The Guardians of Truth

By Chelsea Pagan

An oracle tells of their coming: the six, born to right the wrongs of their ancestors. Sam, Adrianne, Teresa and Carrie are only children—and one of them is destined to die.

For centuries, Earth’s sister-world, Ariatless, has maintained neutrality between the realms, a safe space for the patron races to co-exist. But when a baby is born of war, it becomes the perfect host for the Old World’s greatest evil: a spirit called Talicor.

From broken homes, to the walls of school, four unsuspecting children are called to fight for a world they never dreamed existed. Each has their part to play and power to wield, but they must first overcome their fears.

The Battle of the Worlds cannot be lost. It will end where it began—on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chelsea Pagan
• Release date: Oct 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463039984

Chelsea Pagan

Chelsea Pagan has been a lifelong fan of the fantasy and science fiction genres and has been writing in them for as long as she can remember.The Ariatless Chronicles are her favorite work, consisting of four chronological novels about the Chosen Ones and two prequels that give insight into the Chosens’ ancestors and their original decision to end the world as they knew it.Chelsea has also been published in the science fiction anthology titled Beyond the Stars: Unimagined Realms—a number one new release on Amazon! In it, you will find her first short story in The Crystal Legion Holos: A Series, titled “Fission Fallout”.Much of her fantasy work falls under middle-grade or young adult fiction, however, her sci-fi works span young adult to adult, appealing to the more mature.

Book preview

The Guardians of Truth

Ariatless Chronicles Book 1

By Chelsea Pagan

Copyright 2018 Chelsea Pagan

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This book is available in print at select retailers.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1 Control

2 Fury, Flames & Fear

3 Resistance

4 Satisfaction Brought It Back

5 Tremors

6 Fatal Escapes

7 Disparage

8 Dragons, Wolves & Evil Spirits

9 Alliance

10 What Lies Ahead

11 Deadlock

12 What are you Afraid of?

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Works by the Author

Prologue

March, 1998 A.D.

Year 9990 Ariatless

What are you afraid of?

No more. She’d trekked to the end of the earth, and now the Fire Sorceress stood beneath the ribs of Vanora City, a day’s distance from the Scalding Sea: the end of the line.

Vanora’s ribs were ruins, domed supports with nothing to hold. All that remained of the prehistoric Eyrie was broken beams: a wasteland littered with slabs of fallen wall and jagged panes of the building’s outer shell.

But wreckage was not all that remained of the old world.

The Sorceress’ words were sarcastic and bad-mannered. I’ve been waiting for you.

Shafts of light fractured against the vines hanging down from crumbling supports. The Sorceress was wet from rain and mist; she stood in the chest of a structure haunted by death, and still she took no notice of the ruins.

What are you afraid of?

Shards of the Eyrie’s old, metallic wall jutted up from the ground, showing the Fire Sorceress a hazy visage of herself from the corner of an eye.

There was her body, her eyes, lips, nose and mouth…but she wasn’t the one to ask: what are you afraid of?

It was the Tyrant’s question to the world.

Standing alone and distorted, her twisted nature unexpectedly revealed, the Sorceress roared with laughter. Every moment of her life, every battle for her soul came together here.

Hysteria, coupled with the irony of the present, bent the Sorceress in half. She faced the very thing that her clan meant to wipe out of existence—from the past and in the present.

The Fire Sorceress’ laughter hitched as she sank down into the mud; she couldn’t stop laughing. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. The woman was in her element.

Still, the Tyrant did not move.

The Sorceress had run from the demon of old and he allowed it, only to corner her here in Vanora. Let the games begin. She prepared to Quickstep through the Devil’s reign, intending to dance long after the monster’s end.

The Tyrant touched her mind, his power subtle. She was already twisted. What did the dear devil hope to accomplish?

In a show of courtesy, the Sorceress swallowed her mirth, smoothed her ragged frock and daintily fanned the air with a hand while she preened in the mud and weeds. One must be prim and proper to play with a king.

What do you want, Talicor? Her smile widened.

The Tyrant’s name debased the history of Vanora: the silence shattered. A swarm of screaming birds and squealing animals fled the ruins of the present until all that remained was the wild thrashing of sea waves in the distance. Blackness followed the screams. Clouds of smoke billowed over plant-choked cobblestones and corroded what was left of the city walls. The ground shook as tons of stone crashed to the earth.

The Sorceress laughed merrily during the leveling, quieting to a snicker as the black smoke finally came grasping at her feet. She snorted and drew upright.

Impenetrable darkness, the rising smoke of Que’Triall and the power to bend others to his will… still, the Sorceress wouldn’t be outdone. Fearlessly, she stepped into the cloud. Her reflection disappeared, and smoke surged over her skin, but she barely noticed the suffocating effect of Que’Triall’s thickening atmosphere. The dead world that once imprisoned the Tyrant was all around her now; she was completely masked by the cloud, unafraid. Her Ancient ancestors survived this hell—thrived in it, and here she was, a product of it.

The Sorceress’ laughter ended abruptly and her green eyes hardened. The Ancients were wrongly imprisoned. It was too late to release the twisted creatures now. She had a better idea. The Fire Sorceress would change the past.

Out of the darkness came the body of a beast, her first glimpse of the fabled thing unwittingly created by Humans and Ancients, together. A long, muscled neck bent and curved until one of the demon’s opaque black eyes was level with the Sorceress’ face. The Tyrant rose in his Ancient form: a black stallion with a spiraling steel horn breathed in the smoke. The devil huffed silently over the woman’s face and she greedily inhaled the moisture of his breath. Power…

The Sorceress’ single word was a hiss. Yes. Tendrils of smoke wove about her legs and wound higher, around her waist and chest.

Yes. Que’Triall must be destroyed, erased from history. She would do whatever it took—had already begun to. The Fire Sorceress and her clan were going to help return the worlds to the way they once were. The Chosen Ones to come must be destroyed, the Guardians of the natural order ground into gravel, the five Governors of the worlds—the Priam—corrupted, and then, only then, would the worlds unite.

Black fire blazed up the Tyrant’s neck, flowing in a rush from his hindquarters. At its edges, flames faded to gray and the atmosphere crackled angrily as it fed the demon’s mane.

The Sorceress forgot her hatred of the Old World’s devil; there was no reason to fear. Vaguely, in the far reaches of her mind, the path that she shared with the Tyrant diverged.

Still, the Fire Sorceress forgot the war that the Natalie Clan had fought to keep this creature from coming again.

The Black Tyrant delicately lifted one hoof from a pedestal of smoke. His legs did not touch the ground. He stood above it, lifted by the spreading carpet of Que’Triall.

Outside of the darkness, the landscape began to change as Talicor took back the Ancient city of Vanora.

A massive bank of black cloud captured the dead city and the brush. Then the cobbles began to burn.

1. Control

December 30th, 2000, Saturday

Ariatless Year 10000, 17th month, 12th day

The excitement of an audience was exhilarating. To think, nearly thirteen years of Ariatless time had been spent in the pursuit of this moment. The Sorceress mentally shrugged away her annoyance. Ten years here equaled two years in her home realm. Realistically, she’d gained time.

Please…

If you hurt her… Pleas were insufferable. Threats were absurd, but at least they offered amusement. Under the watchful eye of the Black Tyrant, the Fire Sorceress held up his prize: an ounce of feathers fluttering helplessly as the little bird suffocated between her fingers. She showed the tiny Cairn hatchling to its struggling parents. She was teasing, physically and emotionally.

The man and woman were middle aged, the same as the Sorceress. Their offspring was very young. The Sorceress eyed the silver fledgling in her fingers.

Let her go!

Pitiful. The mother’s pleas buzzed at the Sorceress like a fly. They were irritating. The Matriarch of the Natalie Clan ignored her—fathers were more fun.

He was a large, furious black man, manic and trapped in place, forced to watch as some frail-looking woman in a heavy, hooded cloak had her way with his flesh and blood.

Oh, but please, feathers and hollow bones did not a child make. The Cairns were a perversion—another human creation gone wrong. Born to human parents, a Cairn hatchling was indistinguishable…until it ascended, grown strong enough to join with a spirit bird.

Sharp nails slipped through the Sorceress’ fingers and a slim line of blood ran down the side of her palm. She flipped her hands over to get a better look. The hapless creature trapped inside squawked, causing its mother’s sobs to start again.

Shut up. All mirth was gone. The Sorceress would kill the woman herself if the Tyrant didn’t.

His was the driving force behind everything. It was his will that kept the man and woman frozen, out of control of their bodies. Why he hadn’t muzzled the audience, the Sorceress didn’t know.

History named him Talicor and he presided over them all, hooves invisible in the cloud of smoke that followed wherever he walked. He was as shrouded as the Sorceress.

Ten years or two…one day was too long to be exposed to the smoke of Que’Triall. The Sorceress righted her hands and the sleeve of her robe fell back. Raised black veins branched from her fingers, continuing up her right arm. The power of Que’Triall spread in her blood. She had no feeling there.

The Sorceress drew close to the violently desperate black man. Look at me.

His neck strained and his eyes bulged. A small favor: Talicor finally took their voices.

The demon could kill. He could make the couple forget; he could change their minds. Instead, he made them watch.

Bloodshot eyes stared into the recess of the Fire Sorceress’ hood. Thin fabric wrapped her face from the bridge of the nose and down, but the blackened hollows under her eyes were more than the man wanted to see.

I’m going to crush your hatchling.

The man couldn’t speak. She could see the fear in his eyes…and smell it in his sweat.

She looked disgusted as she stepped back. Yes, she was going to kill the bird-child, but first, she was going to use it. The Tyrant’s desire became her own.

The Natalie Matriarch deliberately followed after Talicor’s flaming tail, toward the fast-moving stream that ran through the glade chosen for this moment. Some part of her shook, hesitated as she watched the Tyrant lift a hoof from his darkness and step out, into the water…

Onto…the Tyrant stepped onto the water. Where he walked, whitecaps sprayed up and beaded on his hide. Nature was no match for him. The small, vicious waves turned grey and the depths became black and calm.

…into the water.

The Sorceress fought it; she wasn’t laughing anymore. Fire was in her blood and it left no place for water.

…into the water.

One foot in front of the other. Trepidation buzzed in her veins as she kicked the scraps of moccasin from her feet. The Sorceress’ ankles disappeared beneath the black water as she stepped in deeper, robe dragging behind, floating on the surface until it began to sink.

Closer...

She fought for her head. Talicor needed her. There were places he couldn’t go. Places like Earth. Not until the veils between realms were destroyed completely. Rules and limitations existed, even for the Devil. She focused on the tiny heartbeat between her fingers and her head cleared enough to remember that she didn’t want the same things.

Talicor wanted the Heiress of Jarath’s Ring and the rest of the Chosen destroyed, so that the Magi protecting the veils between worlds would fail. She wanted the Heiress so that she could keep the ring from Talicor and use it herself. The Sorceress would kill the Chosen to get them out of her way—to hell with the Magi and the veils. She had no desire to see Que’Triall opened here and now. All that was left of the imprisoned Ancients were demented, dangerous skeletons. No, the Sorceress intended to erase the dying world from history. If it must be opened first, then so be it.

Water pulled against her waist.

Now…

Now?

Now.

The Sorceress’ fingers tightened and her arms plunged down, under the black water. Feathers came alive beneath the surface, but the little bird was no match for the Sorceress. She ignored the pain as the Cairn hatchling ripped her hands to shreds.

High above the trees a long, lone cry split the bright night and a glimmer reflected from the wing of a large, silver gyrfalcon.

Cairn.

Contempt lifted the Sorceress’ lip, distracting her from the death throes of the drowning bird in her hands. The gyrfalcon was Rhiannon, no doubt: Queen of the Cairns. Watch and suffer.

The Sorceress giggled as bubbles drifted to the surface of the black sheet of water around her waist. Something else rose with them. A silver wisp roiled in the dark water and seamlessly broke the surface. Giant, phantom wings beat and broke over the Sorceress and the Tyrant as the Cairn’s spirit bird ejected from its human host…

The Sorceress almost lost her footing. The weightless bird that she’d drowned was gone and her hands were caught in the strands of a child’s hair. The body bobbed below the surface, against her legs.

There would be no forgiveness, the Sorceress knew that, but morbid curiosity compelled her to reach down and lift the child above the waterline.

A soft, dark-skinned infant floated, lifeless.

The spirit bird squawked in grief and an answering cry came from the gyrfalcon in the distance, but the Tyrant wasn’t finished.

Stringy, silver hair clung to the Sorceress’ forearm. Where was the laughter now? Where was the fire?

An unearthly screech, painful and frightening, rippled the water as Talicor’s neck arched and lowered, snaking forward, forcing the child’s spirit bird down into the blackness.

He’d outdone her. The Sorceress stared between the child and the Tyrant, avoiding the opaque gaze of her master. She felt a strong current rising against her legs and let go of the body.

This was it; a part of his plan. The Sorceress felt her control slipping, along with her feet. Her head swept beneath the current; she saw the silver of the struggling spirit bird dragging along with her. Phantom wings made her skin tingle; the black water drew them together. She knew what Talicor wanted.

Find them.

Find the Heiress. Find the rings. Find the Chosen.

The Tyrant’s power and the nature of the bird spirited the Sorceress between realms at Talicor’s bidding. The bird carried her essence through the veil, leaving her body behind.

***

It was overly optimistic to think that no one could find them. Carrie McCarthy wasn’t optimistic. The twelve-year-old just didn’t care anymore.

Carrie absently tucked straightened, light brown hair behind an ear and under a black winter skullcap, attention divided between her company and the cold. She felt nauseous.

The nearest street lamp flickered a few hundred feet away at the bottom of a small hill. Its sphere of light barely lit the little park in the valley, and Carrie was paranoid. Someone other than Mel was watching her.

Frigid wind punished the young girl’s angry face, making her eyes water while the metal chains of her swing squealed. It was too loud; Carrie stopped moving immediately. They were going to get caught. Hanging out at the park after dark wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Come to think of it, neither was swinging in the dead of winter.

"Carrie, I’m freezing."

Best friends were overrated too. Carrie tried not to snap at Melinda. She couldn’t really blame Mel. It was only ten degrees out. But at least there wasn’t any snow.

Carrie let the swing sway gently on its own and wrapped her arms around the chains so she could look at her hands. They were stained with rust. Gross.

Can we go inside?

Carrie opened her mouth to reply, then turned to face the hill on her left instead of answering. She shouldn’t have invited Melinda over, but she didn’t want to be alone anymore. And now that Mel was here, Carrie wanted to get rid of her.

Carrie… Melinda looked away from the hill, squinting at the line of bushes along the outside edge of the park. A small gap in the hedge revealed Carrie’s house just beyond it. Mel could see the second floor over the bushes. Lights came on. She shivered, swinging her legs, trying to build some warmth. It didn’t matter to her if Carrie’s dad came out and caught them. She hoped he would. Carrie was out of her mind, and Mel was cold.

No, no, no…Carrie stared at the light inside of her house. She had a reputation to protect. Running would ruin it just as much as staying.

Mr. McCarthy’s voice sounded much louder than it was. Carrie!

Mel glanced at her best friend, but Carrie looked at the ground. Melinda didn’t dare answer Mr. McCarthy. Instead, her teeth clacked together, and she shivered while Carrie kicked at the dirt under her swing, dragging her boot on the ground, leaving behind a deep furrow.

Running wouldn’t be so bad. Either way, Carrie’s reputation was done for. She could take the easy way out rather than face how crazy her father was.

Carrie!

Mr. McCarthy’s voice grew frantic.

Carrie! Abbot McCarthy broke through the bushes and spotted his daughter on the swings.

Melinda shifted uncomfortably. The way he looked past her made her feel invisible.

Carrie pretended she didn’t hear her father, but her chest ached from the effort of keeping still. Maybe if she didn’t move…

Carrie. Mr. McCarthy was angry and scared, but Carrie only heard the anger. She wanted to hear it. Carrie could handle anger, and match it too. She was vicious.

What are you thinking? Your mother is worried sick. It’s almost eleven o’clock!

Melinda slid off her swing as Mr. McCarthy marched over to them, stomping her feet to warm up, happy to follow Carrie’s father back into the heated house—before she realized what he’d said. Melinda froze, confused.

Blood pounded in Carrie’s ears, but it wasn’t loud enough to block out her father’s reproach. Please don’t do this. She wanted to cry. Carrie would get on her hands and knees and beg if it’d make a difference. She wished something would. She’d do anything to make him stop…

Anything?

The little voice in the back of Carrie’s head didn’t sound like hers.

Shut up.

Mel’s mouth snapped shut automatically. That command was usually meant for her. She couldn’t believe Carrie was saying it to her father.

Neither could he.

What did you say? Abbot’s thick beard quivered as he waited for his daughter’s response.

Stand up for yourself.

Carrie slipped off the swing.

Her voice shook. I said, shut up.

Standing straight was difficult, but Carrie did it and Melinda took a step back, toward the jungle gym.

Carrie couldn’t take it, wouldn’t take it anymore.

Hurt him like he’s hurt you.

I said shut up! Shut up! she screamed, stumbling forward and shoving her father. She wanted to hurt him; wanted to get back at him for every day that she’d taken care of him, pretending to live in his make-believe world.

He didn’t get it. Abbot McCarthy would never get it, but he wasn’t the only person that Carrie was angry with. She was mad at her mother, and Carrie was furious with her sister.

Carrie Delaney!

The use of Carrie’s middle name was supposed to scare her.

You’re not afraid. Fight back.

You’re pathetic, Carrie spit the words. You can’t tell me what to do!

Melinda couldn’t get far enough away. She hadn’t seen this coming. This was not Carrie. Mel’s best friend never lost it like this.

Say it.

Carrie was getting lightheaded. The voice in her head was loud, heavy too, and making it hard to breathe, but she didn’t stop.

She’s gone. Mom left. She’s been dead for nine years. Open your eyes!

Abbot McCarthy broke so quickly that neither of the girls had time to react.

His slap made Carrie reel; her knees hit the ground and the voice in Carrie’s head started to laugh. It laughed and laughed. She’d never been struck before.

Melinda swallowed a squeal, covering her face. Abbot McCarthy was breathing as heavily as his daughter. He stood over her, unsure. It took too long for him to reprimand, to correct the lie that made him slap her. He pointed shakily. Don’t ever talk about your mother like that again.

Carrie stayed on the ground as the cold seeped through her fishnet leggings to the bone, holding her jaw with one hand and staring up at her father. He might as well be gone too.

Nothing was going to work…so this was it. Carrie saw the ground, saw Mel, and saw her father clearly for the first time since her sister moved out. This was it. Nothing was ever going to change.

The laughing intensified as snow began to fall for the first time that year.

Abbot McCarthy couldn’t see his daughter on the ground or the falling flakes around him. He turned his back on the park and went home to an invisible wife.

C—Carrie… Melinda crept closer.

Both hands covered Carrie’s face. She counted breaths behind her fingers, shaking while she waited. Her head was swimming; she blinked tears from her eyes, looking around for Melinda, but Mel was a blur. Carrie couldn’t think.

Carrie? Melinda came closer, her voice louder, but she looked strange. Carrie tried to see, she really did. The thought of passing out scared her. Suddenly, Carrie was really scared.

Get out, thought Carrie. It only made the laughter in her head louder. Who was she talking to?

Stop laughing…

Stop!

Finally, Carrie yelled, Get out! The laughter died instantly, the voice snuffed out, and the Fire Sorceress was forced out of the Heiress.

Her link to life on this side of the veil was fragile and spiraling out of the Sorceress’ control as her borrowed spirit bird fought to break free and fly on in search of its new host.

***

Why did everything look yellow? Maybe it was the lighting.

The room was spinning and the rounded corner of Will Matson’s old gas stove jammed into his niece’s stomach.

He’d left the radio on. No way would it be loud enough to mask the noise, not this time.

You let him do this?

Adrianne curled over the stove, her forehead smacking into a raised burner before she caught herself. All she could hear was the music: Cher belted it out in the background.

Laughter bounced around inside her skull, amused by the lyrics.

Adrianne’s head buzzed, her eyes opening before the hands came back. Dirty fingernails dug into her collarbone and groped for a hold on the back of her baggy jeans.

He lifted Adrianne clear off the ground.

He’ll kill you. The laughter bubbled and spilled over into Adrianne’s throat. She couldn’t stop it.

Her short, bitten fingernails slipped on the smooth surface. When they broke, Adrianne laughed at the pain. Her fingers bled and slid. She couldn’t get a grip. Precious air rattled into her lungs as her Uncle swung her like a rag doll.

Adrianne was a fish out of water. Her mouth opened, but she lost the breath as her spine collided with the wall. The back of her head cracked against the doorjamb, too dazed to feel fear.

You were asking for it.

Buzzing drowned everything out except the voice, and it was screaming—or was she? Was that her voice?

Half-open eyes desperately tried to focus on the towering man spitting into her face. He was going to kill her one day. Finally, the room stopped spinning. Adrianne saw Matson’s sharp green eyes, saw his knotted hair, and she was drawn to his hands. Dazed eyes followed his arm as it swung, leaving her field of vision. Adrianne was removed. Let someone else take her place.

She should be dead anyway. The only reason she was alive was because she’d run. Her parents hadn’t had that option. They should be here. Not her. Not her Uncle. Her parents should be alive.

The voice in Adrianne’s head was silenced. She did deserve this.

Panic flared, making Adrianne’s skin flush as the voice spoke again, differently. Something changed it.

Don’t let him.

As if she had a choice. Adrianne knew every twitch of her Uncle’s fingers, she knew exactly what each meant, and she always knew what was coming…except for tonight.

William Matson’s huge hand whipped across his niece’s bruised face. Her head turned, slamming into the doorjamb again.

Red hot anger bloomed, but it wasn’t Adrianne’s anger.

She didn’t understand. He knew better than to leave marks on her face.

Fight back!

Adrianne’s arms moved sluggishly. One wrapped around the opening into the living room and the other pressed against the refrigerator. Her fingers twitched against the cool door as her body slid down the wall—too tired.

The voice in her head growled; Adrianne wasn’t listening. She saw the peeling white paint that covered the screen door to the side porch in high definition. She saw her dog too.

Adrianne knew the snarling white shepherd would save her. Russel always did. It was all going to be okay.

The dog stood outside with foaming jaws and braced legs. Adrianne welcomed the terrible tearing sound that came from the front porch, but William Matson twisted in the direction of the door, roaring in rage. She’d never seen him so angry...

He wasn’t the only one. A mixture of relief and disgust tempered the voice squatting in Adrianne’s head. She was too complacent, too beaten to notice.

Sharp canine teeth left the screen door in shreds, and hard, uncut nails tapped on the linoleum floor.

Adrianne’s eyes struggled to stay open. She couldn’t get up, but she wanted to see. The stove was in her way. Everything hinged on her seeing. It took all of the strength she had left to push away from the wall and onto her stomach. Matson’s boot heels lined up with her face—a dangerous mistake, but Adrianne could see her dog now and Matson was preoccupied. The rusty red floor pressed against her cheek.

Better late than never…

Drool dripped to the floor as the white dog advanced. His back arched while long, powerful jaws displayed sharp teeth. The dog’s usually erect ears laid back as he snarled.

A hellhound advanced on William Matson.

Make him pay.

The man’s jaw clenched. He showed no fear. There was only rage. He growled at the dog, I’ll put a bullet in you this time…

Adrianne’s eyes passed over the animal protecting her, struggling to move up her Uncle’s pant leg. She was always looking for his hands. What she saw was the gun. The dull sheen of metal struck her harder than the stove or the wall. It broke her.

No…

The white shepherd dog kept coming. Russel didn’t know. How could the dog know what a gun was?

Slowly, Matson’s arm moved, and the dog snarled louder in warning. The animal was close enough now that Adrianne could see the vicious twitching of his lips. She’d never seen Russel like this before.

He’ll be dead soon.

Russel’s haunches tensed, and Matson’s finger moved to the trigger.

No! Adrianne screamed, and she cried, but the laughter in her head was back; she didn’t think she had the strength to stand.

Let it happen. It’ll be easy. He’ll leave you alone after, and you can rest.

The voice fought to weigh Adrianne down, but she wasn’t going to let it happen. Her fingers clawed at Matson’s leg, dragging her body upwards.

No!

The man was startled. His arm dropped, he turned…and the dog leaped into the air.

Christmas lights dangled, blowing in the wind on the neighbors’ houses, sending multicolored shadows skittering across cold, frozen ground as a sharp crack split the neighborhood.

Life is a battlefield, my dear. You will lose.

***

This wasn’t a good idea. Sam and Teresa both knew that.

Adrianne’s friends—all two of them—lurked nervously on the heaved up concrete sidewalk across the road from her menacing grey-blue house. It was the only one on the block without Christmas lights.

Teresa and Samantha had been standing there for at least fifteen minutes. The house looked like it could chew them up and spit them out, just like its torn-up screen door. Adrianne was scary on her own, but her uncle…

Sam shivered and tried not to think about William Matson. The girls had a fifty-fifty chance of getting to see their friend. Either Adrianne’s uncle would be home, or he wouldn’t be.

Sam elbowed Teresa, overcompensating for her anxiety. Can you tell? Is he there?

Teresa, a few inches taller than most