Airel: The Discovering (Airel Saga Book Two)

Chapter XI

Somewhere in the Mountains of Idaho—Present Day

I WAS RUNNING. THE faster I ran, the worse my fear became. The thing that pursued me grunted and howled with rage as it chased after me. I dared not look back, concentrating on digging into the rough terrain with my feet. I felt each power pulse of my cadence as I sprinted, tucking my head and feeling the resistance of muscle on bone.

I exploded into a clearing. An evil tree cast a demented shadow in front of it, as if leading the way. I was running through the clearing toward a forest of impossible black trees with dark purple leaves.

I screamed as a clawed hand gripped my shoulder from behind, and I put on an extra burst of speed, tearing loose. A slice of my flesh was taken from me as hot pain ran into my shoulder. The evil-looking forest loomed two hundred feet ahead, possibly within my reach. I felt I would be safe there from whatever was determined to get me.

“Airel … Airel …” The voice was guttural and sweet at the same time, taking on the characteristics of the beast as well as my own conscience. The dark woods parted in a curtain and I dove through. I landed on hard shale and skidded to a stop, opening up new wounds in my back. I clambered to my feet.

I turned and saw the hooded beast as he lurched to a stop at the edge of the forest. He howled, and then I heard my name again. “Airel … wake up…”

The beast was hunched over, wolf-like, but standing on two legs instead of four, with clawed hands covered with fur hanging at his sides like broken branches. He paced back and forth outside the boundary of the forest, and his robe fluttered like feathers as it clung to his thin frame. He croaked my name, and my face burned with heat.

“Airel.”

My eyes shot open. Michael was sitting over me with his hand on my forehead. He had a look of concern on his beautiful face, and somehow he looked as if he had aged overnight. I tried to speak, but my body was wracked with pain and my throat was so dry all I could get out was a grunt.

“Calm down—you’re going to be okay. Here, drink this.” Michael handed me a glass of water, and I took it with greed. It burned as it went down, but I drank all of it. I knew it might be drugged again, but I was so thirsty that I didn’t care.

Michael leaned over and kissed my wet forehead. He smiled at me, but it was weak, and I noticed a tremor in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” I managed, but it sent a fresh wave of nausea through me.

Michael shushed me and said, “You’re still here with the crazy man. He let me see you after you fainted. You have been in and out of consciousness for eight days now. He has been trying to heal you with some weird chanting and some other stuff I’ve never seen before. I’ve been trying to feed you, in between your nightmares and screaming fits. You really scared me, Airel. I thought you were gonna die.” At this, his voice caught, and he held back tears, looking away.

“What are you talking about? What are you doing in here? Where am I?”

“Airel, what do you mean?” Michael was visibly upset.

This was it. I knew I was going crazy now. I seriously had no idea which way was up, what was real, what was safe and what was dangerous anymore. “I was so worried, Michael, I thought you were gone; dead. I don’t know. I’m so confused.”

Michael was silent, then said, “Airel …”

I shuddered. I was drenched; I felt disgusting. Eight days? What in the world is going on here? I felt insane.

“I’m sorry, Airel. I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“What is going on, Michael? I think I was drugged.” I noticed that I was no longer dressed in my fancy blue dress. I wondered how that had happened. It creeped me out beyond words. I was wearing pajamas, and they were stuck to me as if I had been wearing them for a week. Gross.

Michael tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and took my hand. “Don’t you remember? We were taken, and … I …” He looked down as if he had done something he was ashamed of.

I scanned the room and some things started to come back to me. I remembered having been locked away in this, my “high tower.” I remembered rainbows dancing on the bed in the new dawn of some lost day I could not recall as of yet. Like a badly cut movie, random scenes started to come back to me.

I remembered calling out for Michael, banging on the door to my room, which, I remembered, had a really nice bathroom with a claw-foot tub. I had been the one who had changed my clothes. Weird. I rubbed my temples. What else? I tried to conjure the past. I felt fury—why?

I was angry. I was angry because I feared the captor had murdered Michael. I saw myself pacing in an angry stew in front of my locked door, and I knew why. I was furious at having been locked up like an animal, no matter how nice the accommodations—and I was worried sick that something horrific had happened to Michael.

The scene shifted, and I was flooded with the realization that I was madly in love with him, that I knew it, that I had reconciled my heart to that reality. That explained what happened next in my spastic movie-reel vision. I delivered a crushing roundhouse blow to the door of my cell and it exploded off the jamb into a million splinters. I had been Bruce Lee, for crying out loud… Bruce Lee on gamma rays, or whatever.

The movie reel continued. I was running through the obliterated doorway and down the hall. Rooms appeared, covered in years of dust, furniture draped with sheets. Other rooms were clean. Then, there was Michael’s room—I knew it to be his room, but when I opened the door, which was unlocked, it was empty, and I feared the worst: that he was dead. I saw myself running down hallways trying to find him, down a flight of stairs, and being arrested by the appearance of the blond killer, the master of the house. He had appeared out of nowhere. I was struck at his beauty for the smallest of moments.

Then the movie reel took a really bad turn. There was vomit everywhere. It was mine. I saw myself as I retched time after time, right onto my captor’s fancy carpets, losing whatever I had in my stomach from the Cheesecake Factory with surreal violence. Fast forward, and I was dry heaving as the killer picked me up and carried me to my room.

I looked at Michael in confusion. I smelled bile. Oh. That might explain the dreams.

Michael lowered his head, his blond hair matted and sticking to his face from sleepless nights. His shoulders began to shake as he turned to go. I had somehow hurt him. It must be hard for him, too…

“Michael, I’m sick or something. Eight days?” I pulled him close and hugged him. He was warm, and at once, I was aware of how I must look and smell.

I tried to pull away, but Michael held me firmly. He was … crying. His back was tight, and I could hear his muffled sobs. “Michael, what’s wrong?”

“I …Uh.” He pulled back, but wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry, Airel.” Turning, he rushed out of the room.

“Michael.”