "

***

Sharon's eyes flashed open. Her vision blurred, her head throbbed, and her ears ringed with a wretched intensity. She glided her hand over her forehead and felt something wet and warm. She pulled back her hand. Her palm was a bloody mess dripping dark red and bits of hair and skin. _Not good._ She looked around. The former hollowed-out tree had exploded all over the snow—sharp fragments and wood-chips scattered everywhere. She gazed up the mountain. No Mount Everest but at least two stories up from where she rolled off. It was a miracle she was still alive. She'd be dead if not for the snow cushioning her fall.

Sharon scanned the woods, no hungry monsters in sight. She rose to her feet with a bit of effort. Her internal balance was off and the woods were spinning but her vision was clearing up and she could walk. She checked herself, dozens of bruises, cuts, and a nasty gash on her forehead, but no broken bones at least. She stumbled to a large pine tree and rested her weight against it, catching her breath.

A pale white hand reached out from behind the tree and grabbed her, covering her mouth and pulled her back behind the tree.

She tried screaming, but just a faint whimper squeaked out. She reached to grab her attacker's arm but fell forward instead, the hand against her mouth passing right through her like a rush of artic wind. Regaining her balance, she spun back to face her foe.

A boy, around thirteen, with ink black hair, bleached skin, and phantom dark eyes stood before her in a black hospital gown. The boy raised his finger to his lips, signaling her to keep silent.

Sharon nodded in a slight petrified gesture.

A twig snapped nearby.

She peeked out from behind the tree and spotted one of the hooved wolves sniffing the ground where she fell. It was licking red stained snow with its hot leathery tongue, lapping up her blood.

_A moment later and I'd be dead._ She returned her gaze to him. _You saved me._

Two more hooved wolves arrived and took up the search. An uneasy silence filled the cold air as they circled her crash site. Sharon hated how quiet they were, monsters devouring even sound. They knew she was close. Her scent was everywhere. _No chance in hell I can wait them out._ _Not in this weather. I'd freeze to death first._ Besides, it was just a matter of time before they found her and the boy. There were only so many trees to search. _I need to make a run for it and soon._

A shrieking squawk shattered the silence like a clay jar. A white pheasant bird darted out of the bushes near the hooved wolves—spooked by their presence—and flew into the pink sky. The hooved wolves broke from their search and focused on the bird.

The boy saw his chance. He grabbed Sharon by the hand and sprinted off with her.

The hooved wolves turned and pursued.

The boy led her through a dense crop of trees. Their twisted branches clawed at Sharon like barbwire, ripping at her skin and snagging her clothes. He passed right through them, untouched. The branches sliced him in half one second and the next he emerged in one-piece. It was as if he was made of living white smoke.

Sharon received a face full of branches, knocking her down and sending her tumbling over a small cliff above a riverbank.

She landed hard onto ice. The ice shattered. She plunged into the freezing water.

Sharon splashed at a frantic pace, clinging to sheets of ice and breaking them apart with the force of her weight. She fought like a madwoman to keep her head above water, her vision distorted by the waves that crashed against her face. All she knew was that she had to make it to the opposite shore she entered from.

Up ahead she spotted a small, old reed boat frozen in place in the middle of the river. She swam over to it and pulled herself out of the water and onto the boat. She shot a desperate glance back to the riverbanks.

The hooved wolves paced around the edge, helpless to pursue her. They watched with hungry eyes as the reed boat broke free of the ice and took off with the currents of the river.

Sharon plopped back against the bottom of the reed boat, exhausted, wet, gasping for air, and shivering uncontrollably. She huddled herself, cradling her body to conserve her body heat.

The full moon hung in the pink sky, a hunter's moon of bad omens, its red tinted glow basking her in a halo of crimson. An evil eye fixed on her.

Am I dreaming or awake? Maybe both... Maybe I'm sleepwalking through a nightmare made real.

The crow descended to a perch on the head skiff of the boat.

"Come to _gloat?_ " Sharon asked, her teeth chattering, her head dizzy, and her lips numb. "You planned this all out, didn't you?"

The crow just ignored her as he preened himself.

"If I fall asleep you're gonna invade my brain again, aren't you? I won't give you that pleasure." She let a sneer break free, just to spite the crow. "So, is this what you do for fun? Trap little naive girls in _Middle Earth?_ What, you got bored with eating stale french-fries off the freeway?"

The crow gave out a rude caw.

Sharon's expression grew somber. "You're some kind of ghost. I got that much. But _whose_ ghost?"

The crow gave no answer, only a silent intelligent stare.

***

Two circular lenses from a pair of binoculars mirrored Sharon's image back along with the shimmering sunlight.

"And who might you be, gorgeous?" asked a young man perched under the shadows of the treetops. His red painted lips curled into a Cheshire Cat leer as his red eyes studied her every gesture. A glowing red crystal sparkled in the sunlight as it hung from his silver chain necklace. The teenaged youth looked like he just stepped out of a hardcore metal concert, what with his black leather pants, red spiked hair, and gothic clown face paint.

The young man stepped off the top branch of the tallest tree on the cliff above the riverbanks. He did not fall but continued to walk on the air as if there was an invisible floor beneath his feet. The wind swirled around him and he levitated down, the tips of his toes connecting with the snow as gracefully as any ballerina.

A red tinted astral projection flamed up from the nothingness in the air behind him, forming an image of a mysterious cloaked man. His face hidden, shrouded in the darkness under his hood.

The Cloaked Man's voice boomed out, distorted like an antique radio. "Joy, someone _new_ has arrived."

Joy remained facing ahead, peering through his binoculars. "I know. I'm looking at her right now. Any idea who she is?"

The Cloaked Man gave no answer, withholding in his silence.

"Do you think she might complicate things? I mean she's just a girl, around the same age as me when I became one of the _enlightened._ But it seems she came through the mirror alone. Which could mean—"

"It's unlikely she's like us," said the Cloaked Man, cutting Joy short. "Or like _her._ " He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "Even so, I don't want to take chances. _Bring her to me._ "

Joy adjusted his binoculars, zooming in to get a better view of Sharon. His smile widened, curling up his powdered white face. "Funny, she looks American. Morrie might have sent her to check up on me. If that's the case, then the old fart is getting impatient... or desperate. Either way, I'll find out."

"Good, see that you do." The Cloaked Man's image faded, dying like a candle's flame snuffed out of existence and returning back to the nothingness from which it came.

***

"No, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're the _Devil,_ " Sharon said, glaring back at the crow. "Maybe I'm in hell, punishment for abandoning my faith. Funny thing is I still don't feel like repenting."

The crow took off, flapping and cawing above her.

"What's wrong?" She sat up and got her answer when she spotted the trees on the riverbanks moving at an alarming speed. _No, I'm moving._ There was a waterfall in the distance ahead and closing in. " _Ah, hell..._ "

She dove her hands into the freezing water and paddled against the current. But after a few strokes she jerked her hands back, the pain too intense. And even if the water wasn't freezing, the effort was still hopeless. The reed boat was moving too fast and the cold had sapped most of her strength. All she could do was brace herself as the current sucked the reed boat over the edge.

Sharon tumbled into the rapids, her body thrashing around like a ragdoll, scraping against the rocks as she sunk to the depths of the riverbed. The air got knocked out of her lungs and ice water took its place.

The only things Sharon could see as she descended to the depths: dying sunlight piercing the violent crashing of waves and a distorted figure plunging into the water toward her.

***

To her utter amazement, Sharon found herself—dripping wet and blurry eyed—in the arms of a knight in shining armor. She squinted the knight's image into focus. A golden face stared back. She tried to speak but instead coughed up the remaining water from her lungs.

The knight laid her down, drew a sword, and cut the rope around his **** waist. **** He'd tied a line to a tree, **** a safety rope used to pull their heavy weight from the water. Then, hearing a rustling in the woods, he spun around and took a fighting stance.

" _What's wrong?_ " asked Sharon.

The knight stood silent with a firm gaze ahead.

Sharon followed the knight's line of sight into the woods.

Three hooved wolves stalked out, chattering and hissing. Hot drool dripped from their exposed fangs.

Sharon scrambled, searching anything that could be used as a weapon.

The largest hooved wolf charged and leaped for Sharon.

She found a large piece of drift wood and thrusted the wet sharp log forward in a weak, desperate attempt to protect herself.

The large hooved wolf let out a high-pitched yelp as the knight plunged his blade into its shoulder, scrapping bone but missing anything vital. It twisted midair and landed on its feet as well as any house cat. Another hooved wolf made a beeline toward him. The knight swung the sword back, striking the hooved wolf's throat, cutting into flesh and bone. Blood sprayed, coating his armor and golden facemask.

The hooved wolf died within seconds, slumping down and pulling the sword with it. The knight tried yanking his sword out but the blade snagged, firmly stuck in bone. The third wolf charged at full speed and slammed its sharp antlers into his torso like a mad bull and crazed buck all in one, trying to gore the knight to death. He fell backward—losing grip of his sword. The hooved wolf pinned him to the ground, its snarling jaws searching for his throat. It got hold of a metal wrist gauntlet instead, leaving streaks of scrape marks from its teeth. The beast made another pass at the knight's exposed throat. He wrapped arms around the hooved wolf's neck and squeezed and twisted in a sudden violent jerk.

The sound of snapping bone echoed out into the woods.

The knight pushed the hooved wolf off him and it slid onto the snow, limp and gargling.

The gruesome sight of its fallen comrades overwhelmed the large hooved wolf's hunger and nerve. It limped off into the woods, disappearing with the cold wind.

The knight got up, brushed off the snow and fur from his armor and green tunic, and stepped over to Sharon.

"Bothersome little devils, huh? You're lucky I found you when I did. Ever since this endless winter rolled in the _reekers_ have been a little too daring," said the knight. "They usually don't attack people in broad daylight. _Ummm..._ " He gazed down at Sharon.

Sharon's still had her log up, clinging it tightly in a death-grip as it rattled in her shaking hands.

"You can put that down now."

Sharon broke from her trance-like stare, focused on her heroic savior, and smiled wide with a twitching left eye. "Maybe I'm still dreaming or maybe I'm stuck in a fairy tale. Either way, _please_ tell me you're my prince charming come to rescue me from this nightmare."

The knight removed his golden facemask to reveal—not a man—but a gorgeous young woman underneath with pale gray eyes. No more than a couple years Sharon's senior. Her long blonde hair fell as she removed her helmet and descended past her waist. "Sorry to disappoint you," she said dryly, extending her hand to Sharon.

Sharon took her hand. "You're a girl..."

"So, it would seem." She helped Sharon to her feet.

All the blood rushed to Sharon's head. Her world spun around her, blackening, and she collapsed into the knight's arms.

" _Hang on..._ "

The last words Sharon could make out before the ringing in her ears muted all other sounds and the darkness took her.

***

From atop a branch high up in the canopy the crow spied down, observing the knight carry Sharon off. Satisfied, he spread his wings and took to the air. He glided through the pink sky retracing his path back to the temple. Once he found the temple he circled, flew down to the highest balcony, and descended to a soundless perch on a black gauntlet. The gauntlet belonged to a cloaked man draped in blood-red crimson, his face shrouded by the shadows of his hood. A single shining red crystal rested on his chest, hanging from a silver chain necklace. The Cloaked Man observed the falling snow with red glowing eyes, burning with all the intensity of hell itself.

"You've done well," the Cloaked Man said as he stroked the crow. "Now, at last, the final piece of the puzzle is within my grasp. And the next phase can begin."

# Chapter 9

On the Edge of Forever

1414 A.D.

Flames flickered from a campfire, popping and sizzling, licking the falling snow with glowing red tongues, and birthing darkness and rising toxic ash into the star infested night. Huts of dried mud and clay walls, of straw roofs and log pillars, spiraled out from the campfire. They formed the village of the Western Clans. Now an empty ghost town of muted voices and forgotten nameless souls. Off in the distance, a man withdrew from a hut and violently vomited all over the snow beneath his feet.

Eric hunched over in pain, wiping the leftover rancid smelling puke from his lips with the back of his sleeve. The overwhelming taste of stomach acid scorched his gums and turned his stomach sick once more. He fought back the urge to vomit again, quelling the muscle spasms of his gut with a tightening of his abdomen. He glanced back at the hut. The animal skin and fur door flap danced to the blizzard's song, lifting aside and exposing the corpses within. Their terror ridden faces frozen in mid expression. Mouths gaping, eyes sunken, charcoal tongues protruding, and lips peeled back to reveal full sets of discolored teeth. These poor souls whose end had come in the dead of night, lay like ten-thousand-year-old mummies in the snow.

Eric's knees buckled, tremors traveling through his hands and feet, his whole body trembling. " _T-t-they're all dead,_ " he said, his voice brim with shock and disbelief.

A shadow moved over Eric _._

He gazed up. An enormous, black as roasted wood, Clydesdale horse trotted up to his side. Thunderous hooves kicked and shoveled up the snow. Wide nostrils snorted out puffs of hot white steam into the cold air. Yellow teeth gnashed against the metal bit fashioned over the powerful tongue, a symbol of the horse's enslavement. His gaze moved up to its rider. An ominous figure looked down at Eric with all the suffocating indifference of a Roman god. Cold olive black eyes belonging to what appeared to be an eleven-year-old boy. And around that boy's neck, a gold chain necklace with two glowing crystals, one blue and one red.

"Of course, didn't I say there would be a price?" asked Able, his raven black hair and purple satin cape catching in the wind.

"Not like this," said Eric. "You never said _anything_ like this!"

"Ungrateful barbarian, you should be on your hands and knees thanking me. I just saved your life. Who else would have fished you out of that dungeon?"

"Saved me?" Eric rose from his knees. "You've damned me!"

Able smirked, growing amused by Eric's theatrics. "Now, now, I never forced you to do anything. You performed the ritual all by your loathsome self."

Eric spotted something in the corner of his vision. He trudged over to the campfire, huddling above the dancing flames to steal their warmth. Gazing at the ash before the fire he fell to one knee, brushing aside the stray wood chips and smoldering hot ashes. He unearthed a doll made of straw held together with yarn knots at the ends of each limb. The doll was wrapped in a blue cloth that served as a dress and its head held two brown beads that took the place of eyes. Care and affection had been put into this toy, the love of a child.

Tears flowed down Eric's face. "The Northern Clans were invading our lands. I had to fight." The sounds of war filled his mind. Men yelling battle cries. Metal swords and shields clanging in opposition of one another. Arrows cutting the air and embedding themselves into soft exposed flesh. Grown men moaning and sobbing like children in pools of their own blood on the sharp ice. "Everything happened so fast... The arrow came out of nowhere... I must have blacked out... When I woke in that prison cell I..." The chorus of battle cries was overtaken by the unsettling scream of the old woman in the prison cell. Her scream overtaken by the monster's blood-curdling shrill.

Eric pressed his hand against his stomach, the spot where the arrow struck just two days earlier, the blood dry and his wound healed. He gazed up with pleading eyes. "I didn't have a choice, Able."

The boy smiled down at him from atop his monstrous black horse, the same smile a parent would give to an overacting child. "Are you always this melodramatic?" He laughed, and when his laughter dried up his face tightened and grew somber and still. "Don't worry, Westerner, the guilt will subside in time. Once you realize the truth. For an immortal, there is no absolution. No final judgment. For us, there is no God."

In that moment, the gravity of eternity suddenly donned on Eric. He was never going to grow old, get sick, and die. While everyone else around him would. He should have felt relief then; the veil of ever looming death had been lifted from his being. He was free, like no man before him apart from this child. He should never again feel fear. But he did. No, worse than fear. Emptiness so vast and all-encompassing that it was crushing his soul with its weight, its burden, his burden, turning his core black and leaving only unquenchable void. He was standing on the edge of forever, about to take his first step, and in the face of forever all things lost meaning.

"I don't understand, _why me?_ " Eric asked as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ritual page, now crumbled in his fist. "Why did you give this to me?" He had to know. Why did Able choose him among the countless? _For what higher purpose, if any, did my sacrifice serve?_

Able gazed up at the clearing sky, shooting stars and comets streaked across the black night in lightning bolts of pure light. An aurora borealis light spectacle floated above like the crashing waves of an ocean of living rainbow. The stars forming constellations of fallen gods and mythical heroes locked-in eternal struggles until the universe itself faded into the nothingness from which it was birthed. For once a glimmer of humanity shined in Able's eyes.

"I've grown tired of running from world to world, clinging to existence," said Able. "If life is meaningless, cruel, and unforgiving... Immortality is surely _hell._ Besides I'm bored, there's simply nothing to look forward to anymore. I guess part of me still clings to the hope that there was something... Some point to all this. What was my lot in all this chaos I ask myself? You see, the sand wipes everything clean, even great statues of stone erode away in time. So, passing down knowledge to mere mortals is a waste. What's the use if it's just going to be forgotten? I needed someone to carry on what I've learned. For better or worse, _you're my legacy._ "

Those final words struck Eric like a knife in the gut. He lunged for an ax resting next to the campfire and charged Able, roaring at the top of his lungs. "I'll kill you, you little _bastard!_ "

The horse spooked, rose on its back legs, and gave out a panicked cry. In one fluid motion, Eric ripped Able from his saddle and slammed him to the ground. He raised the ax above his head, aimed, and sent the ax hurling down.

Thud!

Everything went quiet.

Eric's rage subsided with a few deep controlled breaths.

The wind stopped along with the falling snow. The blizzard's fury died out.

Then the high-pitched sound of a child's laughter broke the silence. No, it was a darker more twisted and hollow laugh than anything Eric had ever heard from a child before. Able's laugh.

The ax's blade lay imbedded in the middle of the boy's skull, the wooden handle sticking out from his forehead like a unicorn's horn. Dark blood streamed down the bridge of his nose and trailed off the sides of his cheeks.

Able broke out in a horrible, wicked convulsive laugh now. It was if he was possessed by the devil himself reveling in the fall of man. The absurdity of grace. The hypocrisy of perfection. Then he stopped and gazed up at Eric with all the coldness in this world and the next.

"You'll get to know it in time, _the shape of your sin,_ " said Able. "I wonder what it looks like. Mine is well... _quite unpleasant._ "

Eric froze, his eyes unable to hold back the stench of his fear. His sin. The monster of his own making who he had left behind in that prison cell—who beat him back to his village and murdered every last soul whoever spoke his name out loud—was still out there. Somewhere in the blackness of night, she was waiting for him.

# Chapter 10

Lizard King

Sharon opened her eyes. Muted flames from a fireplace illuminated the dark room, the sole light source. She saw a shadow move over her and felt something wet and warm graze her forehead. The young woman with pale gray eyes gazed down at her as she lay in bed, delicately dabbing a damp cloth over the gash on her forehead and wiping away the dried blood. She wore a simple faded autumn green dress and tan laced bodice over a white blouse.

"Where am I?" Sharon asked, her head still spinning, blending her thoughts into a half-dream mess.

" _Shhh,_ it's all right," the young woman spoke softly. "You're somewhere safe. You had a bad spill. You injured your head." She gave Sharon an uneasy smile. It seemed forced and drained of any joy.

"I have to get back." She tried sitting up in bed, but the young woman gently restrained her.

"Get back where?"

"Home. To the mirror. I shouldn't be here. The crow tricked me."

"It's not safe to travel in your condition. Besides, there may be reekers still out there."

" _Reekers?_ You mean those wolves?"

The young woman's eyes lit up with a flood of emotion.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong, Sharon. It's just that I haven't heard anyone use that word in a long time."

Sharon frowned. "How do you know my name?"

She held up Sharon's high school I.D. card. "I apologize for going through your personal things. But I needed to know who you were and when I stripped you of your wet clothes this fell out." She held up a black, damp leather wallet.

" _My clothes?_ " Sharon peeked under the fur covers and found herself stark naked.

"Don't worry you, I wrung them out and put them next to the fireplace to dry. If they aren't dry by morning you can borrow some of mine."

"I would appreciate that... Thank you... for saving me, ummm..."

"Michelle."

"Pleased to meet you, Michelle." She offered her hand and Michelle shook it.

"And my brother's name is Matthew." Michelle motioned over to the doorway.

Matthew peeked out from behind the door frame and gave Sharon a shy wave and smile.

She waved back.

Michelle's expression changed as her gaze fell to a photo in the wallet. In the picture, Grace held a five-year-old Sharon in her arms, behind them was the beach and ocean. They were both smiling. "You're lucky."

Sharon scoffed. "I haven't been _lucky_ a day in my life. I'm the queen of bad luck. And after today I think I'll have to go track down a leprechaun and force him to give me an exorcism and a rabbit's foot enema."

Michelle glided her thumb across the face of the photo. "You look happy together, you and your mother. It must be nice to have someone to return to. The most precious thing one can possess in this world is family."

"I don't think my father got that memo," she whispered to herself.

Michelle put back the photo and placed the wallet next to Sharon's side. "When Matthew was a baby and I was just a little girl, a wolf..." She stopped herself, took a moment and continued. "A reeker took our mother and father from us. Just like they almost took you today." She glanced at Matthew. "It's just us now."

Matthew walked over and hugged her. She wrapped her arm around him.

" _I'm sorry,_ " said Sharon, unsure what other words to use.

"We barely made it out with our lives." She clenched her hands into fists, scrunching up her worn green skirt. "If I could, I'd kill every last one of their _monstrous_ kind."

"You'll get no complaints from me."

"You said you came from the mirror?"

"Yeah, all I did was touch the damn thing and— _poof_ —I'm in the middle of the woods freezing my ass off."

"Strange, I was under the impression that only Mirror Guardians could use the mirrors."

"Did I travel back in time or something? Or am I in another one of the crow's dreams? I can't _tell_ anymore," said Sharon, her thoughts still fuzzy.

Michelle's gave her an odd look. "You should get some sleep." She stood up, suddenly. "We'll answer your questions in the morning." She took Matthew by the hand and led him out the door.

Stopping to take hold of the doorknob, she glanced back at Sharon and took in a deep breath of air. "Goodnight." She closed the door behind her.

Sharon watched the flames dance in the fireplace for some time, basking in their warm glow before dozing off.

***

A long shadow extended out toward her bed, snaking across the wood floor and dancing in the fire's light.

A whisper leaked in from outside. "She's _right_ you know."

A dark figure floated to the window, quietly pushed opened the glass shutters, and levitated inside. Joy landed without a sound, tiptoeing into the light and stalking toward Sharon like some dark, twisted version of _Peter Pan_ , the infamous child thief. He stood over her and stared at her for the longest time, admiring her beauty. Then, satisfied, he knelt before her, resting his ear on her chest, and listened to her heart beat.

"You need to conserve your strength for what lies ahead," Joy spoke with intoxicating warmth, closing his eyes and breathing in Sharon's exhaled breaths. He fed on her scent, memorizing it as if he was a vampire tasting her blood for the first time. "No sense in rushing things and risk causing more harm than good." He touched the tips of his index and middle finger to his red lips, kissing them, and pressed them against her lips. A goodnight's kiss. Tears swelled in his eyes, tears of pure absolute joy. "Changing one's reality takes a lot of time and energy. Such a task would be better reserved for a later date."

Joy levitated back to the windowsill, perching outward toward the night. He glanced back at Sharon, smiling, always smiling, endlessly. "Until then, _sweet dreams,_ beautiful."

***

Sharon slept a dreamless sleep, empty black thoughts sailing on a sea of void. She woke peacefully in the morning but stayed in bed till noon, too sore to move. She took the opportunity to gather her thoughts and memories, and distinguish between the real and the dream. The memory of that boy in the black hospital gown and his icy touch came flooding in. How he saved her from the reekers and how the branches slipped right through him. _Is he a ghost like the crow? No, maybe he is the crow, both one and the same._ Perhaps all lost souls rode on the backs of crows, silently ferried to the land of the dead. Perhaps once, every now and then, one would lose their way and become lost between the realm of the living and the hereafter. Trapped in purgatory. _But why did he bring me here? If he meant me harm, he could have just sleepwalked me into oncoming traffic. No, he brought me here for a purpose. But where is here? And why me?_

Sharon sat up and planted her feet on the hardwood floor. She took her clothes Michelle had laid out for her on the foot of the bed and dressed herself. _Good, they're dry. I would have hated wearing a dress._ Next to the fireplace was a pair of simple medieval looking black boots. She put them on. A bit snug, but they'd have to do. _Did I go back in time or something? I was saved by a knight after all._ She walked over to the window and gazed out. The sky was still pink. The moon bigger, closer than the one she knew back home. _Traveling back in time might account for a larger moon. Since the moon is gradually leaving Earth's orbit, so the further back in time the bigger the moon. But a pink sky?_ She didn't have an answer.

The wind picked up, growing colder as it passed through the white mountains. She could just make out the temple in the distance. The temple was oddly Egyptian in design, monolithic and unfathomably old. _Going back now would be pointless without the crow. Though maybe I don't need the crow._ _Michelle mentioned something about Mirror Guardians last night._ _Maybe I could find one to take me back home._ She still had hope. She wouldn't let the crow win.

***

Sharon descended the stairs and headed into the den of the cabin when the mouthwatering scent of baked pastry reminded her how hungry she was. Matthew was already at the table, greedily stuffing his face with a crescent-shaped pastry pocket treat. It smelled similar to a chicken pot pie. Michelle, trading in her suit of armor for an apron, reminded him to use his manners before inviting Sharon for lunch.

Sharon sat down and forced herself to eat small bites, savor the taste, and not wolf it down.

"Come meet me outside when you're finished," Michelle told her, taking off her apron and stepping out the front door. "I have something to show you."

***

Sharon stared at the reekers, hanging from the side of the cabin, now just empty husks of skin and fur. Their gaping mouths were full of teeth and pairs of pale dead eyes protruded out of their skulls. Up close they looked almost African in origin, their antlers spiraling like a gazelle or a Dorcas deer's horns. _Maybe that's it. These reekers are a completely new species. I didn't travel back in time but to another world._ _These creatures must have shared a common ancestor that came through the mirror long ago and, in isolation, evolved into predators._ Sharon wondered what she might evolve into if she stayed here long enough.

_Whoosh. Thud._

Michelle let an arrow fly, impaling a bale of frostbitten hay a few yards away. A slab of leather served as her target.

"Thanks for the meal and spare boots," said Sharon. "I wish I could repay you somehow."

Michelle focused on her target. "No need." She let another arrow fly. "Thanks to you I can feed Matthew and me for three months at least. Reeker fur and antlers catch a high price down in the city." She gave Sharon a devilish smirk. "You make great bait _._ "

"Glad I could be of service," she said dryly, sizing Michelle up in her plain emerald green dress. "So, no suit of armor today, my heroic knight? What, are the _crusades_ over early this year?"

"I only wear armor when I go hunting," replied Michelle as she fired another arrow. "You were foolish to trek these woods unprotected. Especially now that the weather has gotten so bad."

"You think that was foolish." Sharon laughed. In one week, she had already punched a girl, got suspended from school, vandalized a mansion, and narrowly dodged becoming wolf kibble _._ She couldn't imagine what she could accomplish in two. __ "Give me a little more time, and I'll blow your mind."

Sharon gazed up at the gathering murky clouds. _More snow is coming for sure and a drop-in temperature._ "But yeah, it's a literal ice age out here. So where is _here_ exactly?" she asked, the gravity of traveling to another world finally donning on her.

"We're deep in pig-run territory," answered Michelle.

She raised an eyebrow. "What's a _pig-run?_ "

"So, you really _are_ from another world."

"I guess that makes me an alien. But don't worry. Aside from the occasional cow abduction and probing of rednecks, I come in peace." Sharon flashed the _Vulcan_ hand sign. "So, what can you tell me about your world?"

Michelle's face tightened as she pulled back on her bowstring with all her might, sending the arrow crashing into the target with a thunderous thud. "My world, _Tuat_ , is a cruel and wretched place where the strong rule and the weak are subjugated."

_Tuat?_ The word sounded Egyptian. The mirror, the newspaper clipping with her father, the temple, and those reekers. Sharon was noticing a correlation. But Michelle and Matthew both looked more European in ethnicity. And Michelle's suit of armor was clearly late medieval in design. The metalwork far too impressive to be the work of some amateur. _No, whoever made it spent decades learning how. The mirror must have been used as a gateway or portal for the migrations of humans to this Tuat place. And there had to be more than one migration._ "I take it I came at a bad time?"

"You could say that, if there ever was a good time to come to Tuat," replied Michelle. "Ever since the _endless winter_ descended upon Tuat, the three kingdoms that divide up our world have been at war. Kingdoms ruled by nothing more than glorified _tyrants_ who refer to themselves as _gods._ "

"So, is that why you guys live all the way out here? Alone and isolated?"

"Yes. Matthew and I try to lead uncomplicated, unmolested lives and do our best not to become collateral damage." She faced Sharon. "I suggest you adopt the same _policy_ while you stay here."

Sharon nodded in agreement.

Michelle motioned for her to come over. "Regardless of who you are or where you came from, you should at least learn how to protect yourself." She handed Sharon her bow and moved her hands to the proper positions. "Focus on the target."

Sharon took aim, pulled back the bowstring, and let go. The arrow landed a few feet from the barrel of hay.

" _Again,_ " Michelle commanded her.

Sharon fired another arrow. She hit the bottom of the hay.

"Better. Again."

Sharon did as she was instructed, firing arrow after arrow until she finally hit the leather target.

"Good, tomorrow I'll take you to the city," Michelle said, heading to the cabin. "Someone there should know where to find a Mirror Guardian. In the meantime, I want you to keep practicing." She smirked back at Sharon. "There's nothing _worse_ than a damsel in distress."

***

The night grew cold and cruel. The wind picked up, hurling the snow and hail viciously sideways, pelting the cabin and laying siege to its walls. The wood ached as the temperature dropped, sounding off in audible cries. Matthew brushed the bristled mane of a dark brown horse while it drank from a trough in the barn.

Michelle pushed open the barn doors and stepped inside. She raised her lamp in Matthew's direction, painting him and the horse in a halo of firelight and stretching their shadows to the size of giants.

"After you've finished with your chores I want you to wash up and go to bed," she said.

Matthew squirmed. "But it's still early."

"Tomorrow we've got to make a trip to the city. And we'll have to leave by dawn if we want to get there before nightfall."

"Because of the girl?"

"Yes."

Matthew's eyes lit up and he half-smiled. "Her clothes were pretty funny. Do you really think she's from another world?"

A rush of pale overtook Michelle's face, her cheeks draining to the color of a blind cave fish.

" _What's wrong?_ " Matthew asked, his expression now matching his sister's. He followed her line of sight, she was looking above and beyond him. Something was behind him. He spun around, tightening his muscles in a brace for whatever horrors that lay in wait. But only a bare wall stood behind him. Matthew let out a breath of air. Then something caught his gaze. Movement between the cracks of the wood planks. Light mirrored back in two darting eyes.

Behind the barn, a short hairy goblin-like pig creature spied through the wood planks. He locked eyes with Matthew, gave a quick snort, and darted off into the darkness.

Matthew glanced back at his sister. " _Pig-runs._ "

"Stay here," Michelle ordered him. She grabbed her bow and a quiver full of arrows and headed outside.

***

Out from the darkness, the upright, warthog-shaped creature emerged, his jagged tusks glimmering in the moonlight. He snorted out the cold air through his snot drenched, flat snout, sniffing and tasting the passing scents ensnared in the blizzard winds. He changed course, slowing his pace to a light jog until he came upon the scaled feet of a huge figure waiting behind the shadows of the woods.

"My lord, your suspicions were right," said the pig-run. He spoke elegantly, as if he was a royal butler bowing before his king.

"Excellent work, Dew-paw," said the figure, his voice grating out like a python grinding its scales across the rocks of a riverbed.

Before Dew-paw could form more words, a woman's voice echoed out, piercing through the blizzard's wail and howl.

"This is my land. You are all trespassing."

Michelle stepped into the moonlight, her bow already drawn, the arrow facing downwards to the snow ready to be raised and fired at her whim.

The large figure mirrored Michelle's advancing pace, stepping into the light to reveal not a man, but something far more frightening. An eight-foot-tall dark green monster more lizard than human. He stood upright and wore an armor chest plate and metal shoulder guards. His body resembled a Komodo dragon in form. His eyes, despite being marked with reptilian slits, possessed a hint of patience and intelligence. He peered down at Michelle as alligators often do with a passing curiosity and indifference. Then he lifted his heavy ax above his narrow head and motioned to those lying in wait behind the shadows of the cold black night.

One small flame ignited in the blackness of the woods, giving birth to more and still more. They mated with one another like courting fireflies until the whole forest was ablaze with hundreds of torches. Their wielders emerged, advancing on Michelle's small world the way ants swarm out of a trampled mound. Hundreds of pig-runs surrounded the property, armed and dressed for war, squealing for human blood.

***

Sharon studied the photo of her and her mother at the beach as she lay back in bed. She frowned, gliding her finger across her mother's smile and stopping when she came to an arm wrapped around her mother's shoulders. She followed the arm to the edge of the photo and unfolded it, revealing her father on the other side of the crease. Eric's smile seemed genuine. And the photo had not even been taken a year before he left.

_You look so happy. So why?_ "Why did you leave us? Was it all a lie? Is this face just a mask?" Sharon's question hung in the silent air before snuffing out like a candle's flame.

" _Sharon,_ " Matthew screamed as he burst through the bedroom door, his face pale and stricken with fear.

Sharon shot up in bed. "What's wrong?"

"You have to hide," said Matthew. " _Now._ "

"Why?" A chorus of squeals caught her attention. She jumped out of bed, stepped over to the window ledge, and gazed outside. Her face went grim. " _Not good._ "

***

Michelle took a deep breath and swallowed the knot swelling in her throat. She gathered her thoughts and tried to keep her composure before the jaws of the lion. Pig-runs were one thing, dealing with a half-a-dozen or so she could fight off. _Maybe._ With a slim chance of survival. But with these numbers and with their lizard king, their living god at the helm, her survival and, more importantly, Matthew's life teetered on his particular mood and whim. Her next words would decide everything.

" _Khaba_ , to what do I owe this honor?" Michelle asked.

Khaba stared her down, the difference in their size almost comical, his long thick tail swishing back and forth the way of an annoyed cat. "Give me the outsider, _human,_ " Khaba commanded her, as if she was a little girl hiding a toy behind her back.

Michelle hesitated, her eyes scanning for the right words. "What _outsider?_ I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Her words fumbled out of her mouth.

Khaba bared the jagged teeth in the corner of his mouth. "Be careful _whom_ you lie to woman." He invaded her personal space, leaning in and brushing aside her bangs from her face with a loud humid snort. "I can _smell_ the magic in the air." He stuck out his black forked tongue and flickered it like a cobra tasting the wind. "Someone has recently used one of the mirrors."

Michelle gritted her teeth, puffed out her chest, and tried her best to project confidence in her voice. "I saved her life. She _belongs_ to me."

Dew-paw snorted himself into their conversation. "Under normal circumstances, yes, but we are at war, my lady. And these lands belong to Khaba. His rights supersede yours in times of civil unrest."

She had no rebuttal. He was right. By choosing to live here she became subject to all pig-run laws. This was their country. And though, ironically, she had enjoyed more individual freedoms and rights here as a woman than under any human rule, she had no say in the matter. And to make matters worse, any rights she had only applied during times of peace. In times of war the pig-run government changed from a primitive republic to a dictatorship, absolute power handed over to their chosen king to ensure swift victory.

"What possible use could this _girl_ be to you?" Michelle asked Khaba.

"That is none of your concern." Khaba turned from her and shouted out to his warriors. "All right, search the property."

The pig-runs charged the yard, gaining speed as they swarmed closer and closer in on the cabin.

Michelle raised her bow, drew back with all her strength, and released.

_Whoosh. Thud._

The arrow struck inches from Dew-paw's hooves.

The advancing pig-runs froze mid-stride.

"Nobody move a muscle," Michelle roared. "Khaba may rule this country—but this plot of land belongs to me."

Khaba raised his huge ax to strike, bending his knees in preparation for a leaping lunge toward Michelle. He would close their distance in one stride and end this with one swing.

Michelle loaded another arrow—her hands moving in a blur of speed—and turned her bow on Khaba.

Khaba froze, his expression one of a man who just stepped on a bear trap and heard the click.

"I wouldn't," said Michelle. "Your ax must weigh a ton, Khaba. My arrow doesn't. I wonder which will strike first."

***

Light pierced through the darkness, flooding in the storage basement. Matthew opened the latch and lifted the trap door up from the floor. He glanced back to Sharon.

" _Oh no—_ no basements," she said backing up. "I learned my lesson the first time."

"You have to hide," he said.

"You first."

He frowned. "I can't. I have to save my sister."

"And how are you going to do that exactly?"

He ran to a long slender chest underneath the stairs. He pulled the chest out, unlatched it, and popped open the lid. A primitive antique musket made of heavy iron and hardwood lay inside.

"That isn't what I think it is— _is it?_ " she asked, her stomach sickening with dread.

"All I have to do is kill the big lizard and the pig-runs will scatter. He's the only reason they had the courage to form an army and challenge human rule in the first place." Matthew took out the musket, added gunpowder, loaded a small metal ball down the barrel, jammed it down with a long metal bar, and fastened the flint. "Without him _maybe..._ "

"This is nuts. We should just stay inside. I'm sure your sister has everything under control," she said pacing back and forth.

"I'm not leaving my sister out there to die," he snapped, wrapping the musket's leather strap around his shoulder. He headed for the front door.

Sharon stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"Get out of my way."

"We need time to think about this rationally," she pleaded.

"Fine, you stay here and think. But I'm going."

"Matthew, if you run out there _guns a' blazin'_ someone is gonna get hurt."

"My sister will _die_ if I don't."

"Getting yourself killed won't do anyone any good. I know it sucks, but we have to prioritize our own safety first and focus on—"

"She's only in danger right now because of you," Matthew cut her short, his words fuming out. "If she didn't risk her life to save yours back in the forest, none of this would have happened. Why do you think they're here? The pig-runs have always left us alone before tonight, and now all of a sudden, they're at our gates. They're here because of you _._ "

Sharon's eyes widened. "The pig-runs are after me? Why? Do they have something to do with the crow?"

"Who knows and who cares. All I know is that she should have just left you out there to die," Matthew said coldly. He pushed passed her and out the front door.

Sharon clenched her fists and averted her gaze to the floor. _He's right._ _I've been nothing but a burden to them. To everyone. Maybe it would have been better if I had died out there. At least then only my life would be lost._

***

" _Michelle!_ " Matthew came barreling out the front door, down the steps, and across the yard, making a beeline toward Khaba and his sister.

Michelle turned her head but kept her bow focused on Khaba. "I told you to stay inside!"

Matthew stopped in the middle of the yard when he was satisfied enough distance was gained. He took aim with the musket, raising the weapon and lining the sight up with Khaba.

Khaba squinted, trying to focus his eyes on a small figure in the darkness. A glimmer of moonlight reflected off the metallic barrel. His jaw dropped in a sudden gasp when he recognized the object Matthew held.

" _Die, monster._ " Matthew squeezed the trigger. The powder ignited in a flash of smoke and fire—blasting the small iron ball toward Khaba.

Smoke filled the air.

All the pig-runs stood still, alert, and silent.

The smoke cleared.

Matthew's confidence died as a bolt of terror shot through him.

Khaba wiped a trickle of blood descending from a slither of a cut across the side of his face. "You should have gotten closer to me before firing, boy. Those muskets have piss-poor accuracy." He motioned to Dew-paw.

Dew-paw charged Matthew, wrestling him to the ground and disarming him. After taking control of his hostage, Dew-paw slid out his knife and pressed it against Matthew's throat.

" _Don't,_ " Michelle yelled.

She spun to shoot Dew-paw, but stopped midway as Khaba stepped toward her. She spun back to Khaba, focusing her arrow on him and halting his advance. Khaba would kill her if she used her arrow on the pig-run. He was too close. No way would he give her time to reload. But Dew-paw could kill Matthew at any moment. One arrow. Two targets. An impossible choice.

Khaba grinned a lizard's grin. He had her. Matthew just threw away any advantage she once held. "Your courage is impressive, human." Khaba locked eyes with Michelle. "But this conflict is meaningless. Violence will only lead to more grief."

Michelle bit down on her lower lip, drawing blood as the tears fell from her pale gray eyes. "What would you know of _grief?_ " she hissed the words out with all the venom of a thousand vipers. " _Huh?_ How many have suffered under the war between the three kingdoms? How many lives have been lost because of your pride?"

Khaba's expression remained calm and indifferent as he took in her words. " _Whose_ lives are you referring to?" he asked. "Human lives perhaps? Where were your protests when the pig-runs were driven from their ancestral homelands? When your kind slaughtered them by the thousands along the infamous River of Crying?"

Michelle glanced over the hundreds of pig-runs behind Khaba, scanning their somber, pain-soaked faces. The pig-runs' memories of that atrocity, that genocidal march of death just under a decade ago, was still fresh and vivid, their grief as powerful as if it happened this afternoon.

"You humans are all the same. You care only now—when it's your own blood being spilled."

A drop of blood trickled down Matthew's throat, staining Dew-paw's filthy blade.

Michelle clenched her eyes shut to cut off the flow of tears, but to no avail.

Khaba waited for her rebuttal, but none came. "So, what will it be? Kill me and this war might end. But you and the boy die. Make your choice."

Michelle stood there motionless for the longest time as she made her choice. Then, oddly, her expression changed. The muscles in her face loosened and relaxed. The tears stopped, she opened her eyes, and gazed up at Khaba. But her pale gray eyes were different somehow. They were cold, drained of feeling, hollow eyes of an empty soul. To Khaba it was like she had changed into a completely different person in that instance. As if a caterpillar broke free of its cocoon before his very eyes and emerged not a butterfly but a death moth.

Khaba grew visibly shaken. He was a god among men and yet this woman he towered over sent a primal shiver of fear down his spine.

Michelle drew back her bowstring to the breaking point and peeled her fingers from the string one by...

" _Stop,_ " a voice boomed out.

Michelle relaxed her bow and turned.

Everyone followed suit and shifted their gaze to the cabin as Sharon descended the steps of the front porch.

# Chapter 11

The Pyramid of Life

Sharon stepped forward, anxiety swelling inside her, stiffening her joints and tendons. Just keeping her balance became difficult, keeping a brave face damn near impossible. The usual nasty batch of stage fright had nothing on this. She was center stage, the spotlight beaming down on her, and her audience—an army of angry snorting pig-runs armed to the teeth. Their eyes all fixed on her, awaiting her next line.

_Be strong,_ she told herself. _You have to be strong._ _This storm will pass... you just have to ride this out...Whatever lies ahead... you can do this..._ She hated lying to herself.

Sharon inhaled a deep breath and inched into the moonlight, one step at a time. As she passed Matthew, she locked eyes with his captor, Dew-paw. "It's alright. Please lower the knife. I'll go with you guys."

Dew-paw relaxed his grip and released Matthew.

She smiled gently at Matthew. "Don't worry. It'll be over soon."

Matthew nodded with watery eyes.

She headed for Michelle.

"What are you doing?" yelled Michelle. "Get back inside."

Sharon placed her hand on Michelle's shoulder and slowly pushed her straightened arm down, so Michelle's bow aimed at the ground. " _It's okay_. No one has to die tonight, least of all for me."

"Don't be foolish," Michelle pleaded.

She grinned. "I told you I would surprise you one day."

Michelle let go of her grip on the bowstring and the arrow fell to the ground. She hugged Sharon, moving her lips to Sharon's ear. "I'll get you back," she whispered. "Somehow I'll find a way. In the meantime, just try to stay alive."

"Any advice on the whole staying _alive_ part?" asked Sharon.

"Khaba, the big lizard over there, and the pig-runs live by their own strict codes of honor. According to their laws unarmed hostages can't be harmed."

"So Khaba can't kill me as long as I don't pick up a weapon?"

"Right, so just do as he says for now and try to bide as much time as you can."

" _Stall,_ got it," Sharon said turning her gaze on Khaba, determination in her eyes.

She marched over to Khaba and sized him up, masking her fear with anger, substituting bravery with hate. "I'll go without a fight but only if you leave them alone, _understand?_ "

Her anger subsided when she saw Khaba's eyes. They were wide with disbelief, like she was some ominous ghost from Khaba's past come back from the grave with a warning. A prophecy of ill omens meant for him and him alone.

He snapped out of his trance and turned from Sharon without saying a word, almost as if he were a shy boy avoiding his crush's gaze. He signaled to the pig-runs and they retreated into the blackness of the woods.

Matthew ran to his sister and hugged her, squeezing as hard as his small arms would allow. Together they stood powerless as Khaba and his army marched away with Sharon and disappeared into the night.

***

" _Hey,_ not so rough, _pig,_ " Sharon shouted at a particularly large and ugly spotted pig-run with long jagged tusks.

He ignored her and continued pulling the cart she was in over the bumpy road. The large spotted pig-run had just steered over a pothole jolting her out of the crest of REM sleep.

Sharon's protests got louder.

He snorted a growling grumble back at her without faltering his pace, keeping in sync with the rest of the marching army.

_Sigh. Just when I finally fell asleep too._ She gazed up at the sky. The sun peeked over the mountains. _Morning. Another day to look forward to in my personal hell._ _Mom must be losing her mind right now. She probably already called the police to inform them of her missing daughter_. _I wonder what excuse Morrie used for my sudden disappearance._ _If any at all_. _Does he even know his mirror is magic? Of course, he does. He knew about the crow didn't he...?_

Sharon tumbled back against the cart's bed as the large spotted pig-run clumsily navigated the cart over a series of rocks. "Are you _blind_ or just stupid?" she asked, her irritated mood exasperated by the foul aroma of pig-runs. The stench of their unwashed, filthy mud-crusted bodies stung her eyes to the point of tears. "Where are you taking me? Hey, are you _listening_ to me?"

"Shut up, girl," said Dew-paw, trotting up to the side of the cart. "Be grateful you get to sit in the cart." He let go a smug pig's smirk. "Unless you'd prefer to march?"

She ignored him, folding her arms and refusing to make eye contact. She gazed down at her hands instead. _My hands are free, not bound by rope or chains. Does this mean they don't consider me a hostage? Surely, they would tie me up if that was the case. Or maybe the thought of me escaping in the middle of an army is laughable?_

In the morning light, she got a better look at her captors. She needed to know as much about the pig-runs as possible. Any information could be vital to her survival. So, she observed, as any good scientist would. These warthog creatures varied quite a bit in size, some as small as three-feet-tall and others over five feet. The biggest being her dumb cart puller, the spotted pig-run, at over five-and-a-half feet and half as wide. They wore no clothes except for bits and pieces of mismatching armor. _Probably scavenged from raids spent looting human settlements,_ she guessed. Some even wore colorful trinkets and cloths that they tied to their limbs and around their necks. _More spoils of war and badges of victories_. And since they were practically naked she could tell their genders. She was surprised to find there were females soldiers among the marching army. _Maybe they viewed the sexes as equals?_ _So, I'm not getting special treatment because I'm a girl..._

The one thing the pig-runs all had in common was that they carried an ax on their side attached to a belt. Though they varied in size and shape, axes all the same. _Of course!_ _That's why Michelle told me not to pick up a weapon. Their axes are symbolic._ In ancient Viking society wearing an ax at your side was a symbol of being a free man. Slaves did not carry weapons for obvious reasons. _Maybe I'm not a prisoner of war, merely a civilian captive at best. Maybe not even a captive. I'm not marching like the rude little pig said. Maybe I'm a guest._ She recalled how their leader looked at her. _Those weren't the eyes of an enemy. Where is he taking me?_

Sharon gazed ahead of the army. The pig-runs' lizard king was out in front, leading the way. "So, I'm being held captive by an army of pigs led by a giant lizard? _Great,_ I always wanted to be in a _Grimm Fairy Tale._ "

" _Lizard?_ " Dew-paw snapped back. "Show some respect girl. Khaba is a god."

She squinted down at Dew-paw. "A god? Him?"

"He is the god of the Kingdom of Rock and Sand and the rightful ruler of this world."

"This world? You mean _your_ world," Sharon corrected him. "Not mine. Look, I don't really know what's going on here, but I can assure you that I have nothing to do with any war. I'm not on anyone's side— _honest._ I'm like Sweden. Neutral." She pulled out her wallet and slid out her I.D. card. "My name is Sharon Ashcraft. I'm a junior at Saint Francis High. I come from a planet called Earth." She held up the card for everyone to see.

The spotted pig-run gave it a sniff before eating it, almost swallowing Sharon's hand along with it.

" _Gross—you pig,_ " she said, yanking her now saliva coated hand back. "They charge for duplicates you know, jerk."

"Ha." Dew-paw snorted a laugh. "There is no such thing as neutrality here, young master. Everything and everyone must choose. And you chose the instant you took shelter on our lands."

Sharon fumed. "What was I gonna do, huh? It's _friggin'_ snowing out here." She bit down on her teeth and let out a frustrated shriek. "I don't care about your petty war or your smelly assortment of bacon."

"True. All wars are petty and ultimately meaningless," said Khaba, without turning from his forward march, his line of sight still focused on what lay ahead.

She raised her gaze to Khaba's bare muscular back. His response surprised her, not just with his chosen words but that he had been eavesdropping on her this whole time. "If you truly believe that then why are you marching to war?"

"To achieve true lasting peace," replied Khaba. "All animals fight for dominance. We can no more escape this nature then we can stop breathing the air. As societies grow into empires, war becomes an inescapable reality." Finally, he glanced her way. "No matter what world we call home."

The path ahead opened up. For the first time, Sharon saw over and past the mountains, and glimpsed what lay beyond. Down below it was like another world, a desert oasis by the sea, stretching on forever in the hot pink horizon. Not a drop of snow in sight. A literal line in the sand below divided the two ecosystems. A perfect unnatural line.

"That woman was right. As long as the three kingdoms coexist there will always be conflict, and subsequently grief. Only when Tuat is united can the healing begin."

The sounds of horrid battle cries and the clash of metal echoed against the mountain rocks. Down below thousands of pig-runs laid siege to the towering walls of an ancient Egyptian city.

"Only then will my war have meaning."

***

The sun beat down. Bodies of the fallen lay silent, skin leathered from the blistering heat. The beautiful melody of war grew to deafening levels. Arrows overhead struck down like deadly hail. The huge walls of mud and stone dwarfed the pig-runs and kept the archers safe from their axes. The hordes of pig-runs hacked and slashed through the few defending Egyptian soldiers outside the gate and positioned their crude battering ram, a large tree on wheels chopped sharp to a point. They charged into the fray of falling arrows and sent the ram crashing into the gate. Splinters sprayed as the ram's head burst through wood. The walls trembled and shook. The pig-runs reversed and, putting their backs into it once more, made another charge.

***

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Khaba asked, reaching the top of the hill. He surveyed the bloody siege a few miles off in the distance with rising enthusiasm.

"Yeah, war is just _peachy,_ " Sharon replied.

The spotted pig-run pulled her cart up to the top of the hill and left her with Khaba.

Khaba ordered Dew-paw and the rest of the pig-runs to return to camp. When they were out of earshot, he turned to Sharon.

"No. That is just a diversion. The real fight is here. Can't you see it?" he asked, eagerly awaiting her response.

She gazed ahead. There was nothing ahead of her but the line in the sand that divided the snow on their side and the desert on the other. It was like there was a glass wall separating winter and summer.

She squinted. "See what?"

"The _magic,_ " replied Khaba, grinning. "It's a beautiful shade of blue."

Sharon spun to meet his gaze. "What did you say?"

_'Positive energies tend to come in shades of blue. Like the sky or the ocean_. _'_ The words her father spoke so long ago came flooding through her mind.

"Here, see for yourself." Khaba lifted Sharon out of the cart as if she was a small child—despite her protests—and plopped her down on her feet. He forcefully took her by the hand, engulfing it in his large green scaly grip, and led her to the line in the snow and sand.

She gazed up at him, unsure what to do.

"Well, go on," he urged her.

She extended her hand. Her palm pressed flat against some kind of invisible wall. The hairs on the back of her hand stood up like she was rubbing a static balloon. The taste of batteries on the tip of her tongue. A glow of warmth passed through the ends of her fingers and trickled down into her abdomen. Blue ripples radiated from her palm like ripples in water. Sharon stared back in disbelief as they continued to expand beyond her line of sight. This invisible wall was bigger than she could visibly take in standing this close to it.

Khaba let go a hard laugh. "I knew you were special, girl. Normal beings pass through the Pyramid of Life. The fact that it reacts to your touch can mean only _one_ thing."

Her eyes widened. "And what's that?"

Khaba leaned in, his snout brushing past her hair and his forked tongue whisking inches from her ear, and whispered softly. "Magic flows in your veins."

# Chapter 12

Joy

Joy knelt down and glided his fingers across a pair of indents in the snow. Hoof tracks.

"Pig-runs," he said to himself. "So Khaba has you. That presents a bit of a problem."

He rose to his feet. Ahead, just beyond the forest opening, was Michelle's cabin. He stepped over to a frozen puddle, now a slick sheet of ice, and admired his gothic red reflection.

"Well, then, looks like it's now or never. But first, a bit of a face change before our little _face to face._ " His red crystal lit up and his pale skin gave way to tan flesh. "Wouldn't want to scare you off before we got to know each other." The red in his face faded away to reveal a handsome boy of seventeen with soft, dark brown eyes and hair. The only red that remained was the crystal hanging from his neck. His smile grew. "I gotta say, Joy, you are one handsome devil."

Wind swirled around him and his feet lifted off the ground.

***

"I don't understand," Sharon said glancing Khaba's way. "Why would I have magic—?"

"Don't you see?" Khaba blurted his question out so fast he lost his breath. "Fate has brought you to me. The Oracle said we would find the one who could help us discover our path. The one who would give us the true answer. You are that one, Sharon. The one from my dream. The angel who draws the arrow of hope and pierces the darkness. You will help me unify Tuat and restore order. You will give me the power to kill my brother, Simon, the _slave-king._ "

Sharon shook her head at the insanity of his words. "And just how am I supposed to do all that?"

Khaba placed his hand on her shoulder and locked eyes with her. "By getting me through this barrier. The magic here is pure. It rejects all foreign energies, including mine. Simon must have changed its frequency to read my spiritual essence as foreign after banishing me. But for some reason it accepts you..."

His expression changed.

"What's wrong?" Sharon asked.

She felt the sensation of fingers wrapping around hers, intertwining them in a lover's grip. She followed Khaba's light of sight to spot a smiling boy with brown hair and eyes behind the barrier.

Joy's his fingers poked out between hers.

"Who..." She wanted to yank her hand back but found her body unresponsive.

"That's good to know, Khaba." Joy pulled her on through to the other side, taking her into his arms.

" _No,_ " Khaba yelled. He slammed his body against the barrier, a pulsing flash burst out repelling him and sending him crashing to the ground.

Her cheek pressed against Joy's chest. A lover's embrace. _So, this is happening..._

"Is that giant dumb lizard bothering you, beautiful?" Joy lifted Sharon's chin with a brush of his fingers and her gaze met his own.

They shared a wordless moment.

"Ummm... _hi?_ " Her expression changed when, for a just moment, his brown eyes seemed to shine a glimmer of red. She blinked and pushed away from his grip, back-stepping to gain a little distance between them. "Easy now, Casanova. Introductions first."

"It's okay." Joy raised both his palms. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to help. Scout's honor."

She took a second to catch her breath and slow down her racing heart. "And why should I trust you?"

"Because we both work for the same boss."

She inched up an eyebrow. "Boss?"

"Or business partner—if you'd prefer. Don't know what deal he struck with you or why he sent a defenseless little school girl of all people but—"

"Defenseless?" She placed her hands on her hips. "I've defended myself quite a bit already, thank you very much."

" _But_ it's mission failure for all of us if you're captured by the enemy."

"How do I know _you're_ not the enemy?"

"Hello, human here." He gestured to Khaba. "Or would you rather place your trust in mister scales over on the other side of the barrier? Not a lot options here, beautiful. And we're kinda short on time." He extended his hand to her. "So, either you come with me right now or..."

"Give her back," Khaba demanded as he pounded against the barrier with his fists.

"Give me? Okay, I'm no one's property, Godzilla," Sharon snapped back. "Nobody owns me." She jabbed her finger at Khaba. "Least of all, some... some pig farmer!"

Khaba squinted at her. "Pig farmer?"

She folded her arms and looked away. "It's been a long night—thanks to you I might add—so don't expect my A game." She glanced back at Joy. "And who are you exactly?"

" _Interesting._ " Joy studied her clueless expression. "So, you really don't know?"

She threw up her arms. "Why would I know who you—or what any of this crazy is?"

He sighed as he headed for the barrier. "Stay here a second while I take care of something."

Sharon watched the strange young man in ink-black, skintight leather stalk up to the barrier. She observed him like he was some exotic creature in a zoo exhibit, trying her best to understand his nature. _Are you friend or foe? Considering the predicament I'm in, I don't think it matters much. You can't be worse than lizard brain, right? And I am so not committing regicide, so I guess I've gotta roll the dice and take my chances on this side of the barrier._

Joy reached the barrier and stood before Khaba, meeting his glare. "Since when has the great Khaba been in the business of kidnapping innocent young girls?"

A glimmer of red reflective light flashed across Khaba's eyes. "That crystal hanging from your neck... You're a Mirror Guardian, aren't you?"

"Mirror Guardian?" she asked under her breath, recalling her conversation with Michelle. _If he's one, then does that mean he can use the mirrors? He could take me back home._

"Sorry to disappoint," said Joy, "but I am the furthest thing from a Mirror Guardian as one could get."

Sharon sighed. _Just my luck..._

"But you still can use the mirrors, yes?" asked Khaba. "I know all about the crystals."

Her spirits lifted. _Or maybe my luck's about to change._

"That ability would be a powerful asset to our cause. Perhaps we could strike up a bargain?" He offered up his scaly green hand.

Joy pressed his hands flat against the barrier. "I think it's time you went back to your war, Khaba. She's with me now."

She raised a finger. "Ummm... define _with._ "

Khaba bared his jagged teeth. "Why don't you come a little closer and say that again, human. Or are you just another coward like my brother—hiding behind invisible walls?"

"Don't," she pleaded, instinctively reaching out and grabbing Joy's wrist as a rush of dread struck her, "he's just egging you on."

Joy winked at her, smirked, and shifted his gaze back to Khaba. "I'm not afraid of you, Khaba. Not one bit." He moved to step on through the barrier to Khaba's side but Sharon held onto him.

"I get it, you're brave," she said, refusing to let go. "Considered the girl impressed. Now can we go before you get us both killed?" _I need you alive, moron. A corpse ain't gonna get me back through the mirror._ "We should make a run for it now—before the other pigs get here. I can't do it alone. I don't know where to go."

Joy's face softened. "You're scared."

" _Terrified._ "

"Why?" he asked.

"Why?" She gestured with a spread of her arms. "Why the hell wouldn't I be? Look around. We're trapped in a world of nightmares."

Joy yanked his arm free and jumped back through the barrier. "Then I guess it's about time to wake up."

" _Awe hell..._ " Sharon clasped her head. "We're so dead."

Joy landed a foot from Khaba.

Khaba unhooked his ax but hesitated to strike. Instead, he snapped his jaws inches from the young man's face and flickered his forked tongue.

Joy didn't flinch or falter in his gaze.

"Well then." Khaba slid out a large dagger from his belt and tossed it to the ground before Joy's feet. "Let's make things interesting."

"Don't touch it," Sharon shouted, remembering Michelle's warning. She ran to the barrier, stopping before the crossing point. "He can't kill you if you're unarmed."

Khaba hissed in her direction.

She inched back a few steps and raised her palms. "Also, unarmed."

"Is that so?" Joy asked, his gaze fell to the dagger then rose to Khaba. "What a silly rule."

"Rules are what keep us civilized," said Khaba. "They are what separates us from animals."

A little scoff escaped Joy's lips. "Says the one conducting a war."

Khaba frowned. "All paths to peace require sacrifices made in blood. This reality is unavoidable. The difference in the path that I have chosen is that I give meaning to those who have sacrificed. In that way, my war becomes one of honor."

Joy burst out into full-blown laughter, the laugh of a madman watching the world burn to sunders. " _Honor?_ You must be joking. There is no such thing as honor in war. War is but murder on a grander scale. No amount of banners and flags and uniforms can hide this truth. Killing is killing. The dead know not the difference." Joy knelt down and scooped up the dagger.

Sharon lost all the breath in her lungs.

He rose to meet Khaba's burning glare. "We are animals Khaba. No amount of rules will change that."

Khaba raised his ax above his head and plunged it down upon Joy with all his strength and fury. "Fine, then die like the animal you are."

Sharon's heart sunk in her chest. " _Don't!_ " She clenched her eyes shut and turned away. She heard the thud and flinched. "Damn it." She inched her eyelids open and reluctantly peeked back.

To her surprise, the ax had split the earth but there was no blood. No Joy.

She looked around but found nothing. The cocky teen had disappeared. She turned to Khaba.

Khaba's mouth hung open, his eyes focusing upward toward the sky.

She gazed up. " _Holy_ ..."

Joy floated in the air above Khaba just out of his reach, grinning at him like a freshly gutted and carved jack o' lantern. "Don't think so highly of yourself, lizard king." He performed a mocking midair bow for him.

"He's flying," she whispered to herself, "he's _frickin'_ flying..."

Khaba roared, hurling his huge ax into the pink sky.

Joy dodged gracefully as if he was a matador teasing a raging bull. He zipped through the air around Khaba like _Peter Pan's_ lost shadow, harassing him at any chance he could get.

Khaba swiped at him with his claws and tail, hitting nothing but air.

"Besides..." Joy scooped up a clump of snow, molded it into a snowball, and chucked it—hitting Khaba in the face. "If shedding blood is unavoidable no matter what path one takes." He landed behind Khaba and pressed the dagger to his throat. "This way, only _yours_ need be spilled."

"Don't," shouted Sharon. " _Please,_ I don't want anyone to die because of me. He can't get to me now. It's over. Let him go."

Khaba stared back at her in disbelief.

Joy laughed. "Interesting, you're full of surprises aren't you, beautiful?"

"Please," she said. "Hasn't there been enough death today?"

"As you wish," Joy said, removing the dagger from Khaba's throat. "Want to know a little secret?" he asked, leaning in to Khaba's reptilian earhole and whispering a devil's whisper.

Sharon couldn't make out his words but guessed they weren't pleasant ones when she saw Khaba's whole body tremble.

Joy pulled away from Khaba. "Remember, lizard king, the methods used to reach victory are of little consequence as only the living write history books. And those who have been forgotten by history are doomed to relive its atrocities. For the truth is as fuzzy as memory and the dead remember little."

Sharon spotted a party of pig-runs come rushing up the hill toward them. "Hey, we got company." She pointed out for Joy with a few overexcited hops.

"Looks like the cavalry has arrived," said Joy, taking notice. "And since pig-runs aren't full of magic like you, Khaba." He stepped back behind the barrier and grabbed Sharon's hand. "I think it's time to go."

"You've forgotten who I am, boy," said Khaba. "I am the god of rock and sand, and though the sand here has been buried by ice and snow, it still hears my call." He extended his hand and the earth beneath his feet shook. Sand swirled up from the ground, floated to the air, and clumped together forming into a spear. "I will show you the _power_ of a god."

"Not good." She stepped back and tried to take another but Joy firmly held onto her hand. "What are you doing? Let go. We have to run."

"Just watch," he told her.

Khaba took hold of the spear and hurled it at Joy.

Sharon flinched.

Joy stood indifferent as the spear sped toward him.

When the spear passed through the barrier the Pyramid of Life lit up in vibrant pulsing ripples of blue light. The sand lost shape and hold, falling to his feet like an emptied bucket of sand.

She kicked away a small pile of sand off the tops of her shoes. "No foreign magic can pass through."

"So close and yet so far," Joy said, levitating off the ground.

A dozen of Khaba's pig-run warriors ran to his side. "Kill the boy and recover the girl," he ordered them.

The magicless pig-runs rushed through the barrier.

"How on earth are you flying?" Sharon asked, awestruck but still holding onto Joy's hand.

"It's easy. Anyone can do it—including you," said Joy. "Just think of a happy thought." He lifted her up into the air with him.

She felt the ground leave her feet. "I'm flying. We're flying. _Oh..._ "

"Hold on tight." Joy smiled down at her. "And whatever you do—don't let go."

"... _crap._ "

Khaba and his pig-runs stared back powerless as Sharon and Joy rose higher and higher until they were nothing but dots in the pink sky.

***

"I suggest not looking down too," said Joy.

They flew through the pink sky, Sharon in Joy's tight embrace, his arms wrapped around her waist like they were dancing at a ball made of formless drifting clouds.

" _Okay,_ " Sharon agreed, her chest barely containing her frantic heartbeat.

"Don't be afraid," he said, his voice steady and calm. "I won't drop you. I promise."

She nodded and tried to peer through the clouds, but saw only white. It was if she and Joy were lost in an opaque mist, their world swallowed by hungry fog. "Can you fly me home? Or do I have to buy a ticket first?"

He laughed. "What do I look like, an airplane?

She sized him up head to toe. "Please tell me you're not crazy. I can't handle anymore crazy."

"My dear, there is no such thing as sane."

"Says the _idiot_ who just took on an eight-foot-tall Komodo dragon with a battle-ax."

"Don't tempt me," he said, relaxing his grip a bit.

She began to slip, forcing her to squeeze him tighter.

He laughed.

"Not funny," said Sharon. "You can put me down now. _Gently._ "

"As you wish, beautiful."

***

Joy and Sharon descended from the sky.

Sharon clinched her eyes shut and didn't open them till her feet touched the ground. When she did she found herself surrounded by ancient Egyptian ruins. Crumbled walls, fallen pillars, and eroded broken statues laid half-buried in the sand.

She walked through the ruins, gliding her fingers over the large broken pieces of mud brick walls. She brushed her fingertips along faded painted carvings of animals. From a lizard to a wolf and shark. She frowned as her fingers came to a carving depicting a dragon devouring people.

"Those are the spirit animals. The ones who created this world. The people here refer to them as gods. I believe you met one already."

She glanced at the carving of the lizard. _So, this is Khaba? Then who are the others?_ More gods locked-in eternal struggles of power and control most likely, more souls she had no intention of meeting.

"The hieroglyphs depict the genesis of the people here on Tuat." He placed his hand over hers and guided her hand to a carving of a weathered image of a white horse.

No, this isn't a horse. It has a horn... A unicorn?

"It's really a tragic story of love. The legend. You see, the wolf fell in love with the unicorn. A creature of pure light who resided on the brightest star in the sky. The sun."

He inched in close to her. She could feel his hot breath on her skin. The first time a boy her age was this close to her. Her heart raced.

"As a creature of the night he could never be with his love. So, he howled at the moon, her reflection, every night in sorrow when the sun set. That is, until one night when he could bear it no more. In his despair and grief, he made a deal with the dragon. A being of pure darkness. He asked the dragon to turn him and his love, the unicorn, into creatures that inhabited both the light and the dark. So, they could live out their days and nights together. Thus, man and woman were born."

Sharon's eyes met with his for a breathless few seconds. "So, what's the tragic part?" she asked, lost in his cocky gaze.

"Dragons' wishes come at a price. As humans, they were no longer immortal. When they died, they lost all memories of their love for each other. And when their souls came back, reincarnated in new human bodies, they were forced to find each other and fall in love all over again. They were forever trapped in an endless cycle of love and death and longing." He removed his hand from hers and stepped away. "Such is the _fate_ of all men and women."

She smiled to herself and turned to face him. "Thanks for saving me back there, ummm... Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

" _Joy._ "

"That's an unusual name for a boy."

He peered into her eyes with unwavering confidence. "Think of it more as a title. My original name back on Earth was Jeff."

Her face lit up. "Hell, yes! Finally, I'm getting somewhere." She rushed over to him and offered her hand. "Hello Jeff, the name's Sharon Ashcraft, and I come from Earth too."

Joy just stared at her hand and cracked up, laughing until tears fell from his cheeks.

_Is he laughing at me?_ Sharon's enthusiasm faded. "What's so funny?"

He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve. "Oh, it's just the nerve of Morrie."

"You know Professor Morrie?"

"Know him? He's the reason I'm here."

"I'm lost."

Joy tilted his head to one side as if he was a dog hearing a strange sound for the first time. "I'm sure he lied to you about his motives for wanting to find your father. But he must have mentioned me before sending you."

She slowly shook her head with disbelief. " _My father..._ "

Joy jumped an impossible distance up one of the large sections of the walls, levitating to a gentle perch. He hopped along the pieces of broken wall until he found one suitably smooth and sat down. He took out an odd colored pear, like none Sharon had known back home, and slid out Khaba's dagger and sliced himself a piece. "It's not hard to figure out his plan," he said, chewing on a slice of pear. "He must have hoped dear old _Daddy_ would come to the rescue once his little girl got into hot water. Good plan, except he's not even on this planet." He pointed to himself with the tip of the blade. "I would've found him by now if he were."

She walked to the wall and rested her hands on her hips. "Why are you looking for my father?"

He smirked down at her and tossed her a slice of the pear. "Because your father holds the second part of the equation."

" _What?_ "

He studied her clueless expression. "How much in the dark has Morrie kept you?"

"Morrie didn't send me here." She sniffed the slice of pear. The sweet scent overtook her and she gobbled it up, her stomach growling from an absent breakfast.

"Right, then how did you get through the mirror? Open sesame?"

She looked away, unwilling to give an answer, unwilling to divulge any information about the crow. At least not until she knew more about Jeff and what he knew. "What does it matter? All I want is a way off this nightmare."

"You're really not here to find your father?" he pried.

"I could give a damn about that man," Sharon snapped back. "I just want to get back home. If I find another mirror, can it take me back?" _There has to be more than one if entire populations used them to migrate here_.

"Any mirror can take you to another mirror, no matter how far away, _instantly._ That _is_ what they're for."

"So, can you help me find one of those mirrors or not?" she asked, folding her arms, determined not to get a no for an answer.

He sighed, massaging the back of his neck. "There's no real point in doing that."

"And why's that?"

"Because you can't use them, not like you are now. Your soul is still on the inside. You have to move it to the outside," he said, holding out his glowing red crystal for Sharon to see.

"And how do I do that exactly?" She peered at the exquisite crystal like it was a shimmering diamond at a jewelry store.

Joy smiled a devil's grin. "Perform the ritual."

# Chapter 13

The Shape of Sin

Quivering translucent flames engulfed the blood-red book. The book rested on smoldering firewood and glowing ash, poisoning the stale air with an aroma akin to roasting corpses. Death filled Eric's nostrils, choking his lungs with gnashing cancerous black smoke. On the cover jacket of this ominous monolithic text, three circles overlapped. Circles engraved in the dyed leather hide of an animal that had not walked this world nor any other since before man could walk upright himself. Eric prodded the book, pushing it farther into the hellish fireplace with an iron poker, hoping the devil would take it back and see no need to forge another.

A thunderstorm raged outside the cabin, bleaching the black starless night with flashes of streaking light that left afterimages in Eric's eyes. Snow fell, cocooning the walls and the roof as if in preparations for some wicked metamorphosis. Dead tree branches raked across the frosted windows, scraping off the culmination of ice like sharkskin sanding off the paint of a passing fishing boat. The interior of the cabin was dark and lifeless. The only things of comfort being cobwebs and shriveled insect husks with hollow legs curled inward the way freshly murdered crabs turn sour on a midsummer's day.

Eric stared down at a piece of paper he clutched between his hands. The ritual page. No, _his_ ritual page. The feel of its weight, overpowering, crushing. As if he held a list of names of all the damned souls of hell and their incriminating deeds. _His_ deeds. It was too much to bear for another minute let alone an eternity. Like buzzing ravenous black flies eating holes through his brain, the temptation to burn the ritual page came flooding in.

_Be done with it, here and now, for all-time,_ he thought. _Let it die with the boy_.

He held out the ritual page over the flames and waited for the smoke to vomit up and the paper to peel back in on itself the way a tarantula would in a fire pit. But to his shock and dismay, the flames did not consume the paper. They didn't even singe it. Only danced wickedly around and through it as if the paper was a phantom's handkerchief taunting him, reminding him of the invisible chains, padlocks, and heavy iron balls that ensnared his very spirit.

Magic, horrid black magic. All the boy's doing no doubt. To ensure his precious legacy.

Eric glanced over his shoulder. Behind him Able slept peacefully, dwarfed in a red cushioned chair. Asleep he could pass as any other child, cute and innocently wrapped in a black bearskin blanket. Killing him now would take little effort. But would he stay dead? An ax to the skull didn't even make a lasting impression. Not even a small scar rested where Eric implanted the blade just a few nights before.

Able opened his eyes. "Have you finished burning the book?" he asked, awaking with a childish yawn.

"Only the page of the ritual remains," Eric answered, folding the page and sliding it down his pocket. The paper still cool to the touch despite its trip through the fire. "Everything else resides in here." He pointed to his head.

Able had instructed him to memorize and take to heart the contents of the red book. Dark secrets millenniums old, taboo magic and hideous research of the most blasphemous nature. And of course, Able's life story. The memoirs of the child emperor's blood-soaked rise to power on a forgotten world. In his own words, Able described in detail all the people he slaughtered and tortured to death without a hint of regret nor remorse. In fact, he bragged how he was responsible for the loss of more human lives than a hundred Antichrists. A death toll that reached far into the hundreds of thousands. A number Eric could not comprehend. Now all that remained of that devil's bible and Able's legacy was the ritual page and, of course, one other thing. Eric himself.

" _Good,_ " Able said, half-smiling. "You'll need the ritual page when the time comes for you to choose your replacement."

_Replacement?_ Eric felt the world falling beneath his feet. The thought of cursing someone else, sentencing them to eternal damnation in his stead turned his stomach rotten with disgust. _No, unthinkable_. _I could never do such a thing._

"Now watch carefully, it'll be your turn in this chair one day," said Able.

Eric faced Able as a chill ran down his spine. _No, it's still too soon, I'm not ready yet. Still too much I don't know. Still too much you're hiding from me._ He had to force the next words from his mouth. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? There must be something—"

Able cut him off with a small burst of uncontrollable laughter. "Just three days ago, you wanted me dead and now this?" His laughter drained, his face tightened, and his eyes grew somber. "I know, sometimes solitude can be a harder fate to face than death. We are always alone, though. That is our punishment. An eternity with only our sin to keep us comfort. I was blessed in this regard since I performed the ritual as a child. But you're going to be tempted to start a family, marry a pretty wife, and turn out a few brats." He locked eyes with Eric, penetrating in his glare. "Do them a favor and don't. But I'm wasting my breath. Because you already know the _why,_ don't you?"

Eric went cold. "When do we get to the part where you die?"

Able's laughter returned. "Getting impatient, are we?"

"I'm just getting sick of hearing your voice. You talk big immortal, but unlike you, I'm no child. And I certainly have no further intentions of playing your fool."

He took in Eric's words, enjoying every second as if he was listening to his favorite tune plucked on a harp. " _Oh?_ "

Eric stood, taking up as much space in the room as he could, puffing out his chest and projecting his voice deep from within his belly. "Your secrets will die with me. And another thing, Able, I'm going to find a way to kill that thing... my _sin._ Because unlike you I am a survivor."

Able's smile disappeared. " _Quiet. It's here._ "

Eric held the air in his lungs.

Silence filled the room. For the longest time, there was nothing, just dead stale air and the soft beating of snow.

Eric listened intensely, siphoning off his breaths in tiny soundless gasps, the way rabbits do in the presence of wolves.

Then the ceiling planks began to crack and bend in aching squeals.

His heart sank. _Something's on the roof. And..._

Stabs and scratches, like knives hitting wood, echoed throughout the cabin. The kinds of sounds insects make when they crawl.

Whatever it is, it isn't human.

Eric's breath grew cold and white. His eyes moved with the sounds overhead, following it as it scurried around the roof, this way and that, looking for a way inside. Then abruptly, silence. Just absolute terrifying silence.

What Eric saw next was beyond anything mere words could ever hope to convey. The expression on Able's face. Gone was the cold, calculating, and heartless tyrant who watched his world and his people burn to ashes while he played the lyre on the steps before his throne, simply because he thought the horrid spectacle needed a soundtrack. And in his place, a shaking child, pale as waxed bone and brittle as rotten wood, gripping the arms of the red cushioned chair in a feverish sweat. Now Eric understood why he was chosen. Legacy had nothing to do with any of it. Able cared nothing for this existence. Whether mankind flourished forever or the universe imploded in on itself tomorrow. All meaningless in the face of his suffocating nihilism.

_What was the point of passing on this blasphemous knowledge if it benefited no one?_ Eric asked himself _. Why go on preserving and guarding secrets no one wished to hear? The very definition of meaningless. No, I was chosen for one simple task. To hold the hand of a scared little boy before he passed on into oblivion. I was chosen because Able didn't want to die alone._

"Hello darkness, my old friend," Able said, his voice trembling.

Out of the darkness behind Able's chair, a long slender spider leg, black as sin and the size of a bamboo pole, poked out. The leg bent over him, feeling him, slowly caressing his abdomen and moving up to his chest. Able closed his eyes and braced himself with a tightening of all his muscles. Another leg poked out, this time ensnaring the boy's legs.

Eric pressed his back to the wall, standing flat against it, unable to move. He wanted to avert his eyes but something inexplicable compelled him to look on.

Lightning struck, illuminating the room. For a brief second the creature, Able's sin, became visible. Its face was almost human, as if a man's face was skinned and stretched over another less human. Its dozens of eyes and slender fangs and jagged teeth reflected the room like black glass. The creature puffed out its torso, raised its spider body to striking position, and unfolded its mantis-like arms. And as the lightning faded it lunged at Able—snatching him up and out from his chair—dragging him into darkness.

The chair fell. Dead silence followed.

Then, after a long insufferable beat, horrifying sounds filled the room. They leaked out from the darkest corner of the ceiling of the cabin. Eric froze with fear at what he heard, a sound akin to locusts feasting.

_It's eating him_.

Eric vomited on the floor, the shadows of Able's feet dangling over his face. He stumbled backward, the world spinning and rocking as if the cabin was adrift at sea, and fell against the door, pushing it open with his weight. Then only black.

The searing cold of the snow on his face woke him sometime later. Whether minutes or hours passed, he did not know. He forced himself to his feet and fled into the woods, not caring where he was going, not stopping even when dawn broke. The tears flowed as the bitter reality sunk in.

_This is my future_.

# Chapter 14

The Garden of Eden

"What exactly are you and Morrie after?" Sharon asked, her hands resting firmly against her hips. Her eyelids narrowed as she studied Joy atop the wall.

"What everyone is after," Joy replied, tossing her the rest of the pear. "Whether it's through things like religion or not, we all seek some form of eternal bliss." He placed his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the harsh desert sun. He scanned the horizon for familiar landmarks to pinpoint where they were and which direction they needed to go.

"Then you're wasting your time," Sharon said. "No one stays happy forever, believe me. The world won't let you. That's the bitter reality."

Joy jumped down to her side. "Why do you think I left Earth?"

She finished off the pear and tossed the core aside. "And what makes you think you'll find it out here?"

"I already did. It's the eternal part I'm still missing." He offered her his hand. "Come on, I want to show you something."

She hesitated a moment, reluctant to place so much trust in this strange boy, but his warm smile and his fearless eyes were far too inviting. Besides he was cute and with his rebellious style and tall, slender build he was her type entire.

She placed her hand in his and felt the ground leave her feet. "Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere to get a better view. Tell me, why do you want to go home so bad?"

"You ever met a reeker?"

"I mean it just seems _odd._ "

"How so?" Sharon watched the ruins shrink beneath her feet as they reached the clouds.

"Think about it. You've just traveled— _what_ —maybe a million light-years to another galaxy. To another world. Seen things most can only _dream_ about."

The clouds cleared up ahead. Sharon's eyes adjusted to the bright sun. Her expression changed as she took in the world of Tuat. The vast beauty was overwhelming, a gorgeous planet unmolested by modern man. Flocks of birds soared over a crystal blue ocean to the west. To the east mountains gleamed with pure white snow. Behind her, a desert of ruby red sand burned with the passion of a volcanic river. Beneath her a lush green forest of ancient trees as wide and tall as roaming dinosaurs piercing into the clouds. And another detail. The shape of the green forests and the desert against the ocean like a perfect diamond cut with a laser from heaven. Snow and ice covered everything outside the Pyramid of Life.

They trailed above a twisting river that cut the diamond-shaped landscape down the middle, leading from the sea to the forest. The center of the forest their destination.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Joy asked, taking in the clean fresh air. "This world is my Garden of Eden."

Sharon didn't answer. Her face said everything words could not.

"How many would kill to be in your shoes right now?"

"They can have my shoes. Or what's left of them," said Sharon, remembering that one of her boots was at the bottom of a river and the other in the belly of a reeker.

"So, you'll go home and then what?"

"Well, I've got high school to finish and college after that," she replied, finally giving thought to the matter. In truth, her only real goal was getting out of the modern hell-hole known as high school. She planned on leaving it with the dust and shrinking scenery in the reflection of her rearview mirror. Now if she just had a car to go with that fantasy. Preferably a convertible. College was just an excuse to move out and avoid her mother for four glorious years. She had no destination or end game after that. _Maybe I could save up enough for a one-way plane ticket to an exotic tropical island no one could find on a map. Disappear among the palm trees. Leave the modern world behind like Anthony Hopkins did in the movie Instinct and embrace my primal natures. If only Tuat wasn't filled with hungry reekers and bloodthirsty pig-runs, I just might have wanted to stay awhile._ "You know... _a future,_ " she said, her mind trailing off in absurd daydreams.

"So, you'll become one of them?"

She snapped back to reality. " _What?_ "

"Conform to their rules and trade in your individuality for a matching gray uniform."

"No..." she said, her horrid school uniform coming to mind.

"Tell me, Sharon. Do you really think you'll be happy once you get home?"

"I'm happy now," she said with all the conviction of a pet rock, forcing a smile.

"Somehow I don't believe you."

Her fake smile shrunk. "That's your problem— _not_ mine."

"Is it?" he asked.

She averted her gaze to the passing tree canopies below and the gliding birds in the air around them.

"Sharon, if you're not happy today, what makes you think tomorrow will be any different?"

They descended into the forest and into the rising mist, landing on soft emerald moss. The surrounding plant life dwarfed them with their towering presence. It was if they had been transported to some prehistoric forest, a chorus of chirping insects welcoming them to a land time had forgotten.

"So, this is the place you wanted me to see?" she asked. "It's _beautiful..._ "

"You won't find any place like this back on Earth," said Joy. "Human greed and apathy made sure of that." He took her by the hand. "Stay with me here. Just for a little while longer." He locked eyes with her. "Take a much-needed vacation. You've earned that at least. Then I'll take you to a mirror if that's what you still want. _Deal?_ "

She removed her hand from his. "I don't even know you, Jeff."

"Isn't that the whole point of a first date?" He placed his finger beneath her chin he lifted her gaze to his.

Her heart raced, her cheeks blushed, and her lips grew hot.

"I may be a mystery," he said. "But you? I know you better than you ever could imagine—little lost girl from behind the mirror." His confidence was overwhelming. "I know what misery they've caused you. What you've sacrificed to conform to their hypocrisies. I've been there, witnessed their cookie cutter existence. They spend half their lives in plastic desks just so they can spend the other half in cardboard cubicles. They drive the same cars, just different models. They wear the same clothes, just different shades. They spend all day reading magazines ads and listening to commercials that tell us we're all too fat, too ugly, and far too single to be happy. Wake up to their _lies,_ Sharon. Happiness isn't one size fits all. It isn't found on an assembly line. Open your eyes before it's too late. Or one day you'll find yourself looking in the mirror and wondering why you're so _damn_ miserable."

Sharon shrunk back. "I can't just take a day or two off."

"Why not?"

"I can't make my mom wait any longer." She turned from him. " _God,_ she must be worried sick about me right now."

Joy grabbed her hand. "Look me in the eyes and answer me. Are you truly happy?"

Sharon's emotional wall of defense came crumbling down. " _No..._ "Tears followed suit, sliding down her face.

"You're not alone, Sharon. Not anymore. I can make the sadness go away." Joy caught her tears with a brush of his thumb across her cheek. "I know how you can forget all those bad memories and erase the emptiness in your heart. I can fill the void your father left when he abandoned you. All you have to do is trust me."

***

"I don't think this is a good idea," Matthew said, as he stood in the doorway, peeking out into the flickering light of the fireplace.

Michelle opened the closet doors and retrieved her armor.

She instructed Matthew to assist her, as any good squire would, and he fastened her chest plate on.

He recovered the helmet from the top shelf of the closet and handed it to Michelle.

She glided her fingers across the grooves of the golden face mask. From the brow down past the bridge of the nose. Her fingertips rested over the lips. She lifted her fingers to her face, pressing them against her own lips.

"This mask is my crown," Michelle whispered to herself. "My husband's crown. A symbol of my duties and responsibilities to my world, to my _people._ I've been running from them for so long that I've forgotten who I really am. Can you forgive me?"

" _Michelle,_ " Matthew pleaded. "I don't want you to go. I'm scared... you might not come back."

She tied her hair up and slid the helmet over her head. "I have to go after her, Matthew. If it wasn't for her, we'd both be dead right now. And I refuse to stand by helplessly and watch as they take what they want from us, again and again."

He hugged himself, unconsciously. "But what can you do alone against an army? It's suicide..."

"I don't care," she snapped back. "I won't let another _monster_ take someone's family away!" She fastened the golden mask over her face. "For I am the Queen of Tuat and everything and everyone is subject to me by divine right. Even the very gods—false or otherwise."

Michelle draped her fur cloak over her armor and slid the hood over her helmet. She retrieved her bow, quiver, shield, and sword off the bed and headed for the door, pushing past her little brother.

" _Stay here,_ " she ordered him without looking his way. "So, commands your Queen."

***

Sharon stepped under a fallen tree resting atop a boulder covered in moss. She brushed aside the hanging vines, swatted back the warm mist, and gazed up at a tree that pierced the clouds.

" _Whoa,_ " she said, taking it all in. "So, which one of these _behemoths_ is the right one?"

"I wouldn't know," replied Joy as he ducked under the fallen tree. "I've never actually seen it."

She helped Joy untangle himself from some snagging vines. "You're joking, right?"

"Afraid not—in fact, I've been searching for it ever since I got here."

She raised an eyebrow. "Another piece of your equation, Jeff?"

He didn't answer.

She hugged herself. "Is it really true? What you said about erasing bad memories?" _You forgot about us, dear old Dad, so it should be fitting I forget about you. For good._

Joy finally glanced back at her. "For those who've unlocked their souls... you'll not find much in the way of impossible."

Sharon brushed a lock of hair from her eyes back behind her ear. "I haven't made up my mind yet—just to make things clear—got it?"

"Crystal clear, gorgeous."

"First home, then I'll think about it... Well, all I can promise is that I'll _think_ about your offer." _And I'll think about erasing every last bad memory of my crummy childhood... so can I finally move on. Baggage free._

He surveyed the area, noting the landmarks and checking them off on his personal hand sketched map. "Shouldn't be much farther now. The place I last spotted one of them was just ahead." He pressed on to a creek below them.

Then he stopped, his body tensing as his gaze shifted to the twisting stream.

Three bodies rested face down among the polished smooth rocks and emerald green algae. A man, a woman, and a child. Small arrows stuck out of their backs.

Sharon gasped as she reached Joy's side. " _Oh, my god..._ "

He shook his head, his grin still tattooed across his face. "Now this is what unhappiness leads to. Must have been refugees trying to flee Khaba and the endless winter. They should have known better than to trek through the Sacred Forest alone and unarmed. We're in the lands of the Kingdom of Heaven, deep in tree-sprite territory. Humans are forbidden here, most of all citizens of the city."

Sharon stepped closer. This was the first time she had seen a dead body, not to mention three. She knelt down next to the child, and turning the body over, discovered he was a boy, no older than nine, with bronze skin and charcoal eyes.

She brushed his eyes closed. Tears swelled in her own.

Joy looked on, his curiosity peaking as he studied her face. "Why are you crying?" he asked. "It's not like you _know_ these people."

She dragged the bodies out of the stream and laid them down face up. "Why do I have to know them to care?" She closed their still eyes with a gentle glide of her hand.

"For one, you have no emotional attachments to them. They're strangers." He picked up a small green arrow and examined it.

"How could I be happy while others suffer?" She glared at him, his constant smug smile enraging her.

Joy carelessly tossed the arrow into the creek. "People die all the time. This is the existence we are born into. You may think I'm cruel, but just now, as we speak, hundreds of people back on Earth have died. From war, famine, disease, and natural disasters just to name a few. Why aren't you grieving for them too?"

She had no rebuttal.

"You're sad for _them_ because you can _see_ them. They're right in front of your eyes, so they exist, they matter. And the others don't. They don't exist. Not really." He gestured to the bodies. "You should just forget about them, Sharon. Pretend they don't exist, like with the countless others. You'll be much happier if you do."

She rose to her feet, clenching her fists and tightening her throat. "How could you be so _cold?_ "

"Simple, I don't care about things I can't change." He turned from her and headed down the stream, skipping on top of the stones to avoid getting his feet wet. "The dead are still dead no matter how many tears you shed—so goes the rhyme. I'm mean, come on Sharon, do you plan on grieving for every single dead person on this and every other planet? Will that make you a good person? Maybe, but it certainly won't make you a happy one."

"No... I guess not..." She reluctantly trailed after him, having trouble keeping her balance as she tried to mirror his steps on the stones.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Sharon. Happiness is knowing when to forget. Just forget them. Your parents, your school, society and their silly rules." He glanced her way. "We choose our own unhappiness whether we admit that or not. I just choose to forget the bad. That's all. Why do you think I'm always smiling?"

***

A pig's squeal shrilled out from the shadows. The large spotted pig-run ripped through a wooden table, sending it crashing down with a slash of his sharp tusks. Plates and cups shattered and blanketed the floor with jagged pieces. He plowed his ax through all the furniture, hacking them to small chunks, and smashed anything he could find. Once satisfied all available hiding places were explored, he left the mud brick house and joined the other pig-runs.

After the party of raiding pig-runs finished their relentless search of the village just outside the Sacred Forest they rushed over to Khaba. They lined up in a row and knelt before their king.

"Report, Tusk-raw," commanded Khaba.

Tusk-raw, the large spotted pig-run, rose to his feet. "Looks like they were telling the truth. The girl's not here." He glanced over at three bodies.

A man, a woman, and a little girl lay face down in the snow. Motionless. Their clothes soaked with blood.

"Burn it down," Khaba ordered his horde of pig-runs with a growl. "Then we'll move to the next village." As he wiped the blood from his ax he spotted Dew-paw by his side.

"They were unarmed," said Dew-paw, his voice trembling. "Where is the _honor_ in this?"

"There is no honor in war," replied Khaba. "To hold such delusions invites defeat. Besides, humans deserve no such courtesies. Or have you forgotten the atrocities committed along the River of Crying?"

Dew-paw's voice steadied. "I have not."

"Good, because that horror is what awaits us again if we lose this war." Khaba turned his back on him and headed for his army. "The ice has spread to every corner of our world not touched by the barrier of the Pyramid of Life. Two thirds of the lands within its protection are controlled by our enemies. The last third, our third, is mostly desert. We don't have enough farmlands to feed us for much longer. In one year's time, we will all starve."

Dew-paw scurried after him, struggling to keep pace. "But how can we claim our cause to be just if we become what we fight against?"

"I already told you not to hold such delusions," Khaba snapped back at him. "Don't you get it? If we don't find that girl, we're going to lose this war." He pointed to the forest ahead. "That false Mirror Guardian took her north, toward the Sacred Forest. If we don't capture her before she goes in too deep, before our enemies do, we'll never get her back."

Dew-paw shook his head. "But how will killing innocents help us find her?"

"Innocents?" Khaba's eyes widened with fury. "They _murdered_ our parents."

"Not these humans," said Dew-paw. "They weren't the ones."

"It's either them or us. I choose us."

"This is not like you, Khaba. This is not what our parents would have wanted. Winning like this will not give their deaths meaning." He placed his hand on Khaba's, as if he was a small three-year-old boy trying to get the attention of his father. "Have that boy's words changed you so much?"

"You are too familiar, Dew-paw." Khaba growled, brushing the pig-run's hand aside. "Remember your place. We may be brothers—but never forget I am still your king, your _god._ "

Dew-paw shrunk back and averted his eyes to the ground. "Forgive me, my lord."

"For I can assure you, I have not forgotten my duties and responsibilities to my subjects, to our parents. I will never again let that hell befall my people. Even if I must become a _monster_ in the process." He roared to his warriors. "I don't care how long it takes. Find her!"

***

"It's all about your thoughts," said Joy, ducking under a branch. "You are what you think. I think therefore I am." He glanced back at Sharon as she trailed after him. "Nothing exists beyond the reality of your own mind. The prison our consciousness imposes upon us. So why think unhappy thoughts? It serves no purpose."

Music filled the air, a sweet melody emanating from a flute.

" _Ah,_ just the sound I wanted to hear," said Joy, as he pushed ahead through a thicket of vines.

A small two-foot-tall elfish creature, more plant than animal, sat on the stump of a tree. He played a flute in his little solo concert for a gathering of a group of rodents, birds, and bugs. They all sat quietly listening, swaying along with the music, entranced by the soothing melody.

"What is he?" Sharon asked, stopping to gawk at the strange little elfling, losing herself in the music as well.

"He's a member of the third race of Tuat, the tree-sprites."

"Are they the ones who killed that family back at the stream?" she asked.

"Most likely, yes," he answered. "Those arrows were of the tree-sprite variety. Usually, tree-sprites are known for their peaceful nature. In fact, it was once considered a good omen to spot one. But with all the conflict between the other races, they've gotten very territorial—declaring war on all intruders, human or pig-run."

"Are we in danger?" she asked.

"As long as you're with me they won't become aggressive. For some reason, they're scared of me. Moki here is the only one I've managed to coax out." Joy pointed to the tree canopies.

In the shadows of the leaves, dozens of yellow glowing eyes with black pupil slits spied down on them, blinking in and out of existence.

Sharon took hold of his arm and squeezed tight. "How long have they been following us?"

"Since we touched down in the Sacred Forest."

Moki stopped playing his wooden flute and raised his yellow gaze to Sharon and Joy.

The small animals broke from their trance and scattered into the forest.

"So, it's you again, the boy with red thoughts," said Moki, scowling at Joy. "I told you before— _outsider_ —I'm not telling you where it is." He rocked back and forth in a rhythmic gesture, snapping his fingers compulsively. "Red thoughts, bad thoughts, red thoughts, bad thoughts, red thoughts, bad thoughts..." He chanted like he was warding off evil spirits.

Sharon gave Joy a perplexed look.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Did I forget to mention he's a _little_ different?"

She sighed. "Maybe that's why he's the only one you could find?"

"Go away red thoughts, you are not welcome," said Moki. " _Go away, go away, go away_..." he chanted at a feverish pace.

"You might want to reconsider telling me where the Tree of Life is, Moki, considering this girl's _life_ depends on it." Joy gestured to Sharon, nudging her with his elbow.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, go on," he whispered.

"Right," she said, muscling up the courage to walk up to the small elfish creature. "Hello— _Moki_ —is it?" She inched closer. "My name's Sharon, Sharon Ashcraft."

Moki's gaze met hers.

She smiled in response.

He averted his gaze.

"I'm a little lost, Moki. I thought you might want to help me." She knelt down to his level. "You see, I accidentally touched one of those magic mirrors and got trapped in your world. But for some reason, it won't work for me again unless I move my soul to the outside. And I can't do that until I find the Tree of Life and perform the ritual. So, do you know where the Tree of Life is, Moki?"

Moki remained silent.

She spotted something in the corner of her vision. A patch of blue wild flowers next to her foot. She plucked a flower from its stem and lifted it to her nose and took in its scent. A familiar smell, sweet with a hint of subtle bitterness like overripe fruit.

"My father used to give my mother blue flowers when she was having a bad day," she said, presenting the flower to Moki. "Somehow it would always bring a smile to her face."

Moki took the flower in his tiny hands, held it up next to Sharon's blue eyes, and smiled. "Blue thoughts, good thoughts," he recited with a childlike grin. "You have the bluest thoughts I have ever seen, pretty girl. As blue as magic. But they are tiny, like this flower. You let the bad ones cloud out the sun so they don't grow," he said, holding out the flower for her as if she would understand if she just got a closer look. "You can't grow a garden without sunlight. Just let the clouds go and they will blossom, you'll see."

" _Sure_..." she said. "I'll keep that under consideration. So, does this mean you will help me?"

"Of course, I will help," said Moki. "You are the one I've been waiting for after all."

" _Me?_ " asked Sharon.

"Yes—Gabriel said you'd come one day," he said with a few nods. "He said that if I came to this exact spot every day and played... eventually, a girl with very blue thoughts would hear my song and ask me for help."

She squinted at him. "Who's Gabriel?"

"That answer is for later. But for now, if you want to find the tree, all you have to do is say hello. It will listen."

"I don't understand..."

Moki extended his hand.

She mirrored his movement.

The air in front of them started to glow, blue ripples pulsing out from their hands.

"The Pyramid of Life is not a barrier or a wall but a solid life force," said Moki, "powered by a solitary soul. The soul of a single tree in the center of our Sacred Forest."

The blue parted like a waterfall, revealing a beautiful meadow by a glowing blue pond and a huge golden tree.

"So, this is where you've been hiding it," said Joy, stepping over. "In plain sight. Clever, using the barrier like a mirror to reflect light."

Sharon stepped on through.

***

Sharon touched down on the meadow, the grass she walked on shimmering with a life force all its own. The air heavy and dense, making it difficult to catch her breath. Hundreds of blue flowers lit her way, reflecting light like tiny individual moons. Luminescent bugs darted in random patterns in the sky, singing their unique mating calls with a flutter of wings. She peered out toward the golden tree. Then something ahead made her freeze in place.

A unicorn stepped out from behind the enormous golden tree. Flowers sprang forth and grew where ever her hooves touched soil. She dipped her head down and drank from the blue pond. Her pure white fur and silver mane sparkled in the sunlight like a sea of diamonds. She raised her head. Her golden horn spiraled light outward like the unraveling of a firefly's wax paper wings.

The unicorn set her sights on Sharon with eyes blazing with the intensity of two golden suns.

They just stared at each other for a brief timeless moment.

Joy stepped through the portal and into the meadow, crunching leaves as he pressed his weight down behind her. "I knew bringing you here was a good idea."

His words stole her gaze from the unicorn.

"It took me weeks just to get Moki to talk to me and you... _you_ get the tree's secret location out of him in a matter of minutes."

When she turned back, the unicorn was gone. "Did you see that?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.

"See what?" he asked with a shrug.

"Never mind," she said, not sure if Joy would even believe her. _Hell, I'm having trouble believing my own eyes. Did I really just see a unicorn?_

"Time to get to work," he said, pointing to a circle of blue painted rocks near the pond.

She walked over and stood in the middle of the circle. "Why did the tree-sprites put these rocks here?"

"To them the circle is sacred. It is a portal to the soul and a key part of the ritual." He headed to the pond, picking up a grapefruit-sized, hollowed out seedpod. He broke it in two and, using one side like a cup, he scooped up the magical water. "The first step is loosening your soul's hold on your flesh." He handed her the seedpod.

She stared down at the glowing liquid, unsure.

" _Go on,_ drink it."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"Yes, of course. You're not the first to taste these waters."

"So, after we perform this ritual I can use the mirror to get back home? As simple as that?"

He nodded.

"Well, you only live once." Sharon took a sip. Her eyes lit up. " _Wow,_ it actually tastes sweet. Almost like sugar water."

He pulled out a dagger. "There is _one_ catch though," he said, stalking toward Sharon, the blade pointed her direction.

"What are you doing?" she asked, stepping back.

Joy grinned like a hungry alligator. "Any ritual worth its salt demands blood."

Sharon turned to run, but she was too slow.

Joy lunged at her, grabbing her right hand and slicing her palm with a quick slash down the middle.

She grimaced in pain as she let out a muffled shriek and jerked her hand back, dropping the seedpod. She formed a fist and sent it hurling toward Joy—slugging him hard across the face.

He fell backward from the force of the blow and landed on his ass.

A trickle of blood fell from her palm. She cupped her hand against her chest. The blood droplets splashed before her feet within the stone circle.

The stones lit up, illuminating the circle. Blue light poured out and covered her body in a layer of aura. Her entire body went numb.

Joy wiped the blood from the corner of his swollen lips. "They say the water that flows from the Tree of Life can make the subconscious conscious, the spiritual physical, and turn illusion into reality." He grinned a bloody smile. "But do you know what the best part is?"

Her world spun violently. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Those who drink this water lose _all_ their memories. It's the price one pays for eternal bliss."

"You tricked me— _you bastard!_ "

He shook his head. "I _saved_ you."

She fell to her knees, her balance faltering and her legs unresponsive to her will. "You poisoned me..." She felt like her body was being devoured by pure energy, a wicked disease of blue spreading over her as she burned from existence.

"Don't be silly, Sharon, I like you and this way we can be together forever." He got up to his feet, walked over to her and knelt down. "Besides, since neither of us knows where your father is, this is our only option. But don't worry." He brushed aside the loose strands of hair from her eyes. "You're just going to take a little trip into the _Dreamtime._ "

" _Please... stop it... I don't..._ " Her thoughts trailed off, her mind lapsing into a dream-like state as she hit the ground.

The world around her started to change, the colors melting and blending together like collecting streaks of wet paint. When the colors receded, pooling and draining beneath her, they left only formless black behind.

Joy melted like a wax sculpture. "Let it go, Sharon."

Then even he was gone and she could only hear his voice.

"Your painful memories. Your past. Let it wash away like the dirt from your hands. And in time you will forget yourself. Then this world will be our own _Eden,_ you'll see."

She gazed down at her hands and watched the black liquid bubble up and swallow her fingers one by one.

"Sweet dreams, beautiful." She felt his warm lips press against her forehead as he gave her one last goodnight's kiss _._

The oily liquid rose past her head and Sharon drowned in a sea of black.

# Chapter 15

The Dreamtime

Black feathers descended from the gray sky, sprinkling down like tiny snowflakes on the still, ebony sea. They melted the way gold coins do floating on molten lava, adding more to the infinite darkness.

Sharon's lungs ached for precious oxygen. She gasped for air only to choke on the oily liquid. She was under water—that much she knew—her body rising with the upward push of the currents as if she was an air bubble released from the seabed. She struggled to right herself, thrashing her arms and legs, but dared not fight against the current. Her strength was waning. If she passed out now she'd be dead. She paddled up or what she believed was up, her balance lost and her vision shrouded in black.

Sharon burst through the surface of the water. Her mouth gaped open with the desperation of a dying fish as she gasped for life—stealing gulps of the heavy odorless gray sky and filling her lungs with glorious air.

She caught her breath as she waded with the sloshing waves. _Am I dreaming again?_ Something about this dream felt different this time. Her mind was clear, focused, and aware—as if she was still awake.

Ahead, an object grabbed her attention. An island of black rock and sand, piercing out of the water like an iceberg.

She swam toward the island and within a few minutes her feet hit solid ground. Walking up to knee-deep shallows she gathered herself and regained her strength. Her gaze rose to a large, black as roasted wood, tree stump.

On the stump sat a ghost-white boy with jet-black hair. _It's the same boy from before—the boy who saved me from the reekers._ But he looked different this time. More crow-like with two long crow wings protruding from his back. He wore a black satin sash draped around his waist that covered most of his lower body. Feathers blanketed his legs and forearms. His feet were crow's feet. The boy had become a dark angel, a Crow Boy.

The Crow Boy's eyes rose and met Sharon's gaze.

She lost the air from her lungs.

His eyes were gold, the whites of his eyes inverted to solid black.

Both their gazes became linked for a breathless moment.

The expression in the Crow Boy's eyes—hopeless and devoid of spark. He extended his arm, opening his hand in the process. An invitation.

She headed up the small island and climbed to the Crow Boy's severed tree. Cautiously, she stepped toward him, entranced in his gaze. She mirrored him, extending her arm as well.

Their fingers met, interlocking in embrace.

He pulled her hand in and placed it over his bare chest then closed his golden eyes.

She closed her eyes too, following his lead.

Slowly, she felt their heartbeats fall in sync—as if they were singing a duet together, their hearts the instruments.

Then, suddenly, Sharon's heartbeat fell out of sync, beating like a furious drum.

_Whack!_ She ripped her hand from the Crow Boy's grip and slapped him across his face.

The Crow Boy opened his eyes, his silent expression turning to one of shock.

"You think you can just manipulate me to get whatever you want?" she screamed, tears swelling in her eyes, her cheeks red-hot. "Go to hell. All of you can go to hell." She clenched her fist, cocking her arm back for another strike. A punch this time. "I never had a choice!"

"Neither does he," a man's voice thundered out, echoing over the sea.

Sharon turned to the voice's source.

Far off in the horizon of the sea, a man in a crimson cloak, red as fresh blood, walked on top of the water. He stalked toward Sharon without sinking or stirring up a single wave. It was if he was some kind of ominous religious deity, the world flattening before his feet.

"My dear sweet child, you must realize we are all slaves to our natures, our _destinies,_ " said the Cloaked Man. His voice trumpeted out with all the power of an angel's horn signaling the end of days.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked.

His eyes flashed red through the shadows of his hood.

She inched back.

The Cloaked Man continued his relentless pace to the island. "I am the one who has mastered the Dreamtime, the first of the Mirror Guardians to obtain the title of Emo-sha, and I'm the one who sent him to find you, Sharon." He extended his hand and pointed ahead.

She turned back to the Crow Boy.

The Crow Boy cast his golden eyes to the ground in response and she got her answer.

She turned back to the Cloaked Man, a knot swelling inside her throat. "How do you know my name?"

"I know everything about you and your father, _Miss Ashcraft._ " The Cloaked Man stopped a few feet from the shore.

"I don't care about him." Sharon stepped back and searched for a way out, but there was no escape on an island. "I just want to go home."

"Just like your father, _always running._ But sooner or later the road runs out and you must face your sins." The Cloaked Man stretched out his arms, his sleeves catching and flapping with the rising wind. Fire ignited on the tips of his fingers like flames on candlewicks. The flames grew, expanding to fireballs in his hands. He hurled the flames onto the sea—throwing the fire out like dragon's breath.

The oily waters were set ablaze, spreading and encircling the island, trapping Sharon in a prison of hellfire, an inferno of demonic heat.

She threw her arms up to shield her face from the licking flames. "Is that why he left? Because of something he did?" she asked, choking on the rising smoke and specks of glowing red ash.

" _Yes._ " The Cloaked Man stepped through the fire, his image distorting with the heat as he reached the island. "And that's why I had the crow bring you here. To finish what your father started. And here in the Dreamtime you cannot refuse my call." He raised his hand, clenching his fist at Sharon.

A sheering pain struck her like a lightning bolt, every cell in her body aching all at once. She lost her balance and fell to her knees.

"What's happening to me?" she asked, her pupils dilating to two full moons.

"It's a side effect of traveling into the Dreamtime without mastering your soul first." He stepped to her side, holding up his red crystal for her to see.

Two bumps poked against the back of Sharon's leather jacket, growing and pushing up the fabric. She screamed in agony as they ripped out from her back, extending from her shoulder blades and unraveling like a flower in the morning sun to form two large, white, angelic wings.

"In the real world souls must take on the shape of animals in order to influence that reality. Often taking the forms of insects, fish, and even birds like our _friend_ over there."

The Crow Boy's gaze fell to Sharon, but he gave no other movement or gesture, remaining still as a statue as the events unfolded.

"The opposite is true here in the Dreamtime. _We must change._ "

Sharon crawled over to a pool of water. Her mind growing delirious from pain. She peered down at her reflection and her new wings in her oily distorted image.

"You could say that you're switching bodies with your soul." The Cloaked Man knelt beside her. His glowing red crystal swayed back and forth in the reflection of the oil slick, like a buzzing firefly in the distant night sky. "In a few moments, it will consume you and you will have lost your former self forever. Unless you come with me."

The Cloaked Man offered his hand to Sharon.

Her gaze rose to meet it.

"Embrace your destiny, Sharon."

Her gaze rose even higher, meeting the Cloaked Man's red glowing eyes that floated in the dark void inside his hood.

"Help your father complete his legacy."

She inched her hand up.

" _Take my hand,_ " the Cloaked Man roared.

Sharon reached for his hand—but just as their fingers were about to touch a crow landed between them with a shrieking caw. She stared back with wide perplexed eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the Cloaked Man. He stood up and turned to face the Crow Boy.

The fire snuffed out in an instant. Hundreds and hundreds of crows flew out of the sea. An entire ocean made up of crows erupting like a volcano, their cries deafening, their shrieks cutting into bone. They swarmed around Sharon and the Cloaked Man and engulfed them in a tornado of flapping wings of ink.

The Crow Boy outspread his dark wings and took to the air. He swooped in and grabbed hold of Sharon's hand. Together they ascended into the gray sky.

"What are you doing?" the Cloaked Man yelled as he batted away the enclosing swarm of crows. But it was as futile as batting away sand in a sandstorm. "Stop this insanity. Do you hear me? I said stop. I am your master. I command you to—"

All at once the surrounding crows fell upon the Cloaked Man. They pecked and tore bits and pieces off him. A scrap of cloth here. A chunk of flesh there.

Sharon gazed down at the horrifying spectacle as the Crow Boy lifted her closer and closer to the gray sun. She squinted hard, trying to make out the face of the Cloaked Man.

The crows removed his hood bit by bit, revealing a jawless human skull for a face. No—a mask made of waxed bone, iconic in design, the type of mask one would wear at a costume party.

Before Sharon could make out more, the crows completely entombed the man with the skull mask. She cringed when a muffled scream leaked out from the coffin of feathered devils.

Then the casket of furious ink-dipped wings opened in a violent updraft of smoke. The crows flew off, leaving nothing but the skull mask. The mask was left to sink in a puddle of oil.

She looked up at the Crow Boy and peered into his golden eyes.

He mouthed something to her, silently, like a mute child.

They reached the sun.

Sharon only made out two words before the white light swallowed her. _Wake up._

# Chapter 16

Skull Mask

"Did you hear me?" asked the man wearing the skull mask as he knelt down, removed his leather glove, and slapped the Fat Man across the face with it. "I said _wake up._ "

The Fat Man awoke with a jarring wheezing cough, the cloth gag wrapped tightly around his head and lodged between his teeth making it difficult to breathe. His trembling gaze immediately rose to the terrifying skull mask. He struggled against the tight ropes binding his wrists and legs—but to no avail. He mumbled something. His voice suffocated out by the gag.

"What was that?" asked the man with the skull mask, cupping his right ear and leaning in. "I can't quite hear you." He removed the gag from the Fat Man's mouth.

"What the hell do you want from us?" The Fat Man's eyes scanned the lavish piano room.

The room was decorated with portraits of Roman Emperors and their greatest conquests immortalized in golden framed oil paintings. A glided bronze and crystal chandelier with a myriad of candles hung from the ceiling. A massive black marble fireplace stood at the far end near a bookcase and a large cushioned chair. But this beauty could not hide the horror in plain sight. A dozen people lined the wall, most of them the mansion staff, bound and gagged like the Fat Man. And among them were his wife and daughter. They shook like deer surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves.

"I want nothing from _them,_ " said the man with the skull mask. "I want something from _you._ They're just leverage to ensure your cooperation."

The Fat Man cringed—turning his head toward the south wall bookcase.

The man with the skull mask followed suit, fixing his sights on the bookcase. "Thank you for your cooperation. You have my eternal gratitude." He rose to his feet. His long highwaymen leather boots clanked along the black and white checkered tile floor. His dark long-tailed embroidered coat swayed back and forth above his ankles. He adjusted his silk waistcoat and straightened his tricorne hat that framed his skeleton face. Grabbing hold of the sides of the bookcase he pushed it aside to reveal a door hidden behind. He turned back to his associate in matching attire.

A slender man with thick circular glasses that reflected the sun with blinding intensity leaned against the window ledge. His face held a twisted grin that crawled and curled up his cheeks. He flashed his perfectly white teeth wide, showing off their unbridled glory. He wore a bird mask with a long curving beak. A plague doctor's mask. He fluttered a deck of cards, shuffling them compulsively between his hands and practicing sleight of hand tricks for his amusement alone.

"Would you like to accompany me, Mr. Glasses?" asked the man with the skull mask.

Mr. Glasses drew a card from his deck and flipped it to expose the face.

An image of a black skeleton knight riding a white steed, etched in black ink, graced the face of the card. The ominous knight clutched a long black weathered flag in his boney grip. A pile of pale and naked diseased corpses lay in his wake.

Mr. Glasses glanced over to his partner in crime. "No matter how many times I draw when I'm with you, Mr. Death. It's always the _same_ card," he mused. "It seems misery and misfortune follows you like a stray dog."

Mr. Death laughed under his breath. "Misery is relative, my friend. And a true man makes his own fortune." He opened the door and stepped into the shadows. The darkness was eaten away by the ignition of a torch. The fiery light danced wickedly up and down the grooves and crevices of his bone-white mask. He stepped down the dark hallway, stopping when he found a large wooden chest. He opened the chest and pierced its shadowy innards with his torch. The light exposed dozens of stacked, polished-white, ivory muskets. He brushed them aside and dug out a stack of folded paper.

"Please tell me that we didn't go through all this trouble just for some fancy guns," said Mr. Glasses as he walked up to Mr. Death.

"They're not just any guns," said Mr. Death. "They're rifled muskets. Our world has nothing even remotely as advanced. Our rather plump hostage is an arms dealer for this country's military. I plan on taking his job—so to speak. Back _home._ "

"So, you intend on changing the history of your world?" asked Mr. Glasses.

"No, I plan on making it." He unfolded the paper, grinning beneath his skull mask as its contents were exposed. "And to do that I'm going to need these designs." He stuffed them into his coat pocket.

The echoing booms of muskets firing off in the distance rattled the dust off the walls.

Mr. Glasses stepped to the window and brushed aside the curtains.

Down below, armed soldiers on horseback stormed through the heavy iron gates of the estate and galloped across the grass field.

"It seems our poor lookout man has run into a bit of misfortune," said Mr. Glasses.

"Well, then, I guess we should thank him for his sacrifice," said Mr. Death. He dragged out the chest and scooped up the guns one by one, resting them on a rug before rolling them together and binding the ends with rope. "He's done us the favor of not having to pay him."

"You'll hang for this," said the Fat Man with a cruel smirk as he struggled against the ropes tied around his waist and wrists. His courage rejuvenated as the soldiers' voices outside grew louder. "I'll see to that personally."

"I've been hanged before," said Mr. Death, turning. He fastened the rug bundle to his back using some loose rope as a strap. Once he was sure the rope was secure enough to support the weight of the guns he stepped over to the Fat Man. He knelt down to his eye level once more.

The Fat Man shrunk back.

"Shot, too. _Hell,_ even been set on fire." He pulled out his knife and held it at such an angle that the sun's reflection glared off it. The light stung the Fat Man's eyes as Mr. Death intentionally beamed it across his face. "But nothing ever seems to stick."

The Fat Man's wife squealed when he pressed the blade to her husband's throat.

" _What are you?_ " the Fat Man shuddered.

"Why don't you guess?"

Though her gray wig and elegant purple dress were now ruffled, her composure was not. "You're nothing but a monster," the Fat Man's wife said, sneering as only a royal can, with an air of perfect contempt and superiority. "That's what you are. And one day you will be punished for your crimes, in this life or the next. That truth is absolute, _inescapable._ "

"Is that so?" Mr. Death asked, glancing her way. "Crimes and punishment, the way you talk it's as if you actually believe there's some higher authority. Passing judgment and deeming certain actions as either right or wrong on a whim."

The Fat Man grimaced in pain as a trickle of his blood fell down the blade. His eyes were consumed by fear, a human skull mirrored back in each dark pupil.

"All I see are men, _terrified_ men who die pitiful deaths," said Mr. Death. "There is no higher truth than that."

"Sorry to interrupt." Mr. Glasses flipped open his golden pocket watch. "But it's time to go." As if by cue, his words were followed by the crashing of axes into wood. Below soldiers hacked through the front door of the mansion.

Mr. Death withdrew his knife from the Fat Man's throat. A long red dripping scratch lay where the blade once rested. The Fat Man would live to see another day. But before he could give out a sigh of relief Mr. Death slapped him across the face one last time.

***

The stagecoach raced across the dirt road with Mr. Glasses at the helm. Soldiers pursued on panting, gasping horses. They fired desperate shot after shot. Their aim was poor and rushed.

"There are times when a man must bury his past," said Mr. Death as he sat inside the stagecoach. He loaded his new pistol. "No matter how painful, and let it fade into the sea of distant memories. Or he will always be stuck at that moment. Forever cursed to relive his sorrows and regrets." He spoke the words more for himself than Mr. Glasses. Not sure even if he could hear him over the thunderous gallop of the horses and the flashing boom of musket fire.

Mr. Death cocked his gun and took aim at his pursuers. He brought down their horses out from under them with each successive shot. Lives spared on a whim, believing it would be in poor taste to take more human life than necessary.

Mr. Glasses pulled back on the reigns and slowed the horses to a crawl. They halted before a seven-foot-tall freestanding mirror on the side of the road, polished to an unnatural shine and half hidden behind some bushes.

Mr. Death stepped out of the stagecoach and onto the dirt road. A bright light shined underneath his coat. He unbuttoned it and reached down his shirt, sliding out his necklace. Two glowing crystals hung from the silver chain, one red and one blue. He placed his hand on the mirror, resting his palm in the center of the glass. The reflection melted to a radiant liquid blue light.

The sky changed from a vibrant blue to a sickly gray. From a clear horizon with white cotton clouds to a glaucoma-stricken world of dark clouds, raining cruel hail upon the frozen, lifeless soil.

Mr. Death stepped away from the mirror to the balcony and greeted his home with a long sigh. "I swear it gets worse with every passing day. You'll never let up, will you?" Beyond the castle walls, ice and snow encompassed the entire countryside, a world of endless white. "I would've left for good if I thought for a second _you_ wouldn't follow."

Mr. Glasses flashed into existence before the mirror. "Cutting it a little close this time, aren't we?" he asked, taking off his mask and walking up to his partner.

"Don't worry, they can't kill me. No one can."

"It's not you I'm worried about," said Mr. Glasses. "I'm not like you, Eric, remember?"

Eric removed his skull mask, glanced back at Mr. Glasses, and smiled.

"And why—pray tell—are you in such a pleasant mood this miserably cold morning?"

Eric's smile widened. "Because I've decided to stop running."

# Chapter 17

Silent Dreams of a Quiet City

Sharon felt the heat from the sun across her face and awoke for the first time in four days. Her bedroom smelled of lavender and the sickly-sweet scent of a tropical plant her father had given her for her seventeenth birthday. She couldn't remember its name. The plant's odor was so strong it left an aftertaste in her mouth, like she had just consumed a spoonful of sugar. She let go a yawn as a small blue soccer-ball-sized sphere floated past the edge of her bed.

The blue sphere landed upon her chest, gently nestling below her collar bone. It widened its big black puppy dog eyes and let loose a few barks.

"Good morning, Sharon," said the blue sphere. "Pleasant dreams, I hope."

"None," replied Sharon. "I can't dream when I sleep. You know that, Winston."

Winston gave out a whimper.

Her frown turned upside down. She wrapped her arms around Winston and pulled him in for a hug. "Why did Dad have to make you so damn adorable?" she asked, squeezing with all her strength.

Winston responded with a vibrating purr before giving one last yelp. In truth, her father wasn't to blame for Winston's appearance, despite being the chief robotics engineer of the city. All robots were designed to look this way. Adorable to a fault.

Sharon got dressed after her shower and headed downstairs with Winston floating after her. She stopped at her father's doorway. The door was already cracked open. She pushed it the rest of the way.

Eric lay asleep in his bed with the virtual reality headgear plugged into his brain. A series of matted wires formed a rat's nest of tubes and cords pulsing with red and blue light. The headgear made a low pitch humming noise, like a refrigerator. His black hair reflected the sunlight that slipped through the shades. His eyes darted rapidly underneath his eyelids. Though he looked peaceful, Sharon still felt an unease rush over her.

"It's been three weeks since he came out last, Winston." _Has it really been just three weeks?_ _I can't remember the last time we had a real conversation or, hell, the last time he even hugged me?_ "You'd think he'd be sick of it by now."

"Everyone likes dreams, Sharon," noted Winston. "It's understandable he would want to stay for extended periods of time."

She sighed. "But it's not real. None of it is _real._ "

Winston rotated midflight to face her. "Maybe he's dreaming of you."

She glared at him. "Is that supposed to make me _feel_ better?"

Winston seemed unaffected by her hostile mood. He made no change in his digital expression across his screen. He just turned from her and scooted down the hallway.

Sharon glanced at her father one last time before closing his door.

***

The sound and smell of an egg sizzling and crackling in a pool of golden yellow butter made Sharon's stomach rumble with anticipation. It had been too long since she had last tasted real food. Real food with textures and flavors. Nothing like the bland, synthetic supplements fed to her by way of plastic tubes and god-awful needles while she slept. Even her bed vibrated to maintain her muscle mass and cardiovascular health. She hated sleeping for such long periods of time. For weeks on end sometimes. But her father insisted on it, saying her life depended on it. And if she wanted to live to the ripe old age of six hundred she would have to spend half her weeks on the life support systems. She did the math. They gave her a lot more mornings to enjoy her favorite breakfast. Fried eggs, buttered sourdough toast, blueberry yogurt, red grapes, a tall glass of orange juice, and a side of deliciously greasy bacon.

And no one cooked better than Winston. He was a devil with a frying pan and always used real Grade-A-butter.

She sat down at the dining table and Winston served her a plate of eggs. She tried her best not to wolf it down and savor the bites, but she was starving and had little willpower when it came to foods cooked in butter.

"So, what's on your agenda today, Sharon?" asked Winston as he cleared the table. He gathered the dirty plates with his retractable metal arms, grasping them with pincers, and placed them in the dishwasher.

"I'm going to tour the city again," she answered. "And see if I missed anything on my last visit."

***

As Sharon walked down the front steps of her apartment, she was greeted by the song of a robotic bird perched high in a tree. The bird was activated by her body heat and let out a prerecorded, randomized call. She listened with indifference. The bird's song lacked something she couldn't quite put her finger on. A soul, perhaps.

She quickened her pace to the monorail subway port, shielding her eyes from the artificial sun. It was another hot day in the city of New Republica, and only a select few still remembered it was the hundredth anniversary of the city's birth. There would be fireworks tonight and Sharon was sure she would be the only one awake to watch them. In New Republica, one lost track of times and dates. Artificial lights flickered on and off to the beat of their own rhythms. Buildings changed shapes at the whims of their owners. And the neon signs went on forever. Even night and day lost their meaning—just like everything else in the city.

_Maybe, someday, I'll lose myself here and get swallowed up in anonymity,_ Sharon thought. _For identity is as an elusive concept as the human soul in New Republica. Hell, it wouldn't even surprise me if one morning I woke up without a name. After all, how could you be expected to remember something no one ever told you?_ _It just takes time to forget_ — _for nothing is concrete in a world run on dreams_.

"Will that be one ticket or two?" asked the robot conductor with long limbs and a cute exaggerated human face, like a child's porcelain doll.

"Just one, thank you," she replied with a manufactured smile.

The robot escorted her from the gate to the empty rail train. Usually smaller service robots saw people to their seats, but only Sharon was awake today.

She found her seat and thanked the conductor again. Once alone she retrieved a book from the entertainment compartment underneath her seat, the cover blank and gray. She opened the book and flipped to the first page. The words and letters on the page were nothing but scribbles, scurrying around on the white paper like a horde of furious ants.

She massaged her eyelids.

"Hello," said a human voice. "Is this seat taken?"

Sharon's gaze rose from her book, meeting the dark, gentle eyes of a brown-haired boy around the same age as her.

He smiled at her, pointing to the seat in front of her.

" _Oh no... no... please sit_ ," she said clumsily, stuffing her book under her seat. He had caught her completely off guard. Seeing a human face—never mind a cute boy her age—was the last thing she expected today.

The boy sat down.

"It's funny. I didn't expect I'd have company this morning," she said, returning his smile.

"Well, I hope the surprise is a pleasant one." His eyes met hers, and she responded with a downward glance.

"Not to be rude," she said with a shy grin, "but I'm curious. Why are you still awake?"

He laughed. "I should ask the same question of you."

"I can't dream." She averted her eyes to the window and the passing scenery of the city.

The monorail gained speed.

"That's silly. Everyone dreams."

"I don't." Her gaze fell upon a flock of mechanical birds that took flight from a metal tree with copper leaves. "When I wake up I remember nothing, just empty blackness." She returned to the boy's gaze. "You never answered my question."

"Oh, me?" The boy pointed to himself. "I just like the quietness of the city." He peered out the window, out at the city. "The silence of a city with no past, no memory, no burden... New Republica. I like that. It's like you're floating on clouds." He turned to Sharon and offered up his hand. "My name's Jeff, by the way. What's yours, beautiful?"

***

"Sharon, I want you to tell me about this city again. The one from your dreams—New Republica," Dr. Stone said, leaning back against her red cushioned chair. She scribbled something down in her little notepad. "For instance, are you happy in New Republica?"

Sharon squirmed in an old-fashioned, black leather couch. To her the room felt cramped, the walls of the quaint psychologist office closing in on her and gaining ground with every short breath she took. Her gaze wandered around the room as she contemplated her answer.

Old black and white photos rested in picture frames on the walls. The people in them were hard to make out. Their faces were blurred and out of focus, their positions shifting with the light. Phantom images. Slowly they faded away, leaving empty rooms and chairs, abandoned schools and parks.

"It's not really a city, New Republica," said Sharon. "A city requires importation to sustain itself. New Republica needs nothing. It's in perfect balance." She sighed a deep breath. "And it's not a dream."

"You didn't answer my question." Dr. Stone glanced up from her notepad. "How does New Republica make you _feel?_ "

Sharon wiped the sleep from her eyes. " _Terrified._ "

"Why are you afraid, Sharon?"

"Because I get a sensation of eternity there. That I will always be in that city. No matter what."

"One would think that would be a good feeling."

"People need urgency."

"Is that so?" asked Dr. Stone. "And you think mortality— _death—_ gives people that?"

Sharon retrieved her glass of water from the coffee table and took a sip. The taste was overwhelmingly metallic. "The price of intelligence is insanity. Jellyfish and ladybugs don't go crazy if you lock them up in a cage and throw away the key. People aren't jellyfish. Insanity just needs a little time to set in, that's all." She stared at her distorted reflection in the glass of water. The ripples pulsed in reverse, inward. "The only thing standing in its way is death. Take that away and... it's just a matter of time."

Dr. Stone set her notepad on her lap and locked eyes with Sharon. "You feel trapped, Sharon? Is that why you tried to kill yourself?"

***

Sharon spent most of the afternoon lying on her back on her school's rooftop, watching the clouds drift across a crystal blue sky with a golden sun. A flock of birds soared above, casting shadows over her slender form.

"It must be hard," Sharon said, as a human-shaped shadow crept over her, "being friends with the _crazy_ girl."

Sarah stepped forward and forced a smile. "It has its perks. Like free access to experimental drugs."

"Funny."

"I aim to please." Sarah massaged the back of her neck. "Do you still think you're dreaming?"

"Yes."

" _Why?_ "

Sharon gazed at the golden sun. It was different now, appearing to her as a giant blinking eye. "Because none of this makes any sense. Not anymore."

"And your fantasy world with the crow— _that_ makes sense?"

"Like I said, I'm crazy."

"You're not _crazy,_ Sharon," she said, stepping closer. "Just confused."

"Aren't we all?"

"Well, I'm not. I know what's real. _I'm_ real."

"Prove it."

"How am I supposed to—?"

"Walk off the ledge." Sharon halfheartedly pointed to the edge of the roof. "If you're telling the truth I won't see you tomorrow. Then I'll know which of my delusions is the real one. Problem solved." She gave out a weak cynical laugh. "Well, narrowed down at least."

Sarah folded her arms. "That's not funny."

The breeze picked up. An awkwardness filled the cool air as they both waited for the other to speak. Finally, unable to take the quiet anymore, Sarah broke the silence

"How's therapy going with Dr. Stone?"

"Just peachy, thanks for asking." Sharon rolled on her side and curled up.

"Did you guys talk about your accident?"

Sharon remained quiet.

Sarah clenched her fists. "Answer me."

"It wasn't an accident, Sarah. I simply walked off the edge and gravity did the rest."

***

She glanced up into his brown eyes, took his hand, and smiled. "Sharon," she answered. "My name is Sharon Ashcraft. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jeff."

Jeff held onto her hand, tightening his grip and refusing to let go. " _Interesting,_ so you still remember that at least."

The monorail slowed to a gentle crawl. The lights overhead flashed and a dinging sound repeated.

"Remember?" she asked, frowning.

He loosened his grip and she pulled her hand free.

"I didn't expect my master to find you here," he said. "He even went so far as to create his own dream environment to trap you and quicken your metamorphosis. Something like that takes time and forethought." He bit down on his thumb. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he planned this all out. You coming to Tuat... our meeting..." He nodded to himself. "He's more dangerous than I first anticipated."

"I don't _follow._ "

"That's good. You'll be much happier that way. Trust me, ignorance is bliss," he mused. "They say the souls in heaven have no memories of their former lives. They are given clean slates. Washed and cleansed of their past deeds. Absolved of their sins. A lovely __ dream."

"Is that what you think heaven is?" she asked. "A dream? Then why stay awake?"

"Sorry, I misspoke. Unfortunately dreams never stay the same for long. They're constantly changing. Endlessly evolving as they march along. And sometimes a dream turns into a nightmare. That's not heaven. Not my idea of heaven at least. No, I want something more permanent, more _concrete._ "

The monorail came to a stop. "We have arrived at Main Street," the overhead intercom cut in with a blare of static. "Next stop, Copperfield. Have a pleasant day."

He leaned in and brushed a lock of Sharon's hair back behind her ear. "Something I can touch and feel."

She shot up from her seat. "I think you have me confused with someone else. But I wish you luck, and I honestly hope you find what you're looking for, Jeff." She turned from him and headed down the aisle.

Jeff chased after and grabbed her hand.

She spun to face him. "What?"

"I think you're right, Sharon. I'm sorry." He performed a gentleman's bow before her. "It wasn't my intention to scare you off like that. It's just... you look so much like her. But speaking with you now has made me realize just how different you two really are. That girl I knew was so full of fear and hate. Nothing like you."

Sharon hugged herself unconsciously and looked away. "She sounds like a sad person."

" _The saddest._ " Jeff took her hands into his. "Please, let me accompany you a bit longer. I don't want to be sad either."

***

"Your mother said you tried to follow a crow off the roof of a building," said Dr. Stone, closing her notepad. "She said that you believed it would take you to another world. A fantastical land behind a mirror."

Sharon squirmed on her black-cushioned couch. "I just wanted to get back home."

"Did you believe the crow was calling you? Why do you think he wanted you to follow?"

"What else did my mother tell you?"

"Only that you two haven't been communicating as of late."

"Silence is golden."

"Like the crow's eye?" Dr. Stone leaned in. "The one fused with a flock of crows? What do you think it represents, Sharon?"

"I saw him again."

"The crow?"

She didn't answer.

"Who? _Who_ did you see, Sharon?"

"In my sleep, he speaks to me," she finally answered. "In my dreams, he hunts for me, like a phantom that haunts my thoughts—my memories—speaking with a dark voice that shouts my name."

***

"Sharon," shouted Sarah

Sharon was lost in the moment, frozen in a trance on the sidewalk as she stared at a murder of crows perched on the branches of an old oak tree outside her school.

Sarah grabbed her hand. "Listen to me," she said, making Sharon look at her. "They're _just_ crows."

She quickly averted her gaze from Sarah, glancing back at the crows like if she looked away for too long she'd miss something. But they were just ordinary birds. Doing what crows do, cawing to one another in rude noisy calls. "He's supposed to come back for me." Tears streaked down her flush cheeks. "Only he can take me home." _The Crow Boy._ "I hit him. I was so angry." _That poor ghost of a lost boy, confused and all alone. He needed help—my help—and I..._ " _Oh god,_ why did I hit him? I'm so sorry." She fell to her knees, her strength buckling under her weight. "I want to go home. I want to see my Mom."

Sarah knelt down to her level. "Sharon, your mother is dead."

Her eyes widened. " _What?_ "

"Your father, too. They both died before you were born."

She shook her head. "That doesn't make sense."

"Think about it. Can you even remember their faces?"

Sharon tried remembering, but her mind drew a blank. Her thoughts and memories were jumbled and entangled in a hopeless matted mess. Like the book on the monorail in New Republica. Like in the dream she had back in Tuat with Morrie and the crow, her final exam taken in her underwear. She bit down on her lip, drawing blood, hoping the pain would give her clarity and focus. _I'm still in the Dreamtime. I'm still dreaming._ Bits and pieces of her memories came flooding in and, with it, a surge of reason. _In this world, I never moved. I never met the crow._ And certain things were out of place. Mrs. Stone was now Dr. Stone, her therapist instead of her new principal, and what Sarah said about her parents. _It's wrong—all wrong._

The crows let out horrid cries as they violently flapped their wings and snapped their beaks.

" _Jeff,_ " Sharon whispered. "He got me into this mess."

"Who's Jeff?" asked Sarah. "You have a new boyfriend I should be aware of?"

"I have to find him." She wiped the tears from her face, stood up, and took off running. "And force him to take me back."

" _Wait,_ " Sarah yelled. "Where are you going?"

Sharon tuned her out as she sprinted down the street.

Everything around her began to melt—the buildings, the trees, the cars, and the people—their colors running off in blurred streaks. The world was a fresh painting in the summer heat.

"You can't run forever, Sharon," said Sarah, melting like a wax sculpture. Her voice distorted into something truly inhuman. "Sooner or later you'll have to face reality." Her face peeled off, revealing a skull with red glowing eyes. "It's just a matter of time."

***

The clock, high on the subway station wall, gleamed in the light. The longhand struck thirteen and lined up parallel with the shorthand. Crowds of people bunched in tightly packed groups waited for the train.

Sharon stood sandwiched between her parents, humming a cheerful tune she learned from the morning's _Sesame Street_ episode she saw while eating a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast. She squeezed her father's hand, wrapping a few of his large fingers inside her tiny five-year-old grip, as if he was a balloon and letting go meant losing him forever to float among the clouds. She rocked her father's hand back and forth, swaying to the music, as she peered up at him and smiled.

Eric's gaze was focused ahead.

She glanced at her mother, who was standing to her left.

Grace watched the clock overhead, entranced with the clicking hands.

Sharon's attention shifted to the crowd.

A woman in a gray business suit checked her purse. A small boy, around Sharon's age, cried on the floor. His dinosaur toy sat with a broken jaw between his feet. A man in a colorful Hawaiian shirt fiddled with his fancy digital watch.

She adjusted the shoulder straps of her blue teddy bear backpack with fairy wings and glanced at her father's watch. The red second hand ticked away—feverishly—then stopped, frozen between the nine and ten. She waited for it to kick back into action. But it never did. Just as the urge to tell her father of his broken watch crept in, something white in the watch's glass reflection made her eyes widen.

A human skull emerged.

She turned to the reflection's source.

Wedged between the crowds of people stood a man in a blood-red cloak, donning a skull mask. His hollow sockets lit up with flickering flames like candles observed through a jack-o'-lantern's carved eyes.

Sharon squinted at him with a child's curiosity as the people around him froze in place and time.

"At last—my sweet angel—we are reunited," said the Cloaked Man.

***

"Beyond all my fantasies—my delusions—like a phantom emerging from a dark labyrinth, he found me," said Sharon.

"Who found you?" Dr. Stone rose from her chair. "Tell me, Sharon, _who_ is this man?"

"He's forcing his way inside my mind. He's forcing me to remember." Tears fell from her eyes as she huddled herself. "And his power over me is growing stronger."

The air around the room swirled with a twister's force, picking up loose papers and books and hurling them into the wind.

Dr. Stone shouted like a madwoman. "Tell me. Tell me. _Tell me_ who he is."

"He is the lord of dreams, of my dreams." She closed her eyes.

"He is _death,_ " said Dr. Stone. Her skin bubbled, and her limbs and head contorted into horrid positions no living soul could survive. " _Death, death, death,_ " she chanted, opening her mouth impossibly wide as hundreds of crows leaped out and took to the air. Her skin shrunk to the floor—an empty butterfly's cocoon husk.

The crows swarmed, darkening the room and engulfing Sharon in a sea of black.

***

The Cloaked Man stalked toward Sharon, the light dying where his feet touched. He slipped past the frozen people as a serpent maneuvers between tall reeds of grass.

"Who are you?" she asked, tightening her grip around her father's fingers. Her gaze fixed on the Cloaked Man. "Show me your face. Remove your mask."

"I'm afraid I cannot grant you your request, my sweet little angel," said the Cloaked Man. "For I am the mask I wear. Our identities intertwined. Both living symbols of _death._ "

Darkness raked across the subway station. Encroaching shadows swallowed up everything they passed over, surrounding Sharon like a rushing flood of oil.

She drew back, letting go of her father's hand, as she was eaten by wicked void, the darkness drowning out her scream.

"There is but one mind, one consciousness, one source," a dark voice spoke, echoing out into the void. "Everything is connected, Sharon. And the Dreamtime is the very fabric which connects all things. It is a reality within each of our minds."

A whisper escaped her lips. "I let him slip through my fingers again..." Her hands became visible, illuminated by a white spotlight fixed on her.

"Don't worry, Sharon," the voice cut through the darkness. "Your father is very much _alive._ "

"How do you know?" she asked, her hands clenching into fists.

"Your dreaming eye has been opened."

The darkness melted away to reveal Sharon, not as a child, but as her seventeen-year-old self.

The crowds of people in the subway returned, unfrozen, and began to load in and out of the subway train. They bumped and shoved past Sharon as they passed by.

She scanned the crowds. Her parents were nowhere in sight. She turned back to the Cloaked Man. He continued his pace toward her.

"Dilated by the magical waters you drank. And now your mind has been set free to wander the outer planes of the Dreamtime," said the Cloaked Man. "But the human mind is complex and convoluted. Layers upon layers, twisting and linking together within your subconscious, endlessly spiraling into the beyond. The longer you stay, the deeper your mind will plunge into the depths. If you go too deep, even I will not be able to reach you."

"I'm dreaming?" She shook her head in disbelief as a sudden panic rose inside her. "Mom? Where are you?"

"She's not real, Sharon. None of these people are. They are just afterimages. Muddled memories of people you've met in your lifetime. And some that you will."

" _Will?_ " she asked, pushing past the mob of people who flooded out of the subway train doors.

"In your future."

A man stepped in front of Sharon, blocking her path. The conductor. She could tell immediately from his uniform. He pulled out an old fashioned golden watch from his pocket and flipped the lid open, checking the time. His grin curled up his face and his long, thick teeth showed through his lips. A glare of light reflected off his circular glasses, masking his eyes. "Tickets please." He spoke the words as if they amused him to say.

"Sorry," she said, digging through her pockets. "I don't have a ticket."

The conductor reached into Sharon's leather jacket pocket and slid out a playing card. He flashed its face to her. An image of a jester graced the front of the card. He rode a unicycle while juggling four strange symbols: a black sun, a white flower, an eye, and a human skull.

"Interesting." The conductor's grin crawled up his cheeks. "So, you're the _joker._ "

"I don't understand." She peered at the card. To her amazement, the image of the jester came alive, juggling the symbols and teetering around on his unicycle.

"Jokers are wild—don't you know—predictably unpredictable," said the conductor. "They are the tethering thread that anchors the world. The balancing point between order and chaos." The conductor waved his hand over the card. With a flick of the wrist and a magician's sleight of hand, he replaced the card with a blue sphere donning a cute puppy dog face. Winston. "You've got the weight of the universe on your shoulders, kiddo." He tossed Winston into her arms. "Don't drop the ball." His final words to her as the doors closed between them and the subway train took off down the tracks.

Sharon gazed down at Winston. His blue paint melted away, exposing a small globe. No, an actual tiny planet between Sharon's fingers, stock full of floating clouds and continents and oceans.

Then the planet grew cold. The tiny world quickly succumbed to a global ice age, becoming an icy tomb.

Pain raked through her fingers and palms, freezer burn. She dropped the frozen globe and it shattered into a thousand pieces on the concrete.

"The Dreamtime is not subject to a linear flow of time," said the Cloaked Man, stepping behind Sharon. "No internal logic binds it. Without an Oracle to guide you through this walkabout, these images will hold no meaning to you. Your efforts to decipher anything will be hopelessly in vain. And eventually, you will be consumed by it. But _I_ can change that."

She spun around to face him. "How?"

"I can be your guide, your Oracle, your teacher." He spread out his arms. "Embrace me as a _father,_ Sharon. Let me fill the void in your heart. And in return I shall grant you power."

"I don't want any power."

"That is because you are weak and afraid."

"You don't know anything about me," she yelled, her breath fuming out.

"Ah, do my words anger you? That's good. That is where your true power lies."

He stepped forward, and she stepped back.

She retreated another step, stopping when she felt her heel hang off the edge of the cement ledge. She glanced back over her shoulder. Behind her were the subway tracks. A dead-end.

"I've read your soul, Sharon. Seen its color. And it is the same shade as mine."

"I'm _nothing_ like you." Her voice echoed across the subway station.

The crowds of people froze and, in complete harmony, arched their heads back and stretched open their jaws. A rumbling roar bellowed from their gaping mouths. Flocks of crows followed. They rushed out like a bursting dam, staining the air black with ink. The people slumped to individual piles of loose skin and clothes.

"So, you found us." The Cloaked Man glared up at the rising cloud of crows. "But you underestimate me. I am not one to be caught off guard twice in the same night."

The crows swarmed and, now in full force, descended upon the Cloaked Man.

He threw up his hands, conjuring flames and setting his body ablaze in a hellish inferno.

Dozens of crows fell to the earth, screeching as the flames consumed them like weathered old newspapers. The vast majority broke off the attack and hovered above the Cloaked Man. They became his personal dark storm of twisting clouds, protesting with shrieking caws and the occasional lone kamikaze rush.

He continued his relentless pace toward Sharon. "He won't keep me from you this time."

"Stay back." She swiped her arm at him, hitting nothing but air—except more than just air shifted. The floor tiles bent and arched before her feet. The brick subway pillars swayed like thin willow trees in a hurricane. She peered down at her bare palm and trembling fingers, forming a fist when the revelation hit her. "If this is a dream..."

The Cloaked Man stopped.

Sharon's gaze rose to meet his. "Not just _a_ dream— _my_ dream." She stretched out her hand. Blue flames ignited in her palm. "I control what happens here. My head my rules."

He made a dash straight for her.

She hurled the blue fireball. "And you're trespassing."

_Boom._ The blast connected, sending him skidding back on his heels, smoke and smoldering soot rising from the burnt patch on his chest.

"How's that for weak?" she snapped back.

The Cloaked Man brushed himself off. "You're only hurting yourself, child. An entire ocean could fit in the gap of knowledge between us." He snapped his fingers and fire ignited on her left leg.

She reeled in pain and cupped her calf, smothering out the flames as best she could. _It's not real,_ she told herself, _none of this is real._ _So why?_ "Why can't I _will_ the pain away?"

"The mind makes it real," he told her. "Phantom pain lingers long after—"

"I've had enough of your bullshit," she roared, throwing up her arms and conjuring a dragon's breath of blue fire.

He countered with a blast of his own.

For a brief moment, they seemed to be at a stalemate, neither budging an inch in their tug of war of flames, until Sharon felt her heels slide back toward the edge.

"You can't win," he told her.

"Shut up."

"Give up."

"You first."

The red flames began to overtake the blue.

Sharon struggled to keep her footing, but it was no use. She was losing ground too fast to think. She slipped, falling backward off the ledge and landing hard in the middle of the tracks, just narrowly missing the flames. As she scrambled to her feet, she pushed off the metal rails and felt the vibrations surge through her fingers. _Another train is coming_.

A light at the end of the tunnel pierced through the darkness. The light blinded and enveloped her with its beam.

"Grab my hand, Sharon." The Cloaked Man reached for her from atop the ledge. "Now, before it's too late."

She shook her head. "Go to hell." _This is all a dream. Just a dream, damn it. Get a hold of yourself, Sharon. None of this is real._ She took off toward the speeding train, meeting it head-on in a game of chicken. _One way or another, I have to end this nightmare._ _And the only way to do that is to—_

" _Wake up,_ " she screamed with all the air in her lungs.

Her scream echoed as the light consumed her, ripping the train and subway apart and shattering the Cloaked Man like glass.

He exploded into a thousand pieces. His scream muffled out by hers.

***

A firework screamed as it rocketed through the night sky, exploding in a brilliant bouquet of sparkling colors, raining down thousands of tiny streaking lights. The glow of the spectacle painted Sharon's and Jeff's bodies in dazzling flashes of hue as they sat together on the lush green grass. More fireworks thundered—spreading out like flowers—in the distant twilight and sprinkled down like shattered colored glass. The two never let go of each other's hands throughout the first and second act.

Sharon and Jeff had spent the afternoon and most of the evening at the festival of New Republica, alternating between carnival games, roller coasters, and junk food. Together they observed the city from atop the Ferris wheel. For the first time since she could remember, Sharon had enjoyed herself. No anxiety. No anger. No emptiness. Her smile never left her face. When they had their fill of cotton candy and fried treats Sharon took Jeff by the hand and led him to the green hills to watch the fireworks. The pair chose a spot where they could overlook the city.

Jeff gently brushed a lock of Sharon's hair behind her ear. "Stay with me."

Her gaze met his and she lost herself in his warm brown eyes.

"Like this, forever." His confidence was overwhelming.

"Just the two of us?" she asked, placing her other hand over his.

He rested his hand on her cheek. "Just like Adam and Eve." He leaned in.

She closed her eyes.

The heat of their breath overlapped. Their lips connected and they kissed.

A firework exploded in the night sky, blooming into a golden flower.

Her eyes flashed open. The blast echoed inside her mind, forming into a scream, a scream that uttered two words. _Wake up._

Sharon broke free from the kiss and pushed away from him. "You're an _Emo-sha._ " She let the words slip out against her own will.

He looked at her. "What did you say?"

"It's what your master said. When I asked him who he was." She brushed her hair out from behind her ear. "Is it true? Is that what you are?"

Jeff's hair bled red, inking to a deep crimson. His irises shined like rubies. "I am an emotion."

" _Joy..._ " The word came out of her mouth by the way of too much effort and grief.

"That's the one," said Joy, his smile a jester's grin. "So, you're finally awake. You're full of surprises, aren't you, beautiful? I've only heard of a handful of people who have successfully awakened in the Dreamtime. And they go by the title of god."

"I guess that makes me special," she said, turning from him. "Though I can't take all the credit. I had a little help."

The golden flower of light still hung in the night sky. The firework morphed into a blazing eye.

"We could have had a life together. Without memories and regret. Without guilt to drag us down like the chains and shackles of damned ghosts and tormented souls," said Joy. "Open your eyes—Sharon—before it's too late. The Dreamtime could give us a fresh start. A clean slate."

"My eyes are open now." She peered up at the blazing eye. "I finally realize that I don't want what everyone else wants. What _you_ want. Maybe that's what's wrong with me. I don't want heaven." She let a sad smile show through her resolve. "What I want... I can never get back. I thought maybe you had the answer." Sharon stood up and spread out her wings. "But I don't think you're happy either, Jeff. I think you're just as scared as me."

Joy frowned for the first time since he gained his name.

A flock of mechanical birds flew overhead. Their oily insides leaked out and coated them in jet-black ink, turning them into crows.

A single black feather fell into Joy's hand. His frown deepened as he crushed the feather.

"Maybe no one is happy," said Sharon. "Maybe happiness is the real dream. Maybe that's the point. Maybe we fear and suffer to give us something to strive for. Something more than we could ever hope to hold onto. Maybe there is no point, and we suffer simply because we can. Either way..."

The crows surrounded her.

"I'm going to find out for myself." She took a step forward.

***

Sharon took another step forward. Then another, until she stood over the edge.

"Sharon, stop," said a familiar voice behind her.

She looked around and found she was back on the school rooftop. The yellow sun shined bright in the cloud-checkered blue sky. She glanced back over her shoulder.

Sarah inched toward her. "Sharon, whatever you're seeing right now, it's not real."

She smiled. "I know."

"No, you think you do, but you don't. Whoever you were talking to just now doesn't exist. The crow doesn't exist. The man with the skull mask doesn't exist. You need to wake up."

Sharon gazed at the empty space before her. "I intend to." She looked down, squinting at the shrinking city below. The people and cars were scurrying around like ants. It was as if she was standing on the edge of a skyscraper.

"Enough," Sarah screamed. "Don't take the coward's way out. Suicide is the same as running away."

A black twister of crows formed below. The tornado opened up—unveiling the eye of the storm. Golden light shined on through.

"You're right." She spread her wings. "No more running. No more looking back. I'm going to walk my own path now."

" _Wait!_ " Sarah lunged for Sharon.

But it was too late. Sharon stepped off the edge and let gravity do the rest.

To Be Continued...

You can find the rest of the story on **A.MAZON** under the title:

The Crow Behind the Mirror:

Book One of the Mirror Wars

Author: Sean M. Hogan

Plus, You Can Keep Reading for Free with

K.indle U.nlimited!

In the meantime, here's a bonus sample chapters from some of my other books...

The Marauder

The Mirror Wars,

Episode One

Sean M. Hogan

# 

# Prologue

A dark, sinister shadow looms over the galaxy. A mysterious tyrant, who hides his face behind a skull mask, has plunged the seven worlds into darkness. Only a fallen warrior queen, donning a purple cloak and wielding an enchanted sword, stands in his way.

Throughout the universe, Michelle Lionmane wages a secret war against the vile forces of the Black Sun. She fights for a future already lost, yet in a dire time without hope she struggles on. She is a slayer of monsters and demons, an assassin of dark lords and bloodthirsty despots, and a champion for the weak and helpless.

She is the Marauder.

# Episode One

The Maiden and the Cowboy

# Chapter One

Michelle prowled the black overgrown highway cloaked in deep purple, slinking between two endless rows of abandoned cars. Most of the vehicles were nothing more than skeleton husks of empty rusted frames. Though a few still harbored their passengers, now shriveled up corpses with hollow eye sockets, their grimacing skulls resting against the dashboards and steering wheels. There were bodies scattered along the road as well, most curled into fetal positions or still desperately clutching their loved ones. Her left hand never strayed far from the hilt of her broadsword as she advanced, her pale gray eyes scanning over the bodies for the slightest movement. Even a modern graveyard carried dangers and the dead rarely rested for long.

"Darkness shrouds this vile place," a voice spoke, high-pitched and monstrously inhuman.

Michelle raised her head, brushed the loose strands of blonde hair from her eyes, and poked her purple hood up from her face. "I can see."

Swirling storm clouds blanketed the crimson sky, lightning and thunder raged in the distance, raining ash and snow.

"Where are we?" asked the voice.

"Earth." She stopped at a corroded license plate laying in a pothole. Frowning, she knelt down to pick up the plate and examine it. She brushed off a layer of snow and ash. Some letters were still legible: I, the heart symbol, N, and Y. "Just outside of New York City, or what's left of it. It's gotten worse since our last visit."

She rose to her feet and set her sights ahead. A weathered George Washington Bridge stretched on over a frozen Hudson River toward a decaying city.

"Be wary," said the voice. "Danger is near."

She tossed the plate aside. "Isn't it always?"

"We mean it. Eyes alert. Ears trained. Something is _coming._ "

Then Michelle heard it—the shuffling of feet behind her. She spun to meet the source, unsheathing her sword and taking a fighting stance. "Something is already here."

Out from the shadows of the rusted cars, a Doberman stalked forward. The mutated purebred hopped onto the hood of a former Porsche and fixed its unnatural yellow glowing eyes on Michelle.

She inched her feet apart, widening her stance. "Nice doggy."

The Doberman growled, parting its fangs as hot white breath leaked up from its jaws.

She sighed. "Why couldn't you have been a poodle?"

The dog's head split apart like the blooming of a tulip, but instead of petals unfolding there were just countless rows of needle sharp teeth. A long spiny tongue slithered out from its throat hole before it let out a high-pitched shriek.

The corpses in the cars around Michelle started to stir. Their hollow eyes lit up with beams of yellow light.

"It calls to them," said the voice. "And the dead listen."

The ghouls moaned as they picked themselves up and out of the cars, lurching toward Michelle.

"I gathered as much," she replied, taking one ghoul's head off with a swing of her blade.

More ghouls lumbered her direction, threatening to box her in.

"Should we run or fight?" asked the voice.

"Both sound nice about now." She sliced through a few ghouls, hacking them to pieces as she made her dash to the bridge.

She was stopped by a furious gust of cold wind that blasted a couple of the cars in front of her aside like toys.

The wind swirled into a twister, thick mist pouring out.

Michelle shielded her eyes with her forearm. "What now?"

The wind slowed to reveal a masked phantom figure hovering above the road. The Wraith's long pale kimono flapped in the breeze. A simple, bone white mask with slanted eyeholes concealed her face. She leered down at Michelle and let loose a cackle.

"Run, child," said the Wraith. "Run from the light. For the darkness hunts, tonight. And we hunger for your flesh."

"You're not on my list," said Michelle, thrusting her blade at her foe, "but you can leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as the next available spot opens up."

A rogue ghoul attempted a sneak attack while Michelle's back was turned. She sent it flying back with a swift kick, knocking down a few more corpses as it crashed through the gathering horde.

"Don't be rude, gentlemen," she snapped back over her shoulder. "Ladies first."

The Wraith conjured a scythe in her right hand from the swirling air. She raised her left hand, exposing a tattoo of a black sun.

Michelle gritted her teeth. "So, you're one of the _Chosen._ "

"Marauder," the Wraith bellowed, her black stringy hair whirling wildly in the wind. "My master has sent me to bring back your head."

"Oh? Well, maybe I'll bring him yours instead." Michelle held out her sword. The steel lit up with glorious blue light. Her eyes glowed and her cape flapped as the magical aura shrouded her body. "I'll even do him the courtesy of giftwrapping it with a purple bow."

A speeding shadow flickered over her as the mutated Doberman lunged for her. She spun to meet it, catching the torso with her sword and severing the lower half from the body. But this did little to stop the momentum of the top half, the part with the sharp teeth.

The beast knocked her flat on her back, pinning her arms with its two front legs. Talons shot out of its paws and embedded into the asphalt, ensnaring her wrists.

Michelle struggled to reach her sword—which had slipped from her grasp from the jolt of the fall—but came up inches too short. "What did I _just_ say?"

The Doberman's head split apart again, raining down a spray of green acid as its long, viper-like tongue wiggled in the air.

She shifted her head just in time to dodge a stray squirt of acid. "This is why I'm a cat person."

The Wraith hovered above with her scythe raised high, laughing wickedly. "Yes, good, my pet. Hold her still while I retrieve the head."

"Can we eat her?" asked the voice.

"Quiet," Michelle snapped.

"Our hunger grows. It has been too long since our last meal. We must feast."

Then the throbbing pain started up, shooting pure agony straight from her bandaged left hand. She let a holler escape then bit down on her lip, muffling the rest. "Shut up or I'll cut you off and feed you to the dog." Her left hand twitched like mad, the fingers twisting on their own accord.

"Dogs are tasty. Feed us dogs, yes?"

She clenched her eyes shut as the shadow of the Wraith cast her face in gloom. "No, moron. I said I'll feed you _to_ it."

"Oh... Not good. We wouldn't like that very much. The other way we like best."

"Then shut your damn mouth." She formed a defiant fist with her left hand.

The Wraith peeled back Michelle's hood with her sharp red nails. "End of the line, Marauder. Squirm and I can't promise only a single cleave."

Michelle spit in her face. "Screw you."

The Wraith scooped up a fist full of Michelle's long blonde hair and yanked it back with force. "But first, I will take a souvenir for myself. My master cannot have all the spoils, after all." She glided her scythe across a lock of hair, cutting the strands one by one. "Such pretty silky hair must be cherished and—"

"Oh, no." Michelle's eyes widened with fury. "Not the hair, bitch. No one touches the hair." She relaxed her left hand. "I changed my mind, _bon appetit,_ Lefty."

The Wraith tilted her head to one side like a curious puppy. "Lefty?"

A high-pitched squeal resounded with penetrating power.

The bandages on Michelle's left hand were sucked in as a wind tunnel erupted from a hole in her palm. No, not a hole, but a mouth with a full set of spiny teeth. Above the mouth, one moss-green snake eye with a copper slit widening in the middle.

"Feeding time," shouted Lefty—the grinning face on the hand—with wicked glee, licking its lips with a drool coated tongue.

The upper half of the Doberman was the first to be caught up in the wind tunnel, compressing and contorting as it was slurped down like a wet ramen noodle.

With her arms free, Michelle retrieve her sword and, with one clean slash, severed the Wraith's scythe and arm at the elbow.

The Wraith screamed bloody murder, clutching her gushing stump.

Michelle rose to her feet and thrusted her left hand forward. "Keep a seat warm in hell for your master, monster. He'll be joining you shortly."

The Wraith was sucked inside the hand, her bones snapping and folding like origami as she was turned into a bite-sized snack.

Lefty chewed and swallowed before letting loose a rancid burp. "Mmmm, tastes like chicken, oysters, and toasted tater tots." He picked the last bits from between his teeth with a brush of his tongue.

"You're gross, you know that, right?" asked Michelle, looking down at her left palm.

"Gross is in the eye of the beholder," replied Lefty.

"No, it's not." Then the pain struck her again. She keeled over, falling to her knees, panting and sweating as her heart threaten to beat out of her chest. _No, not again. Not now._ She clutched her head. _Get out of my brain!_ A thousand vile whispers sounded off in her mind, tormenting her with chants made with foreign tongues.

The ghouls started advancing once again, hundreds of yellow eyes swaying back and forth in the darkness, their moans turning into a chorus of horrors.

"Michelle," Lefty shouted. "What's wrong?"

She pushed back her sleeves. Dozens of black sun tattoos coiled up her forearms, worming like the vines of a thorn bush. _No, no, no._

"Michelle, your neck... its covered with suns."

She clawed at her throat. _It's too soon._

"The Mark," said Lefty. "You have to resist the call of the Chosen."

"I'm trying," she yelled. "But it keeps getting harder." Each new one, each new Chosen devoured by Lefty and added to the collection, felt like another brick stacked on the heavy pile already crushing her heart.

They were encircled by a wall of gnashing teeth and reaching, decaying hands.

"You must. Or else, give in. Better than death."

"Never!" She clutched the hilt of her sword. "I will never become one of his slaves." Her blade lit up. " _Fire,_ " she whispered. The sword was shrouded with flames. "I'd rather burn!"

She swung the flaming sword, setting the surrounding horde ablaze. The ghouls shrunk back, wilting like dying winter roses in the summer heat.

With a wrap of her enchanted cloak, she ran for an opening—plowing through the burning ghouls toward the bridge.

To Be Continued...

You can find the rest of the story for FREE on **A.MAZON** under the title:

The Marauder: Episode One

Author: Sean M. Hogan

A HALLOWEEN CAROL

A Christmas Carol with a Halloween twist! An electrifyingly creepy and hilarious tale guaranteed to haunt and delight young readers for many spooky seasons to come!

Fourteen-year-old Zach Hall begins the Halloween holiday with his patented miserly contempt. Even the sudden appearance of a zombie named Kevin and a little witch named Alice, his new friendly neighbors, can't break him from his funk. That is, until Zach meets a magical scarecrow and makes his wish on the jack-o'-lantern.

Now the three great Timeless Spirits of All Hallows' Eve—a smooth talking devil, a witch with crocodile eyes, and a ghastly masked phantom—will take him on a soul-searching adventure through time and space, past and future. A journey that will reveal hard truths the young scrooge-in-training is reluctant to face.

To save the holiday he despises most, Zach must open his heart to undo years of bitter stubbornness and discover the loophole to his ill-made wish on the jack-o'-lantern. Or else, an eight-foot-tall slime monster named Bobby will swallow his new friends and family whole.

#

# A Halloween Carol

Sean M. Hogan

# Chapter One

Private Collection

Mr. Wilkins ran as fast as his hundred-dollar loafers could carry his 240-pound self. He should have listened to his wife Lenoir and gone on that diet and kept his New Year's resolution. He would have been faster down those stairs, quicker on those hallway turns. Too bad he wasn't, too bad Bobby was gaining.

Bobby was far more menacing than your traditional things that go bump in the night. Most could be avoided if you followed the rules. Don't fall asleep and Freddy can't get you, don't mess with Indian burial grounds or creepy summer camps and hockey masked psychos won't bother you. Don't go out on full moons, don't get bitten, and definitely don't feed it after midnight and you'll make it out alive. Not so with Bobby, he didn't have rules or limitations. If Bobby wants you he finds you, and Bobby's good at finding things.

The doorknob wouldn't twist all the way; the door wouldn't budge. So, Mr. Wilkins tried another and then another. All locked. School was out for the night. As Mr. Wilkins cursed his own misfortune he remembered something important. Bathrooms don't have things like locks. He bolted into the girls' bathroom and into the last stall. He shut the door, sat down, and waited. He waited and listened for Bobby.

An eerie quiet filled that bathroom, the kind of quiet where there's a buzzing noise in your ear and, for a moment, you're not sure whether you've just gone deaf or not. Mr. Wilkins hoisted himself onto the toilet and crouched into as round a ball as he could manage. He pulled out his cell phone, flipped open the screen, and dialed the numbers 9-1-1. He placed the phone to his ear and whispered, "Please help me... someone's... _something's_ after me."

"You're a funny man, Mr. Wilkins," said the voice on the other line. "What makes you think you can hide from Bobby?"

"Who... is... this?" asked Mr. Wilkins in a cold shudder.

"You're also a bad teacher, Mr. Wilkins, smoking on school grounds. Bobby knows what to do with bad teachers."

The phone gargled and gulped as Mr. Wilkins felt something warm and sticky touch his ear. He pulled the phone away to find green liquid slime squeezing through the tiny speaker holes like playdough. He threw the phone into the toilet and flushed it down. He waited for the clear water to come back up, but only green swampy gunk came back to greet him. Little by little it rose until the slime flowed over the edge, bubbling slightly at first, then faster like a boiling pot of chili.

Mr. Wilkins pressed his back to the door and stared with unwavering eyes as five fingers poked out from the slime. Only they were much too long to be fingers, more like king crab legs, wielding the same hard and warty skin. Soon a complete hand emerged from the toilet, the slime tugging and pulling along like spider webbing. The whole arm dwarfed him, casting him in gloom. The shadows of the fingers danced and slithered like snakes and noodles over his terror inflicted face.

An eye formed then a set of misshaped teeth, not one matching the other, each tooth unique and horridly special in its own sinister way. At last a face peered back at Mr. Wilkins, a deformed, lopsided, uneven grinning face with sheets of hard warty skin wrapped around it to keep it solid.

"Bobby can fit through any hole. Bobby can squeeze through any crack," said the uneven face. "Bobby knows how!"

Mr. Wilkins ran out the bathroom and down the hall. He didn't stop till he found himself in the middle of the gymnasium. The darkness had swallowed him up and he could barely see his own hands, but he didn't need to see to realize he was cornered. Only one way out, the way he came in.

He could feel the air behind him change, becoming thicker and soupier in nature and malevolent in taste, the sensation crawling up his spine like hungry spiders and scorpions. He knew Bobby was behind him, he was never more certain of anything in his life.

Bobby smiled as he pulled his ribs apart to show his insides, only they weren't insides as much as they were people wrapped in slime and bound with guts and intestines. They were keepsakes of Bobby, now a part of his growing collection.

The slime-covered victims moaned as they grabbed at Mr. Wilkins' shirt, ripping and pulling him in. He tried his best to cling to Bobby's ribs, but they were far too slippery. When his cheek pressed against Bobby's beating heart, he let out a shrieking howl before choking on Bobby's bodily fluids.

The light faded as Bobby clamped his ribs shut with a loud crackling crunch, a sound akin to a lobster's shell cracking under the force of a butter knife.

# Chapter Two

One Zombie and One Witch

The morning air carried with it a tinge of Jack Frost's patented spitefulness, the leaves were stained orange and yellow, the sky formed into a cloudy mess of anti-therapeutic gray, and the flavor of the wind that of hot ash and BBQ meats. Children's laughter rang out from street corner to street corner, shadows of plastic webbing crept past every lawn, polished black spiders hung down each branch of each tree, and sunken pumpkins with sliced up faces and specialized glares filled each step of each front door. Today was the day for tricksters and pranksters, for treats and delights. Today was Halloween and no other day infuriated Zach Hall more.

He tried his best to fog up the car glass window with a warthog's puff, but to no use. He could see them, laughing, joking, skipping, running, dancing, and worst of all trick-or-treating—at eleven in the morning no less. _What kind of town is this,_ he thought, _have they no decency, no pride, or sense of self-worth?_ Fools dressing up like fools, acting like fools, impersonating fools, a town of fools for fools, a town that needed to grow up.

Zach Hall was fourteen and, worst of all, serious.

"We're almost there, sport," said Zach's father Mr. Hall, "You excited?" He glanced back from the driver's seat.

Zach stared back, unflinching. "No," he replied.

"Ah, where's your sense of adventure?" asked Mr. Hall.

"The same place as his sense of humor," answered his annoying big sister, Jill, "buried three miles under the sea."

She smiled back at Zach, a smile so big you'd think she had just finished a knockout performance of her own little comedy tour. It took every bit of Zach's willpower not to throw her out of the car window these past six hours. He wasn't sure he could make it to seven.

Even though Jill was only two years older than him, Zach still couldn't understand her. She might as well had spoken Egyptian and been a native of the planet Crouton. _She's a walking contradiction,_ Zach thought. She hated sticking out yet dressed in all black and wore the strangest piercings and jewelry. Her hair was some random color every two weeks or so—Zach was lucky if he remembered to brush his short and stubby blond hair that often. Everything he liked she hated and everything she liked made Zach want to vomit. They were the worst of friends, the best of enemies. They were unfortunately, tragically, ironically siblings.

"Well, I'm excited. New house, new back yard, new neighbors," said Mr. Hall as he stuck his nose out his car window and snorted a huge heap of air. "Smell that? That's new life smell. Like a new pair of shoes."

"You're not a dog, Dad," said Jill as she covered her face in embarrassment. "People are staring."

And indeed, they were. One kid even pointed.

Mr. Hall drove past a festively orange and black pumpkin shaped sign that read: _Welcome to Crestwood, third safest town in America, population 856._ There was a seven above the number six but it was crossed out with a green painted X.

"Correction, 859," said Mr. Hall with a prideful smile.

"Third safest, so in other words this place is boring?" Zach mumbled as he glanced up from his comic book about solar powered superheroes and slimy coated villains.

"I'm sure there's lots of fun to be had here, sport," said Mr. Hall. "Just use your imagination."

Zach didn't have one of those.

"We could all go bowling tonight," suggested Mr. Hall.

"On Halloween night?" protested Jill.

"That's right!" said Mr. Hall. "I almost forgot. It's _Halloween_."

Jill planted her face into her hands again. "Yes, because people dress up in silly costumes and beg for candy every Friday."

"Hey, you guys want to go trick-or-treating tonight?" asked Mr. Hall.

"Not a chance," they both replied.

The first thing they ever agreed on, probably the last too. Jill was at the age when she hated being seen with her father in public yet still needed things like rides and cash. Compromises were a necessary evil in her world. Zach, on the other hand, just hated pretending. _People are always pretending,_ he surmised, _lying with a smile._ They were plastered on every billboard and on every television screen, not an honest smile among the sea of manipulation. The world had enough fake smiles as it is. It didn't require his. Even his mother had that same fake smile on the day she left, which was the last day Zach smiled back. _Halloween is every day,_ _people just don't know it._

The car slid into the driveway and Mr. Hall eagerly stepped out to greet his new castle. It was a quaint little house, only a slightly different model from the rest of the homes on the block. No better, no worse. The charcoal red roof shingles were the best part because of the state-of-the-art solar panels that were woven in between each little shingle. Mr. Hall surmised they would save him thousands on energy expenses in the years to come. They would break in December.

"I get dibs on the room next to the bathroom," said Jill, bailing out the car door.

Zach just sat and waited. Soon he would have to unpack and lift heavy things upstairs. He wasn't looking forward to that. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had looked forward to anything in particular. Best to stay put for now.

He gave a melancholy stare out his window. A zombie stared back.

"Got any fresh brains?" asked the zombie.

Zach didn't reply, he just looked away. Best to avoid eye contact. He just might catch the hint and walk away. He didn't.

"Where's your costume, stranger?" asked the zombie with a cowboy accent.

"I don't have a costume," replied Zach.

"But it's—"

Zach cut the zombie off. "I know what day it is. I just don't believe in holidays. It's not my thing."

"Mormon?" asked the zombie. "My cousin in Nevada is Mormon. He's not allowed to drink soda and coffee. I'm just not allowed to drink coffee... not after last time."

The last time the zombie, when he was still among the living that is, had coffee was Christmas Eve. His uncle Rob had given him a cup to celebrate his passage into manhood. He didn't sleep for three days, dug a seven-foot hole in the front yard, and declared war on all bees and wasps. He was hospitalized after being stung over a hundred times.

"I'm not Mormon," insisted Zach. "I just don't like dressing up like some kind of fool." With that he stepped out the opposite side door and onto the driveway.

"Oh yeah, well, I refuse to substitute your limited and highly subjective reality for my own conscious and subconscious perception of identity," said the zombie, quite proudly at that.

Zach stared back like he had just seen a cow with a rocket strapped to its back launch into space.

"Sorry, Kevin can't help it, our mom makes us listen to self-help audio books," said a little girl's voice.

Zach looked down to find not one but two interlopers standing before him. One zombie and one witch. Correction. One small witch, so small in fact that Zach hadn't seen her next to her fourteen-year-old brother, Kevin, whom she was standing by the whole time. Her name was Alice and she was twelve. In one hand, Alice carried a black handled broom with hot pink colored straw sticking out and, in her other hand, she held a book of spells she bought off the internet for 20 dollars. Its previous owner was a witch doctor from Venezuela who reportedly used it to raise the dead and exorcise demons. Alice was the only one who bid on it.

"Our mom says gradeschool is the most damaging period in our lives and it took her 23 years to build back the self-esteem she lost during adolescence," said Alice while she adjusted her pointy black hat. "The other kids used to throw hotdogs at her in gym class."

"Why would they do something like that?" asked Zach.

Kevin shrugged. "A ritualistic display of ostracization within a ridged social hierarchy."

Alice snickered. "They said she smelt like a wiener."

Mr. Hall waved over to Kevin.

Kevin waved back.

"You kids live next door?" asked Mr. Hall.

"Yeah, we're the Lovejoys," replied Alice as she pointed across the street to her house. A two-story home, painted blue with countless concrete gnomes and plastic flamingos sticking out of the crabgrass laced lawn. "My name's Alice and this is my brother, Kevin."

Kevin waved again.

"Pleased to meet you, we just moved in so we don't know many people here," said Mr. Hall as he turned his sights on Zach.

Zach immediately knew by the expression on his father's face that the next words out of his mouth would be trouble.

"Say, my cool hip son here is in need of some new play buddies," said Mr. Hall. "So, what do you say—want to be best friends?'

It was worse than trouble. Zach was breathless.

Kevin thought hard for a moment then shrugged. "Okay."

"We were going to head over to the old pumpkin patch on Harbor to raise some dead people. You can come if you want," suggested Alice as she proudly held up her new spell book for all to see.

Mr. Hall waved goodbye and wished them a safe journey. And just like that Zach found himself walking down the street with one zombie and one witch. Life was cruel to Zach, especially on Halloween.

# 

# Chapter Three

To Wish Upon a Jack-O'-Lantern

Pumpkins lined the dirt path, twisting and curling into more of a maze than a road. Each pumpkin was more deformed and misshapen than the one just before it, they seemed to be begging to be chosen, to be gutted, and carved a smile, their shriveled vines slithering over the trail in a desperate attempt to snare any unwary traveler. Zach, Alice, and Kevin walked past with alert eyes and carefully placed steps.

Alice studied the landscape, already planning her escape if needed once she raised a few corpses. She hoped the undead would be slow and lumbering, like in the old black and white movies, and not like those modern running dead. Those weren't very sporting. Having a pet zombie had been her dream since as far back as she could remember. Once tamed and properly restrained with dog collar and leash, she would take her undead on walks and on Sundays to the park where she would ride him piggyback and terrorize the ducks and health-conscious morning joggers. Alice didn't have issues, only evil plans.

A scarecrow hung at the end of the pumpkin patch maze—his arms and legs nothing more than shriveled up husks of brown and black tree limbs, his ancient jacket a faded plaid soaked with mud and the oiliest of pond scum, his pants torn to strips of string and yarn, his face replaced by a pumpkin with a hand carved heckled grin. Though his eyes seemed sad for a jack-o'-lantern, almost as if he was lonely on that T-shaped wooden crucifix.

Zach looked on, more annoyed than moved. "Okay, so we're here. Now what?"

"Mr. Jerkins buries his victims in this very spot," Alice replied, pointing to a patch of dirt before her feet.

Zach raised an eyebrow. "Victims?"

"His ex-wives and their lovers he caught them with," noted Kevin.

"And you know this how?" asked Zach.

"Suzie told me that Jeff told her that Alex told him that she overheard her mother mention..." Alice stopped to count her fingers, making sure she got every detail right.

"Just read the spell so we can get out of here." Zach massaged his newly acquired migraine.

Alice opened her spell book to the page with a zombie illustration hand-sketched in blackish purple beetle ink; it smelt of the faint odor of lilac and old turtle shells. She glided her fingers across the image, feeling the bumps and grooves of the ink sketching. The passage underneath was more chicken scratch than any decipherable known language, in fact it had been etched in by a severed chicken's foot centuries before by its original owner.

She tried her best to make the scribbles audible, her tongue twisting and twirling on every syllable. "Newt, loot, root, flute," she shouted, "monkey-toast, honey-toad!"

Lightning struck, the ground splitting under the violent force of an earthquake, and hellish fire shot out the moment the words fell from her lips—or so Alice had imagined. None of those things happened. In fact, nothing happened at all. She was as disappointed as a kid with nothing to open on Christmas morning.

"Maybe I said it wrong," she said with a sigh.

"You just said honey-toad. It's a _high_ possibility," Zach said sarcastically.

"Maybe it takes time," said Kevin.

"Yeah, and maybe a full moon, or some chicken's blood, or lightning, or maybe—just maybe—there's no such thing as spells and zombies," said Zach. "Pretending never makes things real."

Those were the same words Zach's mother uttered the day she left on that plane. "Pretending never makes things real." The answer Zach got when he asked why things couldn't go back to the way they were before. Before her marriage with his father, Mr. Hall, went sour, before she fell for another man named Andrew, before she decided to leave the country and her family for him. Zach didn't hear from her now except in postcards she sent now and then, always photos with fake smiles. Lately it had been only phone calls on holidays. Zach stopped answering those. In truth, some part of him wanted magic to be true, for her to be wrong. But truth—reality—is never quite what we so desperately need it to be.

Zach turned his back on the scarecrow and headed up the trail. Alice and Kevin followed pace. And things might've ended right there. But unbeknownst to Zach that scarecrow with the sad carved eyes had a name. A name that once uttered carried with it special obligations things of pure magic must fulfill—and Mr. Jack Honeytoad was no exception to that rule.

Those shriveled up husks of limbs filled with water and expanded like an old sponge to form flesh and bone. That jacket of ancient origin sprung up with a twirl, flinging the mud from its pores like a dog that loathes baths. His tattered jean pants knitted themselves together faster than any gnome or elf could manage. And when he became complete, the scarecrow gave out a howl of a yawn like a rooster in the morning light. He rubbed his pumpkin eyes, wiping away the sadness like dust on glass. He hopped down from his wooden post and stretched out his arms as long as he could, glanced over to Zach, Alice, and Kevin and said, " _Boo_."

Kevin shrieked before diving between a cluster of pumpkins.

Alice just smiled and said, "Cool."

"Very funny, dude," said Zach, unfazed by this lame attempt at a scare.

"No dude here, just Jack," said the scarecrow. "Though you kids get points for guessing my real name. Well, _a_ point, anyway."

He pulled off his pumpkin head to show his human smile. Mr. Honeytoad or Jack, as he normally went by—no point in giving out your real, full name to those who might and probably will abuse it—looked (on the outside) no different from your average snot-nosed seventeen-year-old. On the inside was an entirely different story altogether.

"Alright—let's get things started—who said my name?" asked Jack, scanning over the trio. He brushed aside his long, shaggy blond hair from his green eyes, smiled his pearly whites, and wiggled his pointy ears.

"No one said Jack, _jackass,_ " replied Zach.

Jack just ignored him. "Come on, don't be shy, I don't bite... _children_."

Jack's words were met with an awkward silence.

"Whoever said it gets a wish," said Jack, his smile twisting into a devilish grin.

"I did," yelled Kevin and Alice at the same time, followed by a mean stare between siblings.

"What?" hollered Alice, her hands clenching into fists. "I said the spell."

"I would've said it, if I knew there was a wish involved," protested Kevin. "It's not fair."

"Stop it, you two," said Zach. "This kid's just messing around with us. There's no such thing as magic wishes."

Alice and Kevin shrunk with disappointment.

Jack smirked over at Zach. "And you would be the expert on these things, kid?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," said Zach. "You see, I come from a little town called reality and they have things there like science books and common sense."

Jack held up the pumpkin. "Alright, Mister Expert, place your hand on top of the jack-o'-lantern, make your wish, and see for yourself if there's no such thing as magic."

"If it gets you to shut up—sure—I'm game."

Zach stepped forward and plopped his hand on the carved pumpkin head, then paused for a moment to think of some clever wish to put this fool in his place. _I should wish for his hair to fall out,_ he thought, _or maybe for his butt to inflate to the size of a water buffalo. No wait, better to turn him into a donkey, like the jackass he is. No way he could fake that. Either way, I win._

"Oh, I should mention, before you wish me into some melancholy mule—the wish is only good for one night," said Jack. "So, enjoy it while it lasts."

He caught Zach off guard with those words. How could he have known his wish? He did just call him a jackass though. Lucky guess—must have been. But that cocky smirk of his was more than Zach could bear. Jack's grin was the grin of Halloween itself and Zach had already grown past tired of manufactured grins and grimaces of a holiday that represented everything he hated most. So, he made up his mind.

"Great," said Zach. "Then for one night, I wish that people were who they claimed to be, that just for one night people stopped pretending, and the truth showed on their faces instead of the other way around."

In all the thousands of years of his existence, and of all those who uttered his name and made a wish, none had wished for anything close to this. Most had wished for selfish things: gold, power, ill will toward others, even wishes made in the name of love were rooted in selfish desires. No one ever wished for more honesty. _What a strange boy,_ Jack thought, _what a strange and interesting boy_.

In that instance, Zach swore his eyes were playing tricks on him. Because for a brief moment, like the flash and flicker of a flame of a candle the second before its last breath, that jack-o'-lantern smiled back at him, its carved grin lighting up with sinister delight.

"Done," said Jack.

And with that the hollowed pumpkin crumbled and fell to tiny bits and pieces between Jack's hands.

Zach stepped back, the sudden decomposition catching him off balance and stealing the voice from his throat. And, for the second time this morning, he had been stricken breathless. He let the dried pumpkin guts and seeds slide between the cracks of his fingers and hit the dirt.

"Then, just for tonight, what you see is what you get. Now if you'll excuse me..." Jack closed his eyes, wiggled his fingers, and clapped his hands.

And poof, he exploded in a puff of orange smoke and fireflies.

The fireflies darted past Kevin and Alice and into the breeze. Alice, being one never to miss an opportunity to capitalize on a little magic, jumped with all the spring in her feet and clasped her hands together just in time to ensnare a straggler. But when she spread her fingers apart to peek inside, there was nothing but sparkling dust between the cracks of her palms.

Zach's mouth and eyes widened as he watched the fireflies fade into the sky. Magic was real. Jack was telling the truth. Which meant... His amazed expression melted into a frown as the dread sunk in. He knew trouble when he saw it and tonight was going to be a very long night.

To Be Continued...

You can find the rest of the story on **A.MAZON** under the title:

A Halloween Carol

Author: Sean M. Hogan

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# About The Author

Hello beautiful reader, my name is Sean M. Hogan, author of **The Crow Behind the Mirror** , **A Halloween Carol** , a collection of short stories **The Devil, the Grim Reaper, and a Ghost** , and a Short Reads series called **The Marauder**.

I was born, raised, and currently reside in Southern California and a proud graduate from San Jose State University. While primarily a dark fantasy writer, my fiction tends to range from Young Adult to Adult. But whatever your age, if you're a fantasy lover, I'm sure you'll find something to whet your appetite.

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Sincerely,  
Mr. Sean

# Acknowledgments

A special thanks to all my awesome beta readers, my lovely critique partners, and my many talented writing friends at the Pendragons and the Brea Library Writer's Group. This book would have never been finished without their help. Aja McKee, Vivian Chien, Samantha Mathis, Rita Haney, Rebecca Lang, Carmen Felix, Ned Rodriguez, Kaleo Welborn, John Peecher, Helen McCarthy, Jodi Lester, Nina Sights, Jeanne Lerner, and Laurel Tetreault. I apologize if I left anyone out.

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