The Paladins Page 4

  Something draws nearer. Twigs snap. Leaves shake more and more vigorously. I gulp my breath as the hedge parts, and two pale horns push from the maze like a birth. I stiffen, terrified of what’s on the other side.

  Does my father see? If so, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react in the least.

  But I do. Fear ticks down my spine as the horns extend through the leaves followed by a broad forehead. Golden eyes glint in the darkness, hard as two unseeing buttons. Above us, a crow screams. I spring back, and the horned creature withdraws. In an instant, the hedge is gone. The maze is no more. Only a pair of reflections are left in view—mine and my father’s.

  “What did you see?” His tone is insistent, almost desperate.

  I crane my neck. My father’s stern glance beats down on me, harder than a strong wind, unforgiving as the desert sun. He knows I saw something, yet I doubt my senses, and when I do, truth withers on my tongue. I can’t tell my practical, no-nonsense father that a goat with scary eyes came out of a bush and tried to get me. He’ll hit me; call me a stupid boy, or worse, he’ll laugh.

  Maybe there really is a horned demon hiding in the mirror, but my father will never believe it, so I panic. Play it safe. I lie. “Nothing?”

  A muscle in his jaw jumps.

  I squirm, toes bunching inside the ends of my tennis shoes. “I’m sorry. I tried, but—”

  “Worthless,” he says.

  My chest depresses with the realization that I failed him again. “Father?”

  No reply. His heels click on the hardwood floor as he exits, leaving me alone in his study. I face the mirror, wish, will, and try again and again, but my long wait is in vain.

  The only one who looks back is me.

  I wake with a violent twist, jerking a knot in my neck. As I rub the painful kink, my mind ruminates on my dream. I haven’t thought of the lake house in years. The mention of it in my severance package probably provoked my nightmare. I’ll find a realtor and get the house listed. The money will help, and I have no love for the place, that’s for sure.

  My bedside clock reads 3:17 a.m. I’m more wired than sleepy, so I walk to the window and stare at the lights of New York. There’s no way to look at this scene without remembering my trip with Raven. We flew up for a fashion show and spent the first night sightseeing on the deck of the Empire State Building. She was so beautiful under the city-lit sky, dark hair flying in the breeze, talking about life and the possibilities ahead. The sight of her stole my breath. Still does. Every single time.

  What are the possibilities now? She needs revenue—a lot of it—and the connections to reach her true potential, not to be shackled to a penniless, crippled, recluse with nothing left to offer.

  I run a hand through my hair, pressure building in my chest like an overheating boiler. All my life, I’ve strived for two things: to become a fully functioning Artisan, and successfully run my father’s company. Once Raven helped me understand the harm my Artisan legacy caused, I gave it up willingly. I let that part of me die and became the whole of the other—steward of the family business. Now that’s gone, too. So, if I’m not an Artisan, and not a businessman, then who the hell am I?

  Light flickers from the bathroom doorway. I don’t remember leaving any lights on, but something’s off and I decide to check. As strange as my childhood was, you’d think I’d have been afraid at night, but the opposite was true. I still need full dark to fall asleep.

  When I peer into the bath, flame spurts from the electrical socket near the sink. The buzzing sound coming from behind the plaster doesn’t bode well, and neither does the sudden pop and spark that scares the shit out of me. Adrenaline floods my system. I flip on the overhead light and grab the first thing my fingers touch. In this case, a hotel robe hanging off the hook on the back of the door. I smother the flame, but when I remove the fabric, blue sparks shoot from the outlet. Swearing, I press the material over the plate, waiting longer this time before checking. When the fire doesn’t rekindle, my lungs depress with relief.

  Between my nightmare and electrical problems, I feel a nasty migraine coming on, and I’m ready to get out of my luxury hotel suite. I lift the handset and dial 0 for the front desk with a smoky odor still in my nose. The mishap in the bathroom is a safety issue. Management will comp the bill if I complain, which works for me now that I’m poor and on a budget.

  I laugh, but it sounds a bit unhinged, just like the rest of my life.

  Chapter Six

  Raven

  Mother holds my hand as we stroll along the path in Sales Hollow Park. “Raven, remember that the oak is your best friend, strong and faithful,” she says. “Maple, pine, and ash are also our friends, but beware the hemlock, for he is cunning, and the alder cruel.

  Though I’m a small child in this moment, I know my mother is long dead so this must be a dream. Her memory rose to comfort my restless sleep, yet my heart warns it’s much more.

  Dark hair falls in luxurious waves around Mother’s shoulders as she kneels before me. “This is important, sweetheart. Beware Miss Willow. She will seem a friend and refuge at first, but do not trust her. She is selfish and unhappy, and will betray you if she can. In the end, you must bend them all to your will.”

  I nod with no understanding of her words.

  “Remember what I’ve told you, Raven. It’s important.” Her eyes sparkle with intensity, yet her voice is kind and gentle.

  I’m confused, but not afraid. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiles. “That’s my good girl.” The pupils in both her eyes grow bigger, black bleeds into the whites, spreading like ink over a page until the entire space is filled. “A storm is coming, baby. You will need the help of your friends in order to defeat the coming evil. My girl is brave and strong. You can overcome her if you don’t lose heart.”

  Her? Who her? I focus on the woman who looks like my mother—the one with obsidian eyes. There’s a millpond to our right. Prickles rise on the back of my neck, and down my arms. The scene mirrors the place where Desiree drowned last year. A sense of evil overwhelms me. The same darkness I felt when she tried to strangle me in Gideon’s attic.

  My gaze darts past my mother to the shadowed crevices and thick hedge between the trees. I’m searching for danger, trying to identify the threat. My heart beats like that of a little bird, thrumming to the point of arrest. The oppressive feeling grows nearer. It’s almost upon me. Help. When I try to speak the words, none form. “Help me, Mother. Don’t let her get me!”

  Mother still kneels at my feet. Tiny, green tendrils, no wider than a piece of string, slither from the corners of her eyes. Another root sprouts from her nostril, more from her ears. The foot of a tender, new vine blindly feels its way across her shoulder, down her arm to her hand. They multiply and grow thicker, stretching every orifice to capacity. Crawling over her skin, the vines swell until Mother’s face splits open. Her flesh tears and reknits, changing form.

  She is the tree.

  Her roots reach for me. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself as the tentacles make first contact.

  They tickle. My eyes pop open, but Mother is gone. Nothing remains but an ever thickening system of heavy vine coiling one over the other. Slowly, my legs are encased in soft leaves, my body, arms, and face. I giggle as I imagine myself a small pea hiding inside a pod. Butterflies live inside a cocoon before they hatch. Do they feel like I do—safe, warm, and protected inside a fortress of ivy? Strong as iron, smooth as velvet.

  Sleep, my child.

  “Yes, Mother,” I whisper.

  Chapter Seven

  Cole

  Lyon to London, then to Dallas, on to Savannah, if not for the first class seating that set me back seven grand, my legs would have permanent pretzel bends.

  I lift the shade and stare out the plane window though there’s nothing to see. My hands fist on my lap as I stretch again. Fatigue covers me like an itchy, woolen blanket. Instead of making me sleepy, I’m tense and re
stless.

  Head crammed with scenarios for when I reach South Carolina, I practice my speech asking Maddox for help. Picture Raven in my mind over and over as I ask her how she’s been; gauge her reaction to seeing me again. I’ve missed her, but does she feel the same? I used to be confident with the girls at school. Flirting was easy then, snogging at parties … and the rest. Then, four years of my life were erased.

  I rub my dry, tired eyes. Everything’s changed. Raven means more to me, has done more for me, than I can ever repay. One day, I vow to show her my thanks.

  Cole …

  Rosamond? How is this happening here, at thirty thousand feet? Maybe it doesn’t matter.

  Come to me, Cole …

  Somehow, I don’t think I have a choice, though I hope this visit to Rosamond won’t cause a first class scene that ends with me getting cuffed by the air marshal. The cabin spins. Seats, floor, windows, even the little, blue-haired lady sleeping in the seat next to me smears as I’m sucked into a timeless vacuum.

  I brace for the weightlessness that’s always present in The Void, but it doesn’t happen. Rosamond glides toward me. Curiosity, compassion, lust, fear, countless emotions fill me as she draws near. Her hypnotic eyes lock with mine as she hovers before me in her gauzy white gown.

  I can’t imagine what this ethereal creature did to earn imprisonment. Not too long ago her circumstance was mine. Claustrophobia threatens to unravel me as I contemplate getting stuck in here again. No matter how much I’d like to help her, I can’t go back.

  Below her knees, there’s nothing but air. She floats more than walks, the way I did when I was a prisoner here. Moonlight leaks though the small window in the stone tower, her hair shimmering in the soft glow. Silver eyes remain riveted on me. The hold is strong, as though I’m iron and she’s magnetized.

  She reaches for me, but halfway between us her hand stalls.

  I make up the distance, my fingers gently wrapping her wrist. I expect to pass right though her ghostly form, yet my jaw drops as solid flesh stops my momentum. Her eyes widen at our contact. She’s substantive, skin like cool silk. Below us, her feet materialize from nothing.

  Rosamond’s brow creases, confusion contorting her flawless features.

  I withdraw my hand and her feet disappear. Lightening quick, she grips my hand and her legs form beneath her again. Dainty white feet stand firmly on the ground. Bare toes grip the floor for balance. The action seems so innocent and unaware, and completely adorable. She’s whole and corporeal at my touch, but as soon as she releases me, everything below the knee disappears again.

  “What’s going on?” Rosamond asks.

  Good question.

  “Who are you, Cole? Why is this happening?”

  I’d hoped she knew, and said as much. “How do you know my name? How did you find me?”

  “I saw you.” She glances over her shoulder at an ornate mirror on the wall. Two spots of color rise on her cheeks. “Through there, in the magician’s looking glass.”

  Pan. The magician. Man. Monster. The one we feared above any other. Master and keeper of The Void’s labyrinth.

  She raises her hand and pauses, as if she wants to touch me and changed her mind. I wish she would change it again. “I used to see other places through it, other worlds. Your photograph hung on a wall across from my mirror for a time.” She stares at the floor where her feet would be if she had any. “Pan’s idea of a joke, I think, torturing me with a picture of a handsome boy. You were the symbol for a relationship I can never have.”

  However shallow, my mind replays the part where she calls me handsome. I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid my voice will crack anyway, so I don’t respond.

  “Your photo was moved after a time. I was blind to you, and that left me lonelier than ever. The whole point, I guess. I see the outside world through there, but so does he. There’s a network of mirrors connected to this one. He’s always watching.”

  Icy cold and foreboding, a shudder runs though me at the thought of him spying on her or anyone else. Somewhere, the sound of water trickles over hard stone. I wonder, and not for the first time, what part of the labyrinth she’s hidden in. “Rosamond, how do you reach me? How is it we’re talking?”

  Pale lashes fan her cheeks as she looks away. “I don’t know.”

  She’s been through so much, and still going through it, a mystery that needs solving. Her accent is American, possibly from the southern states, yet more formal than Rae’s. Maybe she hasn’t been here that long, but who took her picture?

  She leans forward. “Can you get me out?”

  Her question launches ten more in my head. They zing through gray matter like arrows, embedding themselves in a flurry of conflicting thoughts. “How long have you been a prisoner, Rosamond?”

  “I … a year, maybe more? I’m not sure.”

  Her gaze darts over my face, and I think she’s waiting for me to respond, but what do I say? Releasing someone is complicated for more than one reason. If she’s been here too long, she’ll die outside these walls. Somehow, I don’t think hearing that will help her anxiety level, so I say the only thing I can.

  “I’m sorry you’re here.” Her little hands clasp like she’ll pray. I have the strangest urge to gather her into my arms and hold her against me. The temptation’s strong enough that I cross my arms and tamp the impulse down. With a baseball bat. “Try not to worry. I’ll figure something out.

  Pressure builds around us as the walls start to blur.

  “Looks like times up.”

  Rosamond lifts her face and smiles. “So, I’ll just wait here then?”

  The fact she has enough fight left to joke about her situation loosens something in my throat. I cough as the room swirls. Her eyes soften with something like longing. I wonder how long it’s been since she had someone to talk to, since anyone touched her?

  “I’ll try. I promise.” The turret disintegrates. My head snaps back against the cushioned seat of the airplane. I can just make out the soft edges of platinum hair as she fades from view. The old woman in the seat next to me rematerializes in Rosamond’s place. “I’ll try.”

  Thank you, Cole.

  Chapter Eight

  Raven

  I wake with Maggie’s screech.

  “Rae? Oh my lanta. What, in the name of photosynthesis hell, is going on with you?”

  My eyes snap open. The first thing I see is my best friend’s face mere inches from mine. A green, leafy veil partially obstructs my view, but she’s too close, and surrounded by vines. When I twist, I can’t move more than a few inches in any direction.

  She’s not the one encased in roots the width of my arm. I am. The smooth bark doesn’t chafe, but the vines hold me closer than a botanical MRI machine. Panic dries my mouth. My muscles go rigid in a fit of claustrophobia, and I wonder if I’ll have a heart attack and die right here and now.

  “Mags,” I whisper. “Help me.” One minute, I’m having crazy dreams about my mother going all “Poison Ivy” on me, the next my nightmare morphs into reality.

  Edgar yowls from my bedside. He paws at a leaf before touching the leather pad of his nose to mine. His whiskers tickle, but I can’t move my arm to scratch his ear like I normally would. He sits and cries again.

  “I know, honey,” Maggie says, soothing my unhappy cat.

  “Um, little help?”

  “Right, sorry.” Tentatively, Maggie reaches out and strokes her fingers down the foliage attached to my shoulder. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  I wish I had one. “I had a nightmare, about my mother and a tree.”

  “And did this tree try and eat you?” The question sounds sarcastic, but the look on my friend’s face is deadly serious. Her fingers curl around the nearest vine. She tugs, but it won’t budge.

  “Not exactly. It was trying to help, I think.”

  “Well, think again.” She digs her hands between me and the sturdy roots, puts her
foot on the mattress, and yanks. Noisy grunts underline the effort she’s expending, but the plants won’t move. A head toss sends her platinum bob swinging. “Seriously … ” She pants. “They’re like freaking iron.” Her voice hardens, losing some of the fear I heard earlier. Her eyes narrow. I know that look of stubborn determination. Without warning, she scrambles over top of me and the pile of roots.

  Air rushes from my chest as I’m squeezed under her hands and knees. “What are you … doing?” I groan. “What do you see?”

  “The vines. This is so weird …”

  Which part?

  “Okay, let’s think this through. The vines obviously grew in through the window overnight, but I never heard a sound.” As if to emphasize her thought process, she climbs down and faces me from a few feet away. “When I stand back and look at you from a distance, the vines are like a jail.” Her head tilts. One hand rubs her jaw. “Actually, it looks like you’re stuck inside a giant ribcage, eaten by a huge plant skeleton—”

  “Mags!” I shudder. “So not helping.”

  “I have more, eco-burrito?”

  “You used to be a nice person.”

  “You used to have a sense of humor.” She stops and frowns. “Sorry. I’m sorry! You know this crap stresses me out. Okay, we have to get you out before my parents get home. Mom will freak out and spray you with weed killer, or call the fire department.”

  “No she won’t. We’ll explain it.” The idea sounds ridiculous, even to me.

  “Have you met my mom?” Maggie’s head snap clears the hair from her eyes. “Remember the time she told our neighbors she was growing Chlamydia under the mailbox. Chlamydia, Rae. Not the Clematis actually potted in the container. Everyone thinks our front lawn has a venereal disease.”

  “Okay, you may have a small point there.” Initial panic subsiding, I still want out of jail. “Just help me, please.”