Jamyria: The Entering (The Jamyria Series Book 1) (21 page)

Chapter Seventeen: The Feather of a Clarxen

“I’m growing rather tired of these visits. The dungeon floor soils the hems of my dresses. Dreadful, simply dreadful...” says the Queen whilst shaking her billowing hair. “All you have to do — all you have to say — is where your mate has swum off to.”

“You might as well just kill me,” Seora repeats. Her face is inches beneath the surface of the water, her dark tail curled up against her chest. The water is tainted in blood.

“Sit up!” the Queen orders jerking Seora upright by her hair. “Do you know what this is?” She gestures to the machine in the corner of the room that resembles a photo booth.

Seora bites her lower lip, fearing to speak the lie aloud. Instead she simply shakes her head.

“This machine is powered by my mark. Hook her up,” she orders the Crew Member. She smiles her darkly beautiful smile. “Set it at ten.”

Seora works at keeping her face impassive. Whatever it is about to do, ten sounds like a high level. The Crewman shuffles around her basin clamping a set of clips on the metal parts of the tub.

“Every ten minutes that passes without the answers I desire, an electric pulse with shock your tub. It will be...
unbearable.
” Gliding up to the tub, the Queen places her lace-covered hands on the edge and leans in toward Seora. “Now, you have the option of enduring the pain and dying a slow, excruciating death, or you may tell me where Derek is. If you fail to divulge, I will set it for every five minutes, and then one. I can only hope you will not disappoint me any more than you already have.”

Seora glares back at her muttering, “This will never work,” but the Queen has already flipped the stiff breaker on. The Crew Member secures the glass lid over the tub.

Ten minutes until the torture begins.

“I knew you’d be difficult from the day you fell into the water,” says the Queen. “But rest assured, I will break you of your Northern tendencies.”

“I didn’t want to be in the water.” Seora’s voice catches. “I didn’t want to become one of these creatures.”

“But you did. And you will always be one of them. Might I remind you that it was your choice to enter the Water Forest.” In a grand sweep the Queen spins away on her heel, kicking the train of her dress behind her. “Farewell, Seora. Until we meet again….”

The tinkling of her Majesty’s footsteps is broken by the deafening sound of Seora’s screams as the machine comes to life. The Queen’s scowl rearranges into a cold grin as she glides down the corridors.

The sound of the mermaid’s torture echoes through the stone chambers, down the darkest dungeon where it meets the water’s edge. It pulsates through the sea and extends deep into the waters. Her scream passes the underwater city’s occupants one by one. Each Waterperson whose sensitive ears it touches turns in response, though none are certain where it comes from. Some faces hold shock or fear, others anger, as they already have heard the rumors of the underwater traitor.

The sound travels past the small city, beyond the outer trees, to a black and murky alcove where not even the darkest of fish swim. The only light glints off a lone merman’s eyes as he starts to ascend from the bushes.

His dark skin melts back into the shadows knowing he cannot attend to his promised mate’s plea.

*

Ian swings the machete vigorously with a grunt, slicing clean through thick brush. His mood turned foul since their swim. Margo recounts their afternoon trying to clue in on what could have caused this shift in attitude but she can hardly recall anything with the thoughts of her first kiss with Cameron so fresh on her mind. The image keeps popping up in her head as sharp as it had been in the moment. She finds herself blushing often and giggling at his forced chivalry.

Cameron either doesn’t recognize Ian’s sudden anger or refuses to acknowledge it. He is so wrapped up in Margo he doesn’t offer much assistance on path-clearing duty other than holding Margo’s hand while climbing over rocks or pulling back branches for her to duck under. Every once in a while, he accidentally brushes his hand against her back or walks so close she can feel his breath on her skin. She finds that she likes having a part of him always near her.

Ian stops his wild swinging suddenly to wipe away a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“We’re almost there,” he says. “You smell that?”

“Smoke,” Margo states. The aroma of a nearby fire saturates the wind. “A chimney?”

“Let’s hope,” says Ian. He resumes slashing the greenery.

A colorful flock of birds flutter overhead. Margo has heard many sounds in the forest but until now has yet to see any of the hidden creatures. They light the sky with a rainbow of colors but fly with urgency as if fleeing from something.

Light trickles through the upcoming vines. Splotches of color dance on the forest floor reminding Margo of her last moments in the Real World when she found that brilliant bird. Something screams inside her to warn Ian to stop just as he cuts through the final shrubs and steps through the opening into an open field.

Cameron’s excited words are lost as he pulls Margo into the sun. Ian’s hand flies out in warning. It is not the Witch they have found.

The petite girl stands several yards ahead of them. She is almost identical to Margo’s miniscule size, yet she is quite terrifying. Dark hair frames her perfect, porcelain face, brushing to her waist. Eyes vivid blue. Skin darkened from the sun. As beautiful as she is, there is something slightly off-putting about her.

Cameron’s grip tightens on Margo’s hand.

The girl’s face is wild and slightly inhumane. Her eyes dance shiftily between the three of them as if attempting to determine which is the biggest threat.

Her eyes, Margo realizes, are too bright. Like the world around them, they seem artificial and enhanced. Her focus too sharp.

They suddenly halt their shifty behavior. The bright blue of her irises twists like smoke clouding them over until they are completely black. The dark, beady eyes stare strangely focused on Ian.

Her lips pull back over her teeth and a guttural growl seeps through. Cameron and Ian both react on instinct, shoving Margo behind them. The sudden movement throws her off balance, and her hands awkwardly fly out to catch herself.

The girl’s glare snaps away from Ian and to Margo’s exposed marks. Her eyes widen greedily, again shifting into a golden hue. She’s found what she is looking for.

Her back hunches in preparation to lunge, calf muscles tighten ready to coil. That’s when Margo notices the serpentine mark winding down the side of her right thigh.

Margo curses, having finally realized who is before them. “
There are only a few who have seen her in person and can live to tell about it.
” That’s what Cameron had said.

Just then, a faint voice calls out in a foreign language from the depths of the forest. The girl’s eyes change back to the strange, glowing blue as she whips her head toward the sound. She clenches her jaw.

The shouts fade away. Margo strains her ears but the chirps and tweets of the woods overpower all other sounds.

Slowly, the girl turns back toward Margo — her target, her prey — eyes slowly lightening into a crystal blue as if only to frighten her more. She leans in again, ready to lunge. Cameron shifts his body between Margo and the girl.

“You have to go!” Ian suddenly barks. He glares darkly at the wild girl.

The foreign calling breaks out again in the distance. The girl hisses, eyes shifting to a ferocious black. She creeps forward a few more steps. The look on her face nearly satisfied, her target in reach, but her internal conflict holds her back from attack.

“NOW!” Ian shouts.

She howls an animalistic scream that twists Margo’s stomach. The girl spins toward the voice in the forest and in a matter of seconds disappears into the trees, her dark hair streaming behind her like silk.

“
Go
!” Cameron jerks Margo by the elbow pulling her across the field. Ian sprints ahead and hacks even fiercer at the greenery blocking their path. They tear through the vines and shrubs as fast as they can, hoping the girl wouldn’t return with a change of heart.

“Was that — was that the Beast?” Margo cries.

“Yes,” Cameron answers shortly. He forces her through an opening.

“What was that shouting?” she asks.

They both automatically look to Ian who remains silent. Margo can’t help but wonder how a boy who spent his Jamyrian life in the Water Forest could know so much about the Beast.

“We have to be close!” says Cameron. “I thought that field was it, so we can’t be far!”

Margo forces her way through a tangling of greenery, disturbing a colony of purple and green beetles that scuttle up the trunk of a large tree. She falls into another open area, bracing herself for what might lie ahead.

This clearing is much different. It is the largest amount of open land they’ve seen in some time stretching at least fifty yards in diameter. A quaint hut made of dark wood is nestled in the center. A stream winds along the opposite edge of the forest. Bounds of strange plants lean against the side of the hut. Strange tree carvings and sculptures litter the yard — that’s what it feels like now: a yard.

They hadn’t just smelled a chimney. A bonfire is ablaze on a sand-covered area, and kneeling next to the fire is who Margo assumes to be the Witch. Once she catches sight of them on her land, she rises to her feet.

She has to be in her mid-twenties or so and wears a magenta freeform skirt that ripples in the light breeze. Her upper body is covered in an assortment of brightly colored sashes that wrap around her torso at random. She is embellished in all sorts of bells and bangles, beads and jewelry, and jingling bones. A golden hoop pierces her nose.

Of all the oddities that make up the Witch, it is her long blonde hair that sticks out the most. It is worn in dreadlocks and tied to the underside of her locks are three feathers. They are tucked below her right ear, sticking out so the fiery orange is still visible enough to make contact with the sun and reflect its glistening light.

The Witch’s face is calm and expectant. Her outfit jingles with every step as she walks forward to greet them. “Welcome, Cameron,” she says. Her raspy voice has an unfamiliar accent. “You bring dee Mark to see me.”

There is no need for a response to this statement, but still he nods apprehensively. “We need your help.”

“I knew of your arrival,” she says without acknowledging his words, “years ago. I roughly calculated dis day when the last Mark entered. See, what I did was…count. I count dis way:” — she holds her fingers up to demonstrate — “one, two, three, four; two, two, three, four; three, two, three, four…. For entire day, I count. Sixty seconds a minute. Sixty minutes an hour. Twenty-four hours a day — and I see dat it doesn’t add up! Da sun, da moon — it doesn’t add. So I multiply and add and…calculate, until I knew when you’re coming. Around dis many days, da New Mark will arrive. And, knowing Nick, he would one day send ‘im — or her — to me.” Her smile is eerie accompanied with the wild look in her eyes. “
Dat
is how I know.”

Margo looks to Ian, unsure of how to respond. This woman seems, not dangerous, but unstable.

“Come. You must be hungry?” she asks. “I have prepared stew for you.”

“The Beast is not far,” Cameron says.

This seems to have surprised this so-called future-seeing witch. “Da Beast?”

“Does she normally roam this far north?” Cameron asks.

But before the Witch can respond, Ian interjects. “Never.”

All three pairs of eyes turn to him.

“You seem to know a lot about her,” says Cameron.

“Do I?” His face still holds its antagonistic glare.

Cameron’s face isn’t far off. “Care to share?”

“There isn’t anything to share,” he snaps. “Anyone who lives in Jamyria would know about the Beast.”

“True,” agrees Cameron. “But you didn’t live in Jamyria. You lived in the Water Forest.”

They lock eyes. Ian’s glare slightly molds into fear.

“Enough,” interrupts the Witch. “We must get inside. Now.”

Slowly, they break their stances and follow the Witch inside her home, which is even more peculiar than the outside. The walls are made of wood and are covered in odds and ends from twine to masks to baskets of fruits. There’s only one room and one of the four walls is covered in shelves from the ceiling to the floor. All sorts of bottles filled with twigs and spices and herbs are scattered randomly across the shelves.

The other side of the room has a fireplace with a large caldron in its center. And directly in front of them is a narrow bed that also serves as a couch.

“D’you like some stew?” the Witch asks pushing everyone to the other side of the room, so she can make her way to the fireplace.

“Yes, please,” says Margo quickly. Margo’s trust runs thin but so does her appetite.

They soon all have sizable helping of the thick stew and eat in silence even though they know there is much to discuss. The Witch never takes her eyes off Margo, which makes her feel uncomfortable.