The Parallels
FOUR

The first two days of the journey are marked by stillness. Stillness from trees we travel under. Stillness from abandoned homes we come across. The stillness pervades every inch of the forest. Nothing moves. Nothing more than the sound of our footsteps breaks the unsettling silence. By the time we reach Cres Hills on the second night, I can count the number of words we’ve spoken to each other on one hand.

“No fire tonight,” I say to Lans, who has started fashioning branches into a pile. I look out onto the trees bordering our small camp. Erique approaches from behind.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“It’s quiet,” I say.

“No more than usual.”

He shudders from the cold and I too wish for warmth, but my bracelet has been steadily humming since we arrived at this clearing. Remembering Oreya’s words, I bend down and plant my hand on the ground. As the band touches the cool, damp dirt, vibrations dance along my wrist then fan out to my fingers. I close my eyes, hoping the cassiterite’s magic can guide me.

Julianne.

A quiet whisper breaks the silence and I’m on my feet before the bracelet fully turns into a dagger. The rest of the troop immediately steps into formation behind me. We stand poised for battle for several minutes before Erique gives the command.

“At ease,” he says.

I don’t take my eyes off the underbrush. “It must have been my imagination.” But the cassiterite still remains a dagger in my head, clearly, it had sensed the danger ahead as well.

The rest of the troop unpacks their bags. I take a few steps closer to the dense underbrush. Erique follows.

“Jules,” he says. “What do you think?” His eyes look for a nameless voice that only I heard.

“I’m going to scout the forest,” I glance at him, “just to make sure we’re alone out here.”

I grab my satchel from the ground and fasten it across my chest. “Keep the patrol going and don’t get too comfortable,” I say to him. “If I am gone more than an hour, make this camp disappear and get to the woods surrounding the Voiceless Road as quickly as you can.” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I quickly remove Laurel’s necklace, wind the leather cord around the pendant and secure it next to the Everberry capsule hidden in my belt. I remove the vial of Rhian’s blood from my belt and hand it to him.

“Don’t send anyone for me, we can’t risk being captured.” I run my hands along my body, counting my weapons. “Keep them safe,” I say to him.

“One hour,” he says, inspecting the half-empty vial, “no longer.”

I eye the woods ahead hoping that I’m just being paranoid from all the quiet. In a matter of minutes, starlight disappears completely. Tangles of limbs reach overhead, clinging to each other for comfort. My movements would be considered quiet by Oreya’s standards, but in this vacuum of stillness, I may as well be wearing bells. I pause every few moments, expecting and even hoping to hear sounds of life, but nothing stirs. Eventually, the tangled mass gives way to a large clearing. Streams of moonlight illuminate the trees, casting long shapes over the ground. I find a tall tree submerged in darkness on the outer edge and pause in its shadow. I’ve been gone for at least a half hour, but the growing heat from my blade urges me forward instead of back to my troop. Something was in these woods and better I find it before it found us.

I take a small swig of water and squint into the clearing beyond my hiding spot. Shadows stretch and shift across it when suddenly laughter erupts from the opposite edge. I reach up and grab the nearest branch, pulling myself up and into the center of the tree just as a procession of large figures flood the space. Despite their massive size, they move with the grace and lethality of a predator. Loud shuffling follows their soundless footsteps. If the giant figures are predators then these are surely their prey. Hollow, half-emaciated figures bound to a robust rope half stumble into view. Those that look too frail to walk are effortlessly dragged along. The pale moonlight illuminates one of the large figures and I know in an instant that I’m staring at a pack of Herrings. The smallest of the Herrings stands at least a head taller than me and leads the prisoners to a large oak where he secures the rope around the tree. The prisoners fall to the dirt and fold into themselves.

I’m too fixated on the scene to hear the footsteps approach underneath. It’s not until I feel the tug on my foot and collide with the ground that I come face to face with the enemy I’d trained my whole life to fight.

“Enjoying the view?” His rancid breath sticks to my neck like a bur.

I’m sprawled on my stomach held there by either a boulder or his massive foot. The cassiterite has the good sense to morph back into a bracelet guaranteeing that I will at least have one weapon when the rest are taken from me. I remove another dagger that’s strapped to my thigh and when he flings me onto my back I bury it into his foot or at least that’s what I intended to do. The blade snaps from the hilt the moment it connects with his boot.

He laughs deeply. “Now play nice.” In one fluid movement, he pins my hands behind my back, heaves me up from the ground and smashes my body against the tree trunk with more force than I thought possible. “Yer blood’s no good wasted, should it be magic kind.”

The tree bark cuts into my cheek as he presses himself into me, feeling for weapons. I flinch as his hands move to my inner thigh. A warm trickle of blood slips down my neck where his blade pierces my skin.

He breathes in deeply. “Tol’ ya not er flinch.” He laughs quietly. My eardrums shatter when he shouts, “We got a straggler,” and shoves me into the clearing.

Only a few of the Herrings look up and when they do, I wish they hadn’t. Their faces are a mixture of animal and human gone terribly wrong. Jagged teeth protrude from their lips which are sunburnt and cracked. Several long scars bubble over their light green skin. They’re just as I’ve heard them described in tales, if not worse. Most seem uninterested in yet another captive as they quickly turn their attention back to ale and conversation. I’m led to the back of the huddled prisoners and bound hand to foot on the ground.

“Getting late Camus, best sort them out before sunup,” my captor says while picking his grimy fangs with one of my knives.

The Herring named Camus emerges from the shadows. He’s taller than the rest, standing at least a foot over most of them. His hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail revealing thin scars running from his forehead down to his jaw.

He looks the most normal of any of them aside from his sharpened fangs that protrude from his jowls like a boar’s tusks. As he walks past the prisoners I see a few of the women fold tighter into themselves, but he pays them no mind. His eyes are locked on me. Even when he crouches down in front of me, he’s still nearly double my size.

“Now where’d ya come from?” He cocks his head to the side. “I’d have member’d you.”

His eyes travel down my body as I drop into the role of helpless captor hoping they’ll underestimate me when I need it the most.

The lie comes quickly. “I was hunting. When I returned and saw the tracks I followed you here.” I take comfort knowing that the troop has already cleared camp.

“And your kin, are they here?” He glances at the cowering figures on either side of us. The way he reads my face tells me he’s no stranger to interrogations.

“No.” This time it’s the truth.

A muffled sob sounds from further down the line, but Camus doesn’t react to the distressed cry. Instead, he snags my chin and brings it inches from his lips and the saliva dripping from his agape mouth. The sob has morphed into full-fledged hysteria. When he glances away I follow his gaze. A small, dark-haired girl no older than five tries to make herself smaller. He releases me with such force that I topple to the ground. In two steps, he’s already to her.

“It’s all right sweetheart,” he coos. “No one will hurt you here.” He’s building her trust before his strike. She gazes up at him. He’s got her.

“Now, tell me your name.” She just stares at him, eyes wide and doused in fear. He continues nonetheless. “I betcha it’s a beautiful name, something pretty.” He bends downs and she whispers something I can’t quite hear.

“Rose. Now that’s lovely.” She still looks terrified despite his attempts to win her over. “Rosie.” I almost vomit in disgust. “Can you give me your hand?”

Rose begins to cry again. “I want my mama,” she whimpers.

In an instant, he’s cuffing her throat. “Quiet girl,” he snarls, “or I’ll only send parts of you back to her.” The other Herrings howl in excitement.

Camus yanks her hand from her side and holds it out. If her family is among the imprisoned, they don’t speak up. Everyone knows that the Herrings view love as a weakness and would show even less mercy to her and her family if they revealed themselves. She is alone even among her own kin. Camus unsheathes a blade from his side and cuts her palm. She tries to free her hand but he’s too strong. He places the tip of the blade on his tongue and tastes her blood. The reaction is instantaneous.

His pupils widen, making his eyes turn completely black. His skin quickly retracts, causing his skeletal cheekbones to jut out violently from his face. An animalistic growl breaks the silence, scorching the air with its ferocity. I tear my eyes from Rose, and see other the Herrings crouched low to the ground, ready to pounce. Her blood, mage blood, drives them wild.

“Kizmet!” Camus bellows.

The pack murderously tracks the movement of the shortest Herring who rushes to Camus’s side. I bet he won’t last the night and wonder if Camus hasn’t singled him out on purpose. Camus whispers something to Kizmet, who bows in response. He positions his blade over Rose’s palm again, but at the last second, he slashes open her cheek. She screams. Kizmet pounces. All I can hear from the tangle of limbs are her screams as Kizmet licks the blood from her cheek, devouring her magic like a starving animal. All I can see are her two tiny feet buried beneath a monster. Still, no one helps. Her kin will leave her be, knowing that her magic will at least secure her survival for the time being.

I stare at the sullen faces of the captives. If the stories about the Herrings are true, then I’m dead already. I’ll be sorted from the mages, then auctioned off to the highest bidder. If I’m not sold, I’ll be worked to death in the Barrens. In either scenario, I’ll be dead by the next full moon, so there’s no sense in delaying the inevitable. I swallow any inkling of sanity I have left before I say what will surely be my death sentence.

“You’re strong, attacking a child!” I spit at them, but no one notices. They’re all too entranced by mage blood. I try again. “Why don’t you show me your strength, you cowards.” Still nothing. “You’re no better than Gethin Stone.” I utter the words knowing full well the weight they carry.

Comparing someone to the murderous mage who almost wiped out the Parallels nearly five hundred years ago in his quest for power was the ultimate insult, and not just to mages. No one was immune to Gethin’s horrific rampage and more than a handful of species were wiped out under Gethin Stone’s short-lived reign of terror. Apparently whatever lineage the Herrings came from were one of these species because Camus’s eyes devour me with rage.

He pins me to the ground before I can take my next breath which could very well be my last.

“What did you say?” His bloody spit cakes my cheeks.

My bracelet burns in warning. “I said you and your pack are no better than Ge . . .”

His first blow dislocates my jaw before I finish. The world reels around me. He grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me away from the other prisoners. Kizmet rises from Rose, who manages to look even more terrified than before. At least they’ll leave her alone for a little while. Once Camus has me far enough away from the prisoners he drops me like a pebble.

“You’d better hope you have a drop of magic in you or else you’ll be begging for the Fade by the time I’m through,” he threatens.

He unsheathes his knife and mercilessly digs it into the fresh cut on my neck. When he brings the tip of it to his mouth and swallows my blood he discovers what I’ve known my whole life: I don’t have a single drop of magic.

“NO MAGIC HERE!” He screams into the sunrise. “Time to start begging, goldeneyes.”

A fresh line of blood oozes down my face as he draws his knife across my cheek. Footsteps approach from behind and I am hauled to my feet. The Herrings bind my hands tightly behind my back. I bring my knee up but their reactions are quick and I land with a soft thud as they kick me to the ground. Instead of trying to get back up, I simply lie there—no need to make this easy for them. Two Herrings tower over my body. One of them plants his foot on my right shoulder and I bite my lip as it pops out of place. The sky bleeds into a mosaic of blues and purples as I struggle to remain conscious through the pain.

Stay alert Jules, you only have one shot at escape. Oreya’s voice sounds in my head.

Camus’s shouts drown her out. “Seems like we’ve got a feisty one boys!”

I swallow the bile surging from my stomach.

Recognize the optimal time to attack. Her voice comes again.

I’m back in the training ring where we’re learning about no-win outcomes. Laurel stands before me holding a weapon and I am defenseless, bound by hand and foot. Oreya’s yelling that we have only one opportunity to defeat our enemy. Several of the large trainees launch themselves at their opponent, hoping to defeat them with sheer force but they’re immobilized within a few seconds.

You only have one chance to defeat your opponent and it could mean the difference between life and death. Oreya’s walking around the training ring saying these words over and over.

I stare up at Camus, whose voice slips into the background while I plan my attack. There’s no reason to injure Camus when the result will be the same for me. No, this attack must be lethal. He grabs the front of my tunic and effortlessly pulls me from the ground to his face.

“We’ve been lonely out here in these woods.” The others roar in agreement. “Our last girl didn’t last but a day,” he says.

He pulls me into him and runs the edge of his knife down the side of my face then traces it down my chest, stopping just above my navel. I could cut my bounds with my cassiterite blade and dig the shiny, black blade into his gut, but they’d stop me before my bindings fell to the ground. The Herrings circle us like a hungry pack.

Not yet.

I’m the last one standing on the training field. Laurel grows impatient and her attention shifts just for a moment.

Timing is key.

Camus’s eyes make their way up my body and he pulls me against him again.

“We can be merciful,” he whispers, hardening against me, “if you beg.”

Now.

I focus on the delicate pulse beneath the skin on his neck and bite down.

His blood fills my mouth.

His screams fill my ears.

Darkness fills my vision.

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