Ascendants of Ancients Sovereign (Worlds of the Crystal Moon, Book 1) (5 page)

The weapon of the gray army leader was long. It hung from his right hip and had markings on its hilt, markings that disappeared beneath his hand as he unsheathed the blade. The steel the weapon was forged from pulsated, almost as if the weapon was reacting to some sort of secret melody—like it was alive.

The dark being hissed, still holding his dagger against the angel’s throat. “She’s mine,” he proclaimed as he tightened his grip. “She chose me! I’ll end her before I allow you to have her back!”

The chivalrous form lifted his sword and pointed it at the assailant’s head. For the first time since the nightmare began, Shalee realized that she had taken the place of the angel. Somehow, she had become the object of the gray-faced man’s affections. And worse, she could feel the pain of the wound that had been inflicted by the dark being’s dagger. She could even feel the heat of his breath as the force of his words beat against the back of her neck.

“I won’t leave empty-handed!” the gray leader warned. “I have suffered and will claim my reward on this very Peak! Stop hiding behind her and fight me!”

“Ha!” the dark leader scoffed. “As if you have the power to defeat me! This is my plane ... my domain. Go back and beg to live in his good graces, for you won’t find peace here.”

“The door has been shut,” the chivalrous leader retorted. He dropped his sword to his side. “There’s nothing to return to. If you have the nerve, let’s settle this.”

As the dark assailant removed his dagger from Shalee’s throat, he cast her aside. A moment later, he unsheathed a sword that hung from his hip, and accepted the challenge. With the blade pointed in the gray leader’s direction, the detail of this new blade became clear. It, too, pulsated like his challenger’s weapon, and it was equally excited for battle.

The sounds of searing steel filled the twilight sky as the combatants engaged. Both armies cheered, but now, an elderly woman emerged from the crowd and grabbed hold of Shalee’s arm. The woman’s hair was silver, and she was holding a staff with an orb attached to its end. Though only for a brief moment, Shalee felt a sense of serenity. The woman’s face exuded kindness, safety, and it was the only part of her vision that offered a feeling of solace. “I’m here for you, Child. Worry not,” she comforted.

As the battle between both leaders magnified, their armies cheered, but their voices could not be heard. The sounds of of what should have been cries for blood were captured by smoke that billowed out of their mouths and rose into the air like fog.

With the intensity of the battle escalating, the dreamscape changed. Worlds were destroyed and stars were extinguished. The fury of the fight left all life expelled in its wake. Utter despair settled across this alien plane of existence, and there seemed to be no end in sight to the devastation.

Shalee could no longer watch. In her grief, she cried out for the combatants to stop. Without regard for her safety, she stepped forward to intervene, but the result was tragic. Shalee was unable to utter a single word before the blade of the gray-faced leader inadvertently sliced her in thirds during a whirlwind of strikes intended to end his enemy.

Startled by her impending demise, Shalee sat up in bed as she screamed in a panic. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!”

Her blanket was laying on the floor. Sweat had saturated her pajamas, and her breathing was erratic. As the air conditioning attacked the moisture on her skin, a chill washed over her. She grabbed her pillow and wiped the moisture from her face and every other part of her skin that was exposed. “That’s the worst one yet,” she shuddered. “That poor angel. Wait a minute ... poor me.” She reached up to see if her neck was bleeding. It was. “What the...?” she blurted. “How?”

With no answer to her question in sight, she focused on slowing her pulse. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of soft, pink, bunny slippers that she had kicked off beside the nightstand. Lifting her arms behind her head to catch her breath, it took a minute before her breathing returned to normal.

It had been more than six months since the nightmares began, and her therapist was stumped as to why her mind was taking her on these horrific trips. But tonight’s nightmare was so much worse than the others. Everything felt so real, but how?
Why did I switch bodies with the angel? Am I connected to her somehow?
she questioned as she pulled out a tissue from her nightstand and dabbed it against her neck.

A long period of silence passed as she continued to dissect the dream.
I wonder who the old woman is. I’ve seen her before. Why does she keep showing up?

Shalee stood from the bed, stretched her arms, and arched her back. No relief, at least not like it normally gave. She lowered her arms and looked across the room into the dresser mirror. A frosty breath filled the air as it escaped her lips. “Brrrrrr,” she shivered as she stared at the goose bumps on her arms.

She stepped toward the mirror and looked at the reflection of her neck. Nothing—not even a scratch. She looked down at the tissue. It was still white. There was no blood on it.
What in tarnation?
she thought.
I must be losing it.

After a moment, she laughed to expel her anxiety and spoke to her reflection. “What’s wrong with you, girl? Why are you acting this way? Pull yourself together. Go turn off the air, and get your butt back to bed. We’ve got one heck of a day tomorrow.” She reached out to the mirror and slapped at the reflection of her hand. “High-five, oh yeah.” A sassy wink followed.

Shalee turned to saunter across the room. As she did, her reflection did not mimic her actions. Instead, the image in the mirror scowled as she walked toward the door.

“Happy birthday,” the being hissed as its eyes turned red and its teeth elongated to sharp points. “This is the Peak of your harvest,” the being added. “Apparently you’re necessary. So be it.” The image in the mirror turned and walked toward the reflection of the door just as Shalee had done and vanished before it exited the room.

Oblivious to the presence, all Shalee wanted was a drink of water before she headed back to bed. Passing the thermostat, she turned off the air and entered the kitchen.

When she designed the home, Shalee had created a great room where the kitchen and living room flowed into each other. Her sense of taste was impeccable: granite countertops from Africa, top-of-the-line carpet from Europe, imported tile from Spain, and three styles of trim to complete the vision.

But tonight, as she turned on the lights, the color of the walls seemed dull. She stopped to take note. As she did, the temperature throughout the home dropped further at a rapid pace for no apparent reason.

“Sam Hill,” she whispered. Shalee headed out of the kitchen and rushed for the closet near the front door to grab a coat, but before she could cross the room, an immense pain surged through her body.

Shalee collapsed. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of a tiny figure out of the corner of her eye, but before the image became clear, her head collided with the edge of the coffee table. The glass surface shattered, almost knocking her out.

Struggling to pick herself up, a steady stream of blood poured from the laceration on the left side of her forehead. Her fear heightened as her mind filled with a sense of helplessness. The red liquid pooled on the floor, her arms trembled, and the room started to spin. Shalee slipped into unconsciousness as the red eyes of the being she never clearly saw faded into darkness.

A tiny squat of a man sat on the sill of a window. No more than two feet tall, his eyes burned red, and his teeth ended in razor-sharp points. He laughed as he dropped from the sill and knelt in front of the fireplace. After dislodging the valve on the gas line, he waddled across the room, jumped up and landed into a seated position on Shalee’s stomach.

“Your wish is granted, my lady,” the dwarf chuckled. “I wonder why the Collective chose you? I bet he had something to do with this.” Wiping the blood off her face, he critiqued her beauty. “You don’t appear to be special.”

The dwarf reached out and played with Shalee’s lips like she was his puppet. “Thank you for stealing me on my birthday, Mr. scary dwarf-man,” he made her say. “This is the best birthday ever!”

After amusing himself for a bit longer, the dwarf refocused. “No matter his intentions, I shall discover the truth of your function soon enough. You must be more to him than a baby maker.”

Leaning forward to touch Shalee’s chin, her body vanished. The dwarf’s eyes flickered, and the home exploded. Laughter was all that was left behind as the neighborhood shook. Shalee would be left in a coma and placed in storage for later use.

The Home of George Nailer

Orlando, Florida

GEORGE NAILER, AN ATHLETIC, clean-cut, blue-eyed man was sitting on the bed next to his sleeping daughter as he ran his fingers lovingly through her hair. She was his everything. They had spent the day going from store to store looking for the cupcake maker she had been asking for over the last month.

George tried to be the father he had always wanted for himself. He loved his daughter to the best of his ability. She was the only person he had never lied to, scammed, or manipulated. He may have been scum, but this little girl was his shining light to goodness.

He named her Abbie, which means “my father’s joy” since that was how he felt on the day she was born. Her five-year-old heart was angelic, and he loved her cute, little smile. Yes, he was wrapped around Abbie’s little finger. She knew how to reel him in whenever she wanted something, and though he would never admit it, all she had to do was ask, and she would get anything she wanted.

Growing up as the only child of a cruel father, George’s life was filled with constant beatings and sexual abuse. He had been forced to fight his way through childhood just to survive. Even getting food was a challenge since his parents wasted most of his father’s paychecks on their nasty habits during regular visits to the local drug dealer.

George knew he was emotionally scarred, and at the early age of 10, he turned to hustling to acquire the things his mother needed. He perfected his skills of manipulation to help her pay the rent, yet despite his best efforts, his mother often wasted the money on her habit. It was not her fault. His father was to blame for her addiction—everything was his fault.

The past played with George’s head. His life was like an endless loop of loathing, degradation and shame. The disgust of his situation ran through his veins like a poisonous venom.

Finally, on the eve of his 15th birthday, the poison spilled out. He had enough. After yet another threat to abuse him while watching TV, George jumped his father from behind. He swung without mercy, beating his father over the head with his fists and anything else he could get his hands on.

His father wailed in pain and shouted for help as George’s fists rained down again and again while George slipped further away from reality with each swing.

“You’re a piece of garbage!” the boy screamed. “You’re a loser! I hate you! You’ll never touch me again! I’m not your toy! I hate you!”

The police charged in and struggled to pull George off. A moment later would have been too late. He intended to kill his father. He thrashed without concern for the consequences, punching one of the cops in the groin while trying to break free. He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Let me kill him! That scum deserves it! Let me put him six feet under! Let me kill him! Let me kill him!”

Five months later, George’s stay in two juvenile mental hospitals had given him time to think. With his father serving 15 years in prison for his crimes, he finally had some peace. He had recouped much of his sanity and swore an oath—one he cherished and whispered 1,000 times—writing it down to carry with him always: “If I ever have children, I’ll protect them. They’ll never want for anything. I’ll never strike them in anger or make them suffer. I’ll never let them be touched in an inappropriate manner. My children will
NOT
suffer like I have.”

Later, in his adult life, George struggled in his marriage to Abbie’s mother, which caused him to break his oath. Instead of creating a sanctuary of safety, he gave Abbie a broken home. He hated his failure. Worse, he hated taking his daughter back to her mother’s home after their visits. The guilt tore at his heart.

His apartment was small, a two bedroom flat that had been elegantly decorated by the sweat of others. His hunger for the finer things in life was insatiable. He used others to get what he wanted, including countless women, spending most of his time living in their homes, emotionally tearing away at them until his needs were met. Once he had everything he wanted, he moved on without a goodbye or backward glance.

George took one final look at his beautiful Abbie, smiled, and pulled her bedroom door shut. Once it was secure, he turned and leaned against the wall.

“Damn, this is hard,” he mumbled. Rubbing his hands together to try to relieve the stress, he continued. “I won’t lose you, baby girl. I’ll fight. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you with me.” He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a summons.