Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (41 page)

Bridgette gasped, and the bewildered tech
just stared at the screen.

Holden took her by the arm and quickly led
her away from the van and back toward the mall doors. “That was
her! That’s her portal. We’ve gotta get in there now!” Holden
peered in through the glass doors. “Come on!” He pushed one of the
doors open. “Just keep an eye out for security.”

Bridgette grabbed him by the arm and
followed closely behind. They were only a few steps inside when
they heard a man shouting. “There they are! They are the ones that
created a diversion for the robber!” One of the guards who had
escorted them out was running toward them and pointing. He was
followed closely by two Glenhill police officers. Bridgette
shrieked and she and Holden spun around and sped back out the
doors.

“Over here!” he yelled, pointing toward a
large hedge that skirted the north side of the mall parking lot. “I
know where we can hide!”

They dashed toward the hedge. Holden ran to
a spot where there was a small break in the bushes, grabbed
Bridgette and practically pushed her through. He lunged and tumbled
through himself, barely pulling his feet in, as the officers burst
out of the mall.

Holden jumped up, and pointed to a spot
where the leaves of the hedge were thin. He and Bridgette peeked
through the spot, watching in horror as the news technician rushed
from his van to meet the police officers.

Bridgette’s heart sank into her stomach. “I
can’t believe he’s gonna rat us out,” she whispered.

“Guys!” The tech waved toward the parking
lot. “They took off,” he panted. “Dark blue sedan was waiting for
‘em. No plates! They went south, toward the Interstate!”

“Duuuude!” Holden chuckled as he watched one
of the police officers radio in the tip. The technician looked in
the direction of the hedge and winked.

“Yesss!” Bridgette sighed,
and gave Holden a hug and a peck on the cheek. “That was
so
cool!”

“Yeah, great,” he agreed, “’cept we still
have one teeny problem.” He ran his hand through his wavy blonde
hair. “How do we get to that portal?”

D
allin Doone was not what one would call “overly social.” He
lived alone on a small farm in Westrim, a quaint, yet politically
strategic township, situated just over the hills from Mandela City.
Since his parents’ untimely deaths when he was just fourteen, he
had worked the farm primarily by himself. Occasionally, he would
hire one or two hands to help, but only when imperative. He
preferred solitude—not having to worry about social graces or being
accepted—or more accurately, not having to worry about getting
close to someone, only to have them taken away, as his parents had
been.

There were only two people he had ever
allowed himself to get close to, Atoc Jonathan and Kahlie.

A young Aton Jonathan approached him one
summer day, during a period of political unrest between Brashnell
and Koria. Dallin’s farm was situated in such a way that it was
almost completely hidden between two hills. It would have made an
advantageous hideout for the Trystas, had Darian moved to attack.
Fortunately, however, the battle between the Trystas and the
Brashnellans never took place. But Jonathan took pity on Dallin,
and returned to visit him often—usually on the premise that he was
there on military business, which was really never the case. Over
the years they had become very close, and Dallin was always eager
to help his friend whenever his help was required.

Shortly after Kahlie came to the palace,
Jonathan decided that he should introduce her to Dallin. He was
impressed by their similar personalities and interests, and felt
that they would get along well; he was right. Almost immediately,
they clicked—acting like brother and sister—teasing one another,
laughing and sometimes fighting, but never for long. Perhaps one of
the biggest similarities and bonds between them though, was that
they were each hopelessly, passionately—and unfortunately—victims
of forbidden love. Dallin, in a moment of gloominess, admitted to
Kahlie that he was head-over-heels for his true friend’s entrusted,
Ator Gracielle. This, in turn, inspired Kahlie to reveal that she
was, in fact, head-over-heels for his true friend, Atoc
Jonathan.

Gracielle’s death—coupled with the
disappearance of Jonathan—was almost intolerable for Dallin. It
very nearly destroyed him. Immediately following the battle, he
withdrew from society—even more than before—and limited his contact
with others to only the entirely necessary. Even Kahlie hadn’t seen
him in close to a year. The first time she tried to visit, he
slammed the door in her face and told her to go away, and that if
he was going to lose her too, it was going to be on his terms. He
continued working the farm; but now, whenever anyone approached, he
would swiftly head for the house and disappear into it.

It was a particularly hot afternoon, and
feeling tired and melancholy, Dallin returned early from his daily
chores. He sat in a dim, well-ordered room, eating a meager meal
and reminiscing about a time when he had been at the palace,
helping with some renovations.

He remembered how, on that day, he’d left
his tools out in the courtyard, and had come from one room into the
next on his way to retrieve them. He wasn’t paying attention and as
he turned a corner, he accidentally bumped into Gracielle.

He closed his eyes and recalled how she’d
looked that morning; her stunning blue eyes vividly glowing in
contrast to the silvery satin shirt she wore; her silky, straight
black hair, and her mesmerizing soft coral lips. He remembered the
sweet scent of her perfume and the soft tone of her voice as she
apologized for her clumsiness. He also recalled the guilt that
flooded over him for thinking about her the way he did.

But at this particular moment, there was no
guilt. He dreamt of a different situation, one in which Kahlie was
Jonathan’s entrusted, and Gracielle was merely a servant in the
palace. He rose to his feet and imagined that instead of muttering
and stuttering, as he’d actually done on that day, he wrapped his
arm around her waist to catch her from losing her balance; and she,
overwhelmed by the moment and their instant closeness, pressed
against him, and touched her lips to his.

He stood in the shadowy room, eyes closed,
lips slightly puckered and lost in his thoughts, when suddenly
there was a brilliant flash of light, and a young woman—who
resembled Gracielle in more ways than one—materialized in front of
him right where Gracielle had been in his fantasy—her mouth
awkwardly against his.

“What the . . . ?” he yelped, stumbling
backward over the stool he’d been sitting on earlier, sending it
and several other things crashing and banging to the floor, before
landing hard on his backside.

Maggie, who was startled herself, didn’t
know whether to scream, faint, cry, help this poor guy up off the
floor, or what. She stood frozen in place, staring straight ahead,
like a statue.

Dallin scrambled back to his feet and
grabbed a long pointy stick-type object from the shelf next to him.
“Okay! Who are you, and how did you do that?” he demanded.

Maggie opened her mouth, but no words came
out—only a tiny squeak.

“Well?” Dallin insisted.

She couldn’t answer; she was dazed and
disoriented. After a few dumbfounded moments, she snapped back into
reality, suddenly aware that precious time was wasting. In her
head, she commanded herself to get it together.

“I . . . I’m sorry to
intrude,” she began. “I don’t
know
how I did that . . . something about Trystas and
receptors . . . but I have to find my father right now. It’s an
emergency! So, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned and looked around
in an attempt to find the door.

Now, it was Dallin who was in a daze. Other
than the tight curls that cascaded over her shoulders, this girl
was the spitting image of Gracielle! And, not only did she look
like her—a lot—but she sounded like her, carried herself the same
confident way, and seemed to have the same mannerisms.

“Who are you?” he asked again; only this
time it was as though he would cease to exist if he didn’t find
out.

His pleading manner made Maggie
uncomfortable. After all, here she was in a stranger’s
house—someone with whom she’d unwillingly found herself in a
lip-lock—and he was acting really weird.

“Uh,” She started backing slowly around a
corner into another room. “I’m sorry! I, uh, gotta go.” She bolted
for the door at the other side of the room, and flung it open. She
was not two steps outside, when she realized that she had no idea
where she was, or where she needed to go next. There was nothing
but fields and hills around her—nothing at all that she’d seen
before. She stopped in her tracks and sighed deeply, knowing that
she was going to have to ask the strange man inside for directions.
She turned around and was startled as he came barreling out through
the door.

“Wait,” he panted, “let me help you.”

She nervously looked down at her toes and
conceded. “All right, I guess, since I have no clue where I
am.”

Dallin smiled and tilted his head toward the
hill next to his house. “You’re in Westrim. I’m Dallin . . . Dallin
Doone, and you are?”

“Oh, I’m Maggie Baker.” For the first time
since materializing, she stopped to notice Dallin’s face. He was
younger than she originally thought—possibly in his early
twenties—but his countenance was care-worn and rugged. His brown,
curly hair was messy and a little on the long side, and his chin
was covered in scraggly, untrimmed whiskers. Despite this apparent
lack of personal grooming, however, his eyes were bright, and his
smile was quite nice.

“I really
am
sorry that I popped
in like that,” Maggie blushed. “I’ve been doing that a lot
lately.”

“No worries,” Dallin assured. “So, you need
to find your dad? Any ideas?”

“No,” she admitted. “I’m pretty sure he’s
here on Lor Mandela, but I don’t know where. He’s in really huge
trouble, though. Do you know who Darian is?”

“Whoa!” Dallin replied, thoroughly taken
aback by her question. “What do you want with that slarp?”

“How ‘bout his head on a stick,” Maggie
sneered. “He thinks my dad is your missing atoc guy. He’s ordered
his army to kill him on sight. If anything’s happened to him, I’ll
. . . .”

“What? Why would he think your dad is the
atoc?” Dallin’s insides knotted at the thought of what Darian might
do to anyone he believed to be Jonathan.

Maggie lifted up a curly lock of her hair,
“Black hair . . . blue eyes,” she explained. “I’m just hoping
Kahlie found him and is keeping him . . . .”

“Kahlie?” Dallin interrupted. Suddenly his
expression turned bitter. “I should’ve known!” He turned away and
headed for the house. “Find your dad yourself!” he called back
angrily as he stormed inside and slammed the door.

Maggie was shocked by his outburst—and
livid! How dare he! She walked right over to the door, and ripped
it open. “What was that about?” she yelled into the darkness.
“Dallin! Dallin! Get back out here!”

“No!” his voice called back. “You and Kahlie
have had your fun, now leave me alone!”

Maggie made her way into
the house. “Where are the blasted lights in here?” she seethed as
she fumbled through the room. “What are you talking about?
Owww!
” She smacked her
shin on the edge of a small table and almost fell over. There was a
faint click followed by light—dim at first, but gradually
brightening, to softly illuminate the whole room.

Dallin stood next to the wall across from
her. “How did you do it? Are you a Trysta?” he asked calmly, yet
Maggie could sense that he was still pretty angry.

“No, I’m not,” she answered. “I’m from
Earth, or . . . or Drolana?”

“Did she think that because you look like .
. . .?” He continued as though Maggie’s comments hadn’t registered.
“Is this some sort of sick plot to get me to come back to the
palace?”

“Listen, Dallin,” Maggie
retorted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Kahlie doesn’t
even know I’m here right now. But I really,
really
need your help!”

Dallin studied Maggie’s
face. She was
so
beautiful. He wanted to help, but his pride and his fear were
too strong. “I’m sorry,” he muttered sadly. He turned around and
without another word, retreated down a hallway into the
dark.

Maggie felt an overwhelming surge—panic,
anger, and frustration. Her chin quivered and tears welled in her
eyes.

“Fine!
” she screamed toward the hall. “I’ll figure it out myself!
Thanks for
nothing!
” She turned on her heels and raced out of the house. She
looked around, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and
started across the field in front of her. “Jerk,” she hissed, “who
needs ya?”

She was just reaching the edge of the field,
when, much to her relief, she saw a familiar sight in the
distance—the big swaying trees that lined the forest with the tall
narrow mountain behind them. “Yes!” she sighed. It was starting to
get darker, so the sight of anything recognizable was a comfort.
Maybe—she anticipated eagerly—Kahlie would be close to where they
had met before. Maybe her dad would be there too. She took off
running, hoping with everything in her that her hunches would prove
correct.

By the time she’d crossed
the meadows and fields she was out of breath and the last glints of
sunlight had given way to a starry night. “Kahlie?” she panted,
“Dad?” There was no answer. The only sound was a faint buzzing,
presumably the noises made by bugs. “Great,” she huffed, “so, now
what?” She looked at the softly swaying branches of the trees, and
then back at the large meadow behind her.
You’re nuts to go into a forest at night
, the logical part of her mind cautioned. “Maybe, I’ll just
take a peek,” she justified. She reached out toward one of the
trees, and the curtain of branches parted and swung upward.
Cautiously, she leaned in and squinted. As she lifted her foot to
take a step, she felt someone grab her around the waist from
behind. She screamed and struggled to get away.