Reborn Read online

  She pulls him into a hug before pulling back, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Tanya,” Jane greets the woman who stopped just short behind Dyson.

  Dyson blinks with happy eyes as he watches Jane peck Tanya’s cheek. I glance at the woman, my eyebrows scrunching together.

  “Aiden,” Jane begins, and I shift my eyes to her. “This is your mother—your real mother—Tanya.”

  I blink at Jane, my eyelids flutter rapidly as her words sink in, before slowly shifting my head back to the woman who gave birth to me.

  Her eyes are lowered, staring at her fingers as they pull one another, before she raises them to mine. They’re dewy, wet with tears about to spill over the rims. She hesitates before taking a step forward.

  Emotions travel through my invisible body—emotions I haven’t felt in years. I’ve been blocking those feelings since before I can remember. They lick my insides—or whatever it is now that I’m a shade—and tempt me to feel more, constricting my throat and pricking my eyes. I buck against it for a moment before I shove my mental block aside.

  Tanya takes another step and pulls her fingers apart, lifts her hand, and cups my cheek. “My boy,” she whispers, longing in her voice.

  My eyes search hers, my body rigid, before a tear spills over, traveling down to the square of my jaw. “Mom?”

  I’ve never met her, and my foster family, the Tillers, knew nothing about her. There was no information to be found—why she didn’t want me, why I never knew who she was, why she left me in the care of strangers as a baby. I often dreamed of this day, but this wasn’t how I pictured our first meeting. Death wasn’t what I had envisioned I needed to gain a family.

  She smiles, and the rims of her lids no longer holds her tears. Wiping at them with her thumb, she inclines her head. “Yes.”

  My eyelids close and I lean into her palm, placing my hand over hers. She drops her hand and wraps her arms around my waist. Sobs wrack her body and her frame shakes against my chest. I return the embrace before opening my eyes, staring at Jane and Dyson. They’re smiling, delighted with the reunion.

  Tanya, my mother, pulls away from me after several minutes and pecks my cheek. I have so many questions for her, so many things I need to be answered. But that can wait. I have an eternity to ask them. This is death, and death is endless.

  She folds her hand in mine before turning a watery smile toward Dyson and Jane. “Thank you,” she says to them. Jane nods her head, her hand flying to her trembling bottom lip as Dyson’s lopsided, goofy grin reappears.

  “So . . . what now?” I cough, clearing the lump from my throat.

  “Now we begin our plan.” Dyson’s face relaxes as his eyes search mine. “Something is happening on the Earth Realm. Something that’s shifting our worlds together.” His eyes glow a shade of green. “I’d take a wild guess and say that we aren’t the only realms that have merged.”

  Startled, my head shakes a little. “Your eyes are glowing.”

  He scratches his cheek and the green glow fades. “I was a . . . I was a wolf-shifter. Before . . .”

  I double blink, feeling out of place, out of touch, uninformed . . . like I’ve been thrown into an alternate reality. I suppose I have. I find myself having a hard time keeping up with what I’m being shown, what I’m being told, and this other world I never knew existed.

  Wolf-shifters are real? I suppose it’s not far-fetched. “Wolf-shifters, ghosts . . . what else is there?” I glance at Jane while my mother rubs my arm soothingly, aware of my distress.

  Her lips form a hard line. “We prefer to be called shades, dear. And there is a many great deal of legends that exist across the realms.”

  Dyson continues as if I never asked the question, “Things are about to change around here. We need all the help we can get.”

  My eyebrows scrunch together once more, and I glance over at him. “Change? How?”

  Frowning, he shifts his weight, glancing at the forest floor. “It’s complicated. But before we get into the details . . ..” He looks at Jane. The tilt of his head displays more detail of the bruising along his neck.

  What happened to this guy? Obviously, he was hung, but why? Who would do such a thing to a person?

  Jane lowers her hand from her mouth, clearing her throat. “I need a favor from you.”

  “A favor?” I just got here. What kind of favor can you ask a gho—a shade?

  My mother turns to me. “Jane’s daughter . . .. She’s about to go through the same fate as you—”

  “Death?” I ask, quirking a brow and finishing her sentence.

  She nods. “Yes. Jane . . . she can’t—”

  “I can’t be the one to get her,” Jane interrupts. “Eliza, my daughter, she’s angry with me. I left her alone when I . . .”

  My face relaxes as realization clicks. “You think she’ll fight the dream if she sees you.”

  Jane nods, her bottom lip trembling. I think, biting the inside of my lip. “Okay. I’ll do this,” I incline my head toward Jane, “for you.”

  Her eyes close in relief and my mother grips my hand tighter.

  I mentally prepare myself, stretching my neck. “How do I do it?”

  Dyson steps forward. “I can help with that.” He lifts his hand before stopping, suspending it in mid-air. “This may be disorienting. The jump between two –realms—the space between it . . . it’s not meant to be traveled.”

  “The dreams?” I ask, remembering how real it was.

  Dyson nods, the movement exaggerated. I get the feeling that’s a character trait. He seems the type to not hurt a fly. “You may forget your reasoning, but you won’t be able to return here if she leaves the dream.”

  A little nervous about what I’ve agreed to, I gulp, flex my jaw, and nod.

  “We’ll wait for you here,” my mother whispers.

  He bends, twirling his finger in the cold fog at the base of the forest floor. The fog responds, slithering over his skin like a pet snake greeting its owner. My eyes grow wide as I tilt my head, blinking several times to make sure I’m seeing what I’m actually seeing.

  Dyson stands, holding out his palm, face up. The fog gives one more caress to his forearm and then travels through the air, landing on my shoulder before growing. It swirls around me, through me, and I feel the pull—the same pull from my dream—tugging at my torso. My mother squeezes my hand once more before I’m gone.

  TEMBER

  EARTH REALM

  The sandman fidgets, pulling his unusually long fingers. “Sureen grows suspicious.”

  I scoff. Sureen is the Fee of the Dream Realm. She’s strict, often running her realm as though the sandmen are mere tools. Continuously screening her sandmen for any surfacing emotions as well as details they obtain while on the Earth Realm, she’s known for her iron fist and quick backlash.

  Around the time Myla was hung as a witch, Erline and Sureen had a disagreement. It concluded with an eternal grudge. Sureen, the paranoid fool, created creatures and used them as Earth watch-dogs. She forces them to remain without emotion so they have no quarrels about relaying any information. I’d wager they don’t even know they’re being forced to do anything.

  A few hundred years ago, Sureen sent a sandman to the village Myla lived in. She instructed the sandman to manipulate his dreamer’s dreams, forcing him to see Myla as a witch and spread suspicion like a plague. I wasn’t there, but I heard the rumors just the same. The dreamer watched through the window of Myla’s home, catching her in the act as she used her magic, and she was sentenced to death for witchcraft.

  The man’s name was Gandalf. I remember, because when Erma retells the story, she feels pity for the poor man. Kheelan took Gandalf for himself, desperate for answers and eternal punishment within his realm.

  Erline always had a kind soul, but since she lost her only daughter, she’s been put away, occasionally wreaking havoc on her creations with powerful storms. She’s put Sureen away in a tiny metaphorical box, never mentioning her, never letting th
at name cross her lips, but at the same time, she blames the humans. Those were the hands that ended her daughter’s life.

  I suppose one could say Erline and Sureen both hold a grudge. Fee aren’t known for their humanity or humility. They take what they want, when they want it. I know better than to believe Erma, my Fee creator, isn’t this way, but I love her anyway. We can’t choose who our heart’s want. Angels are known for wearing their hearts on their sleeves . . . in more ways than one.

  The sandman continues to pull his fingers, my eyes glued to the nervous movement. “Tell me, are you feeling anything?” My eyes snap to his. “Anything you shouldn’t?”

  He pauses in his finger pulling, settling his hands back to his sides, as if those very words reminded him of who he’s supposed to be. Reluctantly, he answers, “Yes.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Interesting. And you’ve always been Kat’s sandman?”

  “Yes,” he answers with more confidence, straightening his spine.

  I shake my head, getting back to the previous topic. “A few more times. A few more times, and I won’t ask this favor of you again. It’s important that she has all the information she needs.”

  He shifts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing around their white depths. “Information she needs, or information you need? Are you here to spy, angel?”

  I glare at him, my eyes holding the steel of a challenge. The clock along the wall ticks for several Earth seconds. Nodding, he turns on his large heel and leaves the living room, heading down the hall.

  My mind flits through what he said. He’s having feelings—emotions—when he shouldn’t. It is probable that this is what Sureen is suspicious about. The vampires clearly know she’s alive—why else would she be hunted. Kheelan knows Myla’s alive, and he sent them here to find her. It stands to reason that Sureen would grow curious, pushing her sandmen for farther answers. Surely her sandmen have told her about the uprising in vampires, but I wonder how much Kat’s sandman told her.

  The sandman’s accusation pops back into my thoughts. I quietly scoff, refusing to believe I’m here for only myself. My intentions aren’t selfish.

  I sniff, rubbing my nose and going over the events that I’ve partaken in since I arrive. The sandman planted a seed of doubt within me.

  Watching as he sprinkles his dream dust on her face and her nose twitches, my mind flits through most of my life and the charges I’ve watched over. I’ve never lost one, never. They only time they’ve left my care by death was by natural causes.

  He turns to me and begins to nod when the world slows almost to a halt.

  My movements become minute, and a slow look of shock crosses the sandman’s face. For a moment, I’m confused. What’s happening?

  A shimmering wave develops behind the sandman. He starts to turn his head, noticing his backside is no longer alone. A woman stands there, as dark as night, just like the sandman, except her eyes are the same color as her skin. She’s tall, with long shapely legs and hair pinned back in tight braids along her scalp. Her movements are much faster than mine and the sluggish world she’s manipulated.

  Her top lip curls against her smooth skin and she sneers at me before turning her dark eyes on a sleeping Kat. Her lips move in rapid pace but I’m unable to hear the words spilling from her mouth. I take a step forward but it’s of no use. By the time my first step reaches the ground, she’s gone, and the sandman with her.

  Sureen. Sureen figured it out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  KATRIANE DUPONT

  MYLA’S MEMORIES

  The citizens pull her through the doorway of iron bars, shouting and screaming curses in French. Fists are raised, waving with vigor in the air and a gentle breeze blows the flames of the torches lit amongst the crowd.

  Instead of being inside the cage with Myla, I’m among the ever-moving crowd. Spittle hits the back of my neck, but that’s not what scares me out of my wits, raising my heart rate, and sending fear to my toes.

  What scares me is, as the crowd pushes like an angry mob, I’m being jostled to and fro. I’m no longer an innocent bystander, unseen by the naked eye. I’m in the crowd. I’m part of the crowd.

  Dread rocks my core, bubbling inside me and threatening to spill from my mouth with a blood-curdling scream. My head swivels from side to side, taking in each face full of malice before flitting to the next. I gulp before turning my attention to the very thing they’re cursing at.

  Two men continue to haul Myla toward the steps of the gallows, one of them I recognize as the peeper from Myla’s window. His long hair is unkept, a rat’s nest formed at the back of his head. She doesn’t fight them, but instead, keeps her back straight with pride. She saved these people and she knows it. Her steps up each board are drowned out by the screams and anger. No one speaks against it. No one shouts that killing a person is wrong, protesting to spare a life. No one steps forward to save their savior.

  Stopping next to the hanging noose, they turn her and our eyes lock. I suck in a breath, because who’s staring at me isn’t ‘past’ Myla. The beautiful blond witch that holds my gaze is ‘present’ Myla . . . well, my present. I don’t know how I know. I just do. When you spend the last few months sharing a mind with another being, you tend to know them on more than a friendly personal level.

  Recognition is written all over her features, and she’s not surprised to see me. A sad smile crosses her lips and I take a step forward. She whispers the word, “no,” but I can’t hear it. The shouting around me consumes the vibrations of my eardrums. I hesitate, my lips closing as I swallow a barrelful of guilt. Should I save her? Can I save her?

  My mind works quickly, my eyes scanning her face. If I’m visible here, if I’m rooted to this spot and so is she, won’t that change history? If I try to stop it?

  Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. I may not have acknowledged her existence with grace, but she’s still family. No, she’s right. She must carry on with this. If she doesn’t, my entire history would change. I could not exist. The world could not exist. If she doesn’t play this out the same way she did in the past, everything could be lost. She’s not willing to take that chance, and regretfully, I agree.

  A tear spills over my cheek, trickling down the skin with an icy chill, and I take a deep breath, desperate to ease the lump that blocks its way. My chest hurts, like my heart is breaking and scattering into tiny pieces. Myla’s eyes briefly close, a sign of relief that I understand without her having to voice it.

  Her focus stays on me as they hook the noose over her neck.

  The crowd dies down, murmuring their words and curses while a man speaks next to Myla, “We’re lucky that Gandalf discovered the devil’s child. Any last words, beast?”

  If crickets were still alive, I imagine they’d be the only thing chirping in the background right now, the crowd is so silent. They wait for her to speak, wait to hang on to every last word she says so they can later mock them while they drink with victory.

  People can be filled with such evil, no matter their make. True sincerity is rare to find amongst those who were made for it.

  “My daughter’s daughter will be my legacy.” Her voice is gentle but thick with emotion. “She’ll have all my gifts, without the burden of me. She will be what saves this realm from those that threaten its existence.”

  The crowd holds their breath as they work through the meaning of her words. They were spoken in English, and I have my doubts that anyone here actually speaks it. The only sound is their torches flickering in the night. Double blinking, my mind halts for just a moment. Daughter—as in singular . . . but she has twins. Is she talking about them? Or . . . or is she talking to me?

  Shaking his head, a nervous laugh erupts from the man’s throat. “You’re a crazy witch, aren’t you?”

  Someone behind me shouts, “The tongue of the Devil himself!”

  Gandalf, the one who caught her magic, pushes her back so she’s just under the wooden bar that the thick, roped noose is w
rapped around. My stomach flip-flops, threatening to upchuck everything I ate, and my heart thumps at rapid speed. Every bone in my body wants to move forward, to save her from this madness, but my brain refuses the action.

  The knot forming in my throat loosens and a sob escapes me.

  A tiny tear glistens against her cheek, reflecting the flickering flames of the torches surrounding Myla. She closes her eyes as the man nods at a Gandalf, who’s holding a lever behind her.

  I step forward, hand outstretched, but my muscles freeze, halted as he yanks the lever back. My heart shatters, no longer whole.

  A loud crack in the wood screeches violently against my ears before the trapdoor is dropped. Myla falls, dropping with it, the rope tightening around her neck. With her hands tied behind her, her feet kick with desperation, searching for purchase of any kind.

  The rational side of my brain recognizes it as the fight or flight response. It’s nature, the fight to live. Even until your last breath.

  Her face turns a violent shade of lavender, her lips a dark blue. She blinks, and I see the veins bursting in the whites of her eyes. Beautiful blond hair swings back and forth with gentle ease, even as her body fights for one last breath of vital oxygen.

  *****

  They take her from the noose, unwrapping it with ease they didn’t have before. I’m rooted to my spot, frozen in a state of terror. They killed her. She’s dead. Hung for being a witch.

  The last thought crosses my mind, echoing, stirring me from my paralyzed state. I begin backing away from the scene, knowing I can’t stay here, especially dressed like this. Someone will notice, someone will think it odd, and someone will surely dive deeper into who I am and how I got here.

  With no better idea of where to go, I turn and head toward Myla’s home. My slow walk turns into a desperate jog, the hard-packed dirt pattering against my hard-soled boots. The door protests as I turn the knob and slip inside.