Young Writers Society

The scream was deep and primal. It brought flashes to the forefront of visions—of heat, of light, of a frantic hunt and memories of a long, forgotten night. Memories of moonlight that cascaded through her fingertips, seeping into her hair until she forgot who she was and there was only the Hunt; there was only the stag; there was only the scream. She opened her mouth to join it but was muted, deafened, by the cacophony ringing off the walls that centered on her—her chest, her throat, under such pressure.

It rang with more voices than one person should have, a wail of wind on the bluffs, a low groan of rock crashing into the sea. The crowd parted like foam on buffeting waves, the musicians silent as death, letting the creature pace one foot by one foot towards the dais.

It was drowned; its skin was the gray-green of a watery death. Its flesh bloated, tight, over its bones like that of a fish in the sun. Its eyes were white and blind, its sharp teeth parted in a bony howl, and the white gown it wore was stained with streaks of red blood. It had been a woman, once—now its lank black hair dripped water where it walked and the dancers looked around in confusion.

It was pointing at Zelda.

“Who are you?” She was a child—no, a barely-adult locked in awkward adolescence. Her clothes fit her perfectly, but she wore them off-kilter, shirt off one shoulder and jeans shredded over her knees. Her dark brown hair was tugged into a messy ponytail, and she popped one hip as she studied him on the stump of the oak.

Karma, Justin wanted to call out to her, I’m so sorry. The words that cut the air, though, were a tenuous, “I’m…Justin.” He’d seen enough of the human world to guess at a name. Now he grimaced and wished he had told her the truth. My name is Iustinian, don’t come near—

“Well,” the young woman fussed, “this is private property—Justin.” She rested her hands on her hips and gave him a critical once-over. He had been wearing loose muslin pants and a linen shirt, and nothing else but the amulet at his throat and the mask hidden in his skin, his hair tied up with tangles of twigs and leaves. Next to her modernity, he looked more than out of place. “What are you, some kind of fugitive hippie?”

“Karma—” Justin, now, broke through the binds of the vision and spoke to the past. To the present.

The awkward adult glanced up, and her face grew leaner, hungrier. Her hair cut off brutally at her shoulders, her eyebrows furrowed in an eternally discerning stare. Her old clothes melted into a pristine blazer and skirt, and she checked the watch on her left wrist. “Justin,” she hissed. “What is this—you know I hate this kind of thing.” She shook her head. “I’m on my way to a meeting with an extremely important client. I cannot be late. If you would so kindly release me—”

“It’s about Zelda.” His skin crawled at the thought of anything bad happening to either of them. For all he knew, Nerissa had found him, she could have tracked Karma down as well. She needed to be near—to be safe. Zelda was the most important part of his life—Karma gave him purpose. She pushed him to be better than he was the day before.

“What? Another fight? You could have called—”

“She’s been taken,” he confessed, suddenly, with an ache in his chest from holding it back. “By my sister. To…the Other.”

They had to keep her safe. At all costs. Who knew what a royal would do when they got their hands on a true changeling—the last time it happened, it was all-out war. They did their best not to look at the girl; to look was to mourn when they were found, when she was taken, when she was gutted for the power nestled deep in her core.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, trying to wrest her arm away from their grasp.

“To your aunt.” To certain death. “It’s the only way out. Let’s get going.”