Of a Mystical Portal and Evil Sorcerers

PROLOGUE

T he little girl sighed as she climbed into bed, pulling her blankets up haphazardly as she snuggled down into her pillows. With heavy eyes, she watched her nursemaid bustle about the room, tidying up the toys that had been left strewn about and tossing the dirty laundry in the woven basket in the corner to be taken down to the laundress in the morning.

Unni, tuck me in? she asked the old woman, following up the request with a yawn so large it squeezed tears from her bright, honeydew-colored eyes.

The nursemaid smiled at her charge as she straightened up, brushing the wrinkles from her apron before tucking her short, gray hair behind her ears.

Of course, Princess, Unni replied, moving to the bed to situate the blankets just how the girl liked them. After hearing the child’s contented sigh, she kissed the small forehead tenderly before smoothing back red locks.

Story? the little princess asked, eyes wide and pleading.

The old woman shook her head, giving the girl a knowing look.

Not tonight. It’s already long past your bedtime. Perhaps if you get into bed when you’re supposed to tomorrow, I’ll tell you a story, hm? Unni said with a wink.

The small face fell in disappointment for a moment, but then the young princess gave her a half smile.

I promise, she said with a nod.

Unni chuckled before kissing the two-year-old again. Then, she quickly finished straightening up the room before picking up her candlestick and heading to the door.

Goodnight, Princess Amara, she whispered, pausing in the doorway to smile at the child one more time before closing the door tightly behind her.

Amara sighed in contentment as she hugged her favorite stuffed bear tightly and closed her eyes, the cool spring breeze wafting in from the cracked-open window caressing her face. She was just entering that land between wake and sleep when the sound of the window creaking open wider met her ears. With a slight frown, she rolled her head in its direction, blinking her eyes open.

Sitting on the sill was a bluebird, its little red chest fluffed out comfortably as it regarded her, tilting its head in a quick, jerky motion every few seconds. After a short time, it let out a single chirp and flew to her bed, gently landing on the floor beside it.

Rolling over onto her stomach so that her head hung off the soft bed, the princess rubbed her eyes as she smiled down at the creature.

Hello, pretty birdy, she whispered with a yawn, rubbing her eyes with her little fist. When they opened again, a man in a dark cloak knelt where the bird had once stood, a hood pulled low over his face, only his scruffy beard visible beneath.

Amara’s brow furrowed as she pushed herself into a sitting position, blinking down at the stranger.

Who’re you? she asked, mouth twisting a bit as she considered him.

The man smiled, angling his head up so she could see his face more clearly beneath the hood.

I’m your father, Amara. I’ve come to get you, he whispered to her, his voice deep and rough, rather soothing.

The princess pursed her lips a bit at that. She’d never met her father. He was off fighting the bad people, according to Unni, but she’d seen a portrait of him hanging in the library where her tutor would take her to read from the old story books. The man in that picture was broad and powerful, not lean and agile like the man before her.

You don’t look like my Papa, she said skeptically.

The man bit his own lips, head dropping a bit. Then he pulled his hood back so she could see him fully.

"I’m your real father. See, we have the same eyes," he said, gesturing to his own honeydew orbs, only a shade or two darker than hers.

Amara’s pretty mouth twisted at this as she considered his words. So many people had told her how much she looked like her mother that it only made sense she would have characteristics in common with her father as well. And she’d never seen eyes so similar to her own before. In her mind, the logical conclusion was that this strange man was telling the truth. Nodding a bit as she came to her decision, she beamed up at him.

But, Papa, why are you in my room after bedtime? she asked.

Before he could answer, the sound of guards moving just outside the room drew his eyes to the door. Quickly, he pushed himself to his feet, taking the girl’s small hands in his own.

How would you like to come with me on a little trip? he asked.

Amara’s eyes widened, bright with excitement.

Really? Can I? she asked, practically bouncing. She’d always wanted to go outside the palace, but Unni had never let her, saying it was too dangerous, that she was much too young. However, if her Papa was with her, she was sure there wouldn’t be a problem. He’d keep her safe.

The man grinned at her reply, reaching a hand forward to cup her cheek tenderly before moving to her wardrobe across the room. Opening it, he dug through it a bit before pulling out a pair of black boots and a dark blue cloak.

We don’t have time for you to pack or change. I’ll just buy you new clothes later, he said quietly as he brought the items over to the bed. Gently, he guided the small feet into the boots and buckled them before pulling the girl to her feet and clasping the cloak around her neck, drawing up the hood.

Amara fingered the cloak tentatively. It had been a gift for her second birthday from a courtier, but she’d never used it, had barely even touched it with all the toys she’d been given that day. So the lovely cloak had been left to hang in her wardrobe and collect dust, quickly forgotten. After all, what use was a travel cloak to a child who wasn’t allowed outside the palace walls?

Why do I need this, Papa? the little princess asked.

The man didn’t answer at first; he just took her hand and led her to the door, pausing and tilting his ear towards it.

So no one sees you. We’re going to play a little game, alright? We don’t want any of the guards or servants to catch us leaving.

Like hide-and-seek?

The man smiled down at her again, grabbing her small hand in his large, calloused, gentle grip as he reached for the doorknob.

Yes, like hide-and-seek, he whispered before easing the door open, pressing a finger to his lips.

She mimicked his movements with a nod, and the two slipped silently from the room. They stole down the halls quickly and carefully, keeping to the shadows as much as they could, stopping to hide behind this pillar or in that alcove whenever a guard or servant was seen or heard anywhere near them. An eternity later, they’d made it out of the palace, through the courtyard, over the drawbridge, into the meadow, and towards the woods beyond without anyone being the wiser.

Amara giggled as she and the man jogged closer to the trees, towards the horse waiting for them just within. And not a small horse either, like she was used to riding, but a big strong one like Unni’s grandson Pyren, who was training to be the next royal horse master, rode. Thoughts of Unni brought the child up short, eyes turning wide as she glanced back at the palace.

What’s wrong? the man asked, frowning as he tried to tug her gently towards the tree cover.

I forgot to tell Unni we were leaving. Unni always says to tell her before I go anywhere, she said, her face solemn, as if she were bestowing the greatest wisdom of the world upon him.

Who?

Unni, my nurse. Unni says Papa made her my nurse himself. If you’re my Papa, why don’t you know Unni? The child’s brow furrowed as she slipped her hand from his and stepped back from him.

Amara- the man began, holding his hands up in a placating manner as he took a step towards her.

The princess retreated from him, shaking her head as her eyes welled up with tears. Unni had always told her to never go anywhere with a stranger, that they were dangerous and could hurt her. And here she was, outside of her safe, warm palace with one, following him just because his eyes were like hers.

No! You’re not my Papa! Papa would know Unni! she shouted.

The man tried to shush her, pleading with her to just follow him, but the allure of potential adventure that had the girl following him without question was broken. Abandoning his subtle attempts at keeping the child quiet, he leapt towards her, catching her right arm in his strong grip just as she turned to run for the palace, cupping his hand tightly over her mouth to stifle the noise.

Suddenly rather frightened, Amara fought as hard as she could, screaming and crying as she kicked and twisted in the man’s grasp, ignoring his attempt at soothing words. Finally, the girl stretched her jaw as wide as she could before biting down on his calloused hand, twisting her body the moment she heard his yelp of pain and felt his grip loosing, wrenching herself free. She turned to run back to the palace, but instead merely ran straight into a pair of legs, falling roughly on her bottom.

Well, now, how convenient. I come to Nahala to kidnap a princess, expecting to have to battle and spell my way through guards and soldiers, and what do I find? A Therian has done all the hard work for me, a deep voice rumbled above the princess.

Although the voice was unfamiliar to her, the tone sent icy fear racing through her veins, and she began to tremble. Sucking in a shaky breath, she glanced up at the man above her, eyes filling with hot tears at the malevolent sneer he was directing her way.

Despite his sneer, he was actually rather handsome with coal black hair showing just a hint of gray, sharp features, and nearly black eyes. It was the hatred in those eyes, however, that made Amara’s heart pound, the wickedness she could see that tore all sense from her mind and left her in a panic.

Leave her alone, Malor, fake-Papa said, voice a low in warning.

The girl looked back at him, certainly more willing to remain in the hands of her original kidnapper than this other man, but unfortunately, the first man was being restrained by two burly soldiers in strange armor.

The scary man laughed, drawing the child’s attention back to him as he reached down, grasping the front of her cloak and nightgown and hauling her into the air.

Why don’t you shift and stop me, then? But if you did that, she wouldn’t understand, would she? She’d be afraid of you, the one called Malor said, black eyes twinkling with mirth.

Amara whimpered as she grasped at the hands holding her garments, tears streaming down her face from eyes squeezed tightly shut. The cloth of her nightgown was twisting painfully beneath the cloak, pinching her tender skin as Malor gave her a little shake.

Ow, she sobbed.

With that single complaint, chaos erupted. A feral snarl brought Malor’s attention to the men behind the princess, and the two painful grunts echoing seconds after had him flipping the girl around and pulling her against his chest, one arm about her stomach and the other hand securely around her fragile throat.

Stop right there, Drysten! Take one more step and I’ll wring her neck, he said.

Amara’s eyes widened as she took in the sight before her: the two soldiers lay bleeding on the ground while a gray wolf, blood dripping from its snarling jaws stood where the fake-Papa had once stood, its head low and hackles raised. He was a shape-shifter, the princess understood in an instant. Unni had told her about them, had filled her mind with the adventures of the people who could change their shape at will. Most Nahalans feared them, even hated them, her nurse had told her, but Unni insisted that her charge wait to meet a shape-shifter, speak with them and get to know them before forming an opinion. That’s what the former queen, the child’s mother, had done. So it was that seeing the wolf and recognizing him as the man who had taken her from the palace didn’t fill her with the fear Malor had expected of her. The sight of the bloodied, injured men did, though.

The wolf hesitated a long moment before taking a couple steps back and issuing a final warning snarl before sinking to his haunches stiffly, eyes narrowed and calculating.

With the threat subdued, Malor eased his hand from the princess’ neck marginally and began to laugh.

Who would have thought that the child meant to bring Kiros to his knees would also serve to be the undoing of the chief advisor of the King of Thera. Malor looked to the forest behind Drysten the wolf before jerking his head towards the creature. Gentlemen, put this dog down for me, would you?

At his word, a large number of heavily armed soldiers rushed from the trees, swords and pikes at the ready, and charged. The great wolf turned quickly, teeth bared to meet this new threat.

Smirking, Malor turned from the fray, hiking Amara higher against him roughly, strengthening his hold on her, as he headed towards the forest, away from the battle.

"Now, you and I are going back to Morta, and you will serve as evidence to my son and the court that I am more than capable of maintaining the throne and ruling the people," the evil man mumbled more to himself than to the girl.

The princess, however, didn’t hear anything past Morta. Her tutor had taught her about that kingdom: the land of the sorcerers, the most evil and dangerous people to ever walk Magerei. The child knew that if she ever hoped to see her Unni again, she would have to find a way to escape from this man before he took her there. Recalling the fun trick one of the guards had taught her to use in order to escape a captor, she found the sensitive skin between the thumb and forefinger of the hands holding her, and using her long fingernails, she pinched it and twisted hard. Yelping, Malor dropped her, and she landed roughly on her left ankle, wincing at the pain that spiked through it.

You little brat! the evil man said, advancing on her quickly.

Using her elbows and good leg, Amara scurried backwards, screaming for help from anyone within earshot. Just as Malor was bending down to grab her, dozens of tiny blue balls of light popped up around her, multiplying until they surrounded her completely. They moved slowly at first, almost lazily, circling her from head to toe, and Amara could see Malor’s horrified look beyond them. As he reached for her again, the tiny lights sped up until they became blurred lines of light, hiding everything outside of them from view, a steady hum blocking out all sounds beyond.

An instant later, the princess felt herself being lifted into the air, floating for a short while until every sense of Nahala she’d ever known disappeared. Then she began to fall. It wasn’t the rapid falling she was used to experiencing—like when she fell out of that tree last month or when she fell off her pony. Instead, it was the dream-like fall, the slow and steady pull downward that left her without fear of harm at the end, though she did feel a bit nauseous. Amara closed her eyes in an attempt to alleviate this, keeping them shut until the falling feeling ended, and she felt ground beneath her sore bottom. It was wet ground but solid nonetheless.

Rain poured down on her from above, cold and stinging, and as she blinked down at herself, she noticed she was sitting in a large puddle of mucky water that was already soaking through her cloak and thin nightgown. At least the cold was helping her sore ankle go numb. The ground beneath the puddle was like nothing she’d ever seen. It was harder than earth, much like stone or brick yet different. It was charcoal in color, not really black but not really gray either, and small bits of rock were gathered on top of it, digging into her soft skin. At her back was a wall of gray brick with strange designs painted over it, some vulgar and some unrecognizable with no apparent them across it.

These painted designs carried over to the thing on her right—a large, smelly green box that was cold like the blade of a sword but not as smooth. To her left walked people in peculiar clothing holding strange sticks with a canopy of some sort shielding them from the rain above them. No one even spared a glance at the small child shivering in the darkness of the alley she was huddled in. Beyond the people, objects of various colors, shapes, and sizes zoomed by at an accelerated rater she’d never seen before, making frightening loud noises as they passed in a blur.

Covering her ears against the noise, her heart pounding wildly in panic, Amara pressed herself back to where the smelly box met the wall, preferring the awful stench to the speeding monsters beyond. Pulling her knees against her chest, wincing as her movement brought back the pounding in her ankle, she buried her eyes against them and began to whimper, than sob, her breath puffing out in a white cloud at every exhalation.

Suddenly, the feeling of icy rain falling on her stopped, the pitter patter now echoing off something above her. Too frightened to move at first, curiosity eventually got the best of her, allowing her the courage to peak out from behind her knees. Perhaps the lights had come back to take her home! But when she looked up, her surroundings were the same as before: noisy and cold and smelly and wet. Now, though, a boy was squatting before her, holding one of those stick things over her to keep the rain off.

Hello. What are you doing back here? he asked gently.

Instead of answering, Amara hid her eyes again, hoping he would just go away. She knew her Unni would be rather displeased at her for being so rude to someone who was simply being kind, but after everything that had happened, she couldn’t help but simply wish to hide away, hoping to just wake up in her soft, warm bed and discover this was all nothing but a silly nightmare.

My name’s Isaac, the boy said, apparently either nuts or oblivious to her less than congenial behavior. I’m here having lunch with my mom and dad, but I saw this bright light flash out the window so I came out to see what it was and found you out here. What’s your name? Why are you wearing those weird clothes?

Amara barely peaked her eyes over her knees again, blinking rain and tears from her lashes as she studied him. He was quite a bit older than her—at least ten or twelve years old—with kind, blue eyes in a soft, angelic face. His hair was brown and short, a bit messy but in such a way that Amara got the impression it was styled that way on purpose. He was wearing a black coat over a blue shirt with a folded collar, black slacks, and shiny black shoes.

Noticing the tremors shaking her petite frame, Isaac gave her an encouraging smile before shoving the end of his stick in his armpit and struggling to pull off his coat. After much shifting and dancing around and muttered apologies as the canopy at the top of the stick flung water on them both, he managed to shrug out of the coat and hold it out to her with a sheepish grin.

Here, you look cold, he said. When she didn’t take it from him, he moved forward to put it around her, retreating when she shrank back, eyes growing wide with fear.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I just don’t want you to get sick. Here, you put it on yourself then, he said, tossing the coat over her legs.

Amara stared at the garment in her quivering hand for a long moment before slipping her sopping, icy arms into the too-big sleeves. She hugged it tightly to her and sighed at the warmth that quickly enveloped her, bringing with it the scent of cedar and strawberries.

Isaac huffed out a smoky breath and grinned, clearly pleased.

Mind if I sit by you? he asked before sinking to the wet ground, shuddering as the water soaked through his unusual trousers before leaning back against the brick wall. He was quiet for only a moment before he began talking again.

Although many of his words were nonsense to her—what in the world was a video game and who was this Iron Man—she couldn’t help but feel soothed by his gentle, rhythmic voice and calm disposition. As he talked, she felt her muscles loosen and her legs straighten out, and she slowly shifted closer and closer to him. After a long while, she let her desire for human contact and need for comfort overrule her fear of yet another stranger taking her away, and she began to lean against him.

His speech faltered only for a moment when he felt her press against his side, but then he cautiously brought his arm up to wrap around her shoulder, careful not to scare her. When she didn’t pull away, he tugged her into him, holding her tightly as she shivered against him and slowly slipped into an exhausted slumber, her head resting on his chest.

Isaac sighed in relief as he felt the poor, terrified little girl go limp against him, her breathing slowing to a gentle, steady rhythm. He’d been startled by the strange light he’d seen outside and left his parents at their table with the excuse of needing a bathroom break in order to investigate, grabbing his umbrella on the way out. Imagine his surprise upon finding the tiny thing huddled by the dumpster in the restaurant’s back alley.

His tender heart broke at the panic in her eyes, and he’d blanched at the bruised, swollen, most-likely broken ankle sitting at an awkward angle in front of her. It shattered even further as she drew her shivering form into a tight ball. He couldn’t just leave her there, so he decided to try to draw her out. It had taken a while, and he was sure his parents would be worried and looking for him—and very likely planning to ground him for life when they found him—but he couldn’t make himself leave the girl by herself.

Isaac! There you are! As if his thoughts had summoned them, his mother and father appeared at the entrance to the alleyway. His mother pulled away from the safety of the umbrella his father held. She ignored the icy rain as it quickly flattened her styled blond hair and soaked into her jacket and rushed towards him, a reprimand on her lips. The moment she caught sight of the tiny bundle in his arms, however, her face softened and her anger evaporated. She sank to her knees in the same puddle her son was sitting in, ignoring the mud soaking through her dress slacks, and gently ran the back of her hand over the pale, icy cheek.

Oh, the poor thing, she whispered, eyes tearing up a bit.

I’m sorry! I found her huddled here and couldn’t just leave her, Isaac said.

His father knelt beside his mother to take in the shivering creature, brow crinkling in the way it did when he was worried about someone or something.

Of course you couldn’t, you bleeding heart, his father teased, and he squeezed the boy’s shoulder, proud of him.

Look how small she is! She can’t be more than two, three years old. His mother tsk-ed, running a hand through the sodden, ginger locks.

Do you think she was abandoned? Isaac asked as the girl snuggled tighter against him, burying her nose in his shirt.

Possibly. We’ll have to notify the state, though, in case someone’s reported her missing, his father said.

If they haven’t, can we take her in? Isaac asked.

His parents looked at each other for a moment before their gazes returned to him.

Isaac, she’s not a lost puppy. She’s a little girl, his father said gently.

Isaac turned large, hopeful eyes, brimming with unshed tears, on his parents.

"I know, but she looked so lost and frightened! You should’ve seen her, Dad! She was afraid of everything! I want us to take care of her," he reasoned, putting as much sincerity as he could into his voice and expression.

His father sighed. He knew where this was coming from. Part of it was his son’s kind, generous heart, but the other part was a bit more selfish. When Isaac’s parents decided to try for their second child, they’d wanted their son’s approval. At his age, he was old enough to understand what having a younger sibling around would mean. Isaac had embraced the idea whole-heartedly, telling anyone with an ear to listen just what a wonderful big brother he would be and how excited he was to have a little brother or sister.

So when his mother found out that due to a previously undetected medical issue she would be unable to have any other children, it wasn’t just his parents that were devastated but Isaac as well. Now, finding this little girl alone and apparently abandoned, Isaac’s father knew that his son was hoping the girl could be the little sister he’d given up any hop of having.

I’ll call Mr. Peregrine from church. He works in Child Services. If nothing else, maybe we can foster her until her relatives are found, the man said.

And if they aren’t? Isaac asked.

His father sighed, giving him a wry smile as he ruffled his hair.

One step at a time, kiddo, he said before carefully gathering the pitiful girl out of his son’s arms and into his own, pausing each time she made a noise. Once he was sure she would remain asleep, he stood up, and the three made their way to their car, Isaac sticking close by the little girl the whole way, like a dutiful guard watching over a princess.

CHAPTER 1

T he sound of fencing foil meeting foil in furious succession filled the room as the two fencers, one dressed in gold and the other in white, circled each other, lunging in and back periodically, searching for an opening while keeping their foils engaged. The two moved so quickly and skillfully, pushing each other from offense to defense from one moment to the next, that an outside observer would have a hard time picking out the instructor from the student. Then, as if by instinct, the one in gold saw an opening as the one in white lost his balance for merely a split second. The gold one lunged in, twisting her wrist just so, enabling the foil to slip past the white one’s defenses and land squarely on his chest.

Touché, the gold one said, voice muffled behind the fencing mask.

The white one pulled off his fencing mask to reveal a middle-aged man with raven black hair and kind brown eyes. His face was dotted with old, miniscule scars left over from a childhood acne issue. His large muscles on such a small frame made him look rather misshaped and awkward, but he was still the best of the best in fencing, at least on this side of the continent.

Well done, Myriah! Your form is exceptional, as always, the man said proudly as the others in the room, unnoticed and forgotten by the fencers during the bout, began to applaud.

The one in gold pulled off her own fencing mask, shaking out her shoulder-length ginger hair and blowing her too-long bangs out of her eyes before smiling up at her instructor, watching his gaze falter for a moment, as everyone’s did when caught by her unusual, ghostly, honeydew-colored eyes.

Thank you, sir. My teacher was exceptional. She was teasing him, trying to ease his discomfort in the only way she knew, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

It’s a pity you won’t be coming to the competition next month. We could really use you, he said.

Myriah shrugged a shoulder. Normally she was extremely competitive and loved the challenge of the fencing competition, but after holding the title of reigning champion for three years straight, she’d decided to take a break for a few years, refusing to attend the competition the year prior as well. It wasn’t that she lacked challenging competitors but more that she felt herself getting arrogant. She’d fought enough arrogant fencers to know that she never wanted to be one of them. She still attended lessons to keep her skill up, but she refused to compete at all until she managed to acquire a bit more humility.

Maybe next year, she said, pulling off her gloves and settling back into her place with the other students—most of whom were men in their thirties to their sixties—as another student stood up to take his turn in a bout with the instructor. Myriah had been fencing almost all of her seventeen years, which was one of the reasons she was so good, and it was one of her favorite hobbies. Unfortunately, though, it also meant that she had a hard time finding someone her age with a similar interest outside of competitions, and those she fought were usually too competitive to really befriend, taking their losses much too seriously.

So far Sam, her most challenging opponent at competition, was the only exception to this rule, but she only saw him during competition because he lived a few hundred miles away. Of course, the two Skyped and texted often, but it wasn’t the same as face-to-face conversation. She longed for someone her age to join her class, someone she could really relate to.

Excellently done, class. That’s it for today. I’ll see you all next week, the instructor said, tearing Myriah from her thoughts just as the grandfather clock out in the lobby rang the hour.

Myriah collected her things and, after changing in the locker room, walked out the studio’s front door. While pulling on her black coat, she smiled at the young woman, currently her only friend in town, who was leaning against the wall outside, waiting for her. It wasn’t that Myriah was particularly hard to get close to per se, but she tended to be rather tenacious and single-minded, as well as rather introverted, requiring a special person to put up with her.

Hey, Brenna. She smiled at her friend, and the two fell into step with each other.

Brenna tucked her chin down inside her baby blue hoody as the icy breeze blew against her, huffing out a heavy breath as the wind froze the air in her lungs. It was surprisingly cold for a Florida November, with the temperature in the high 50s, but the residents of the city welcomed the cool after the blistering summer they’d had that year. It was always amusing to hear northerners complain about the cold weather they received in late October, stating that they could never understand why those living in tropical states complained about the heat. It was all a matter of perspective, Myriah supposed.

Did you have fun in combat training? Brenna asked, chocolate brown eyes twinkling.

Myriah raised her eyebrows, the corners of her mouth quirking upward.

Combat training? she repeated, amused, as she shoved her cold fingers into her coat pockets.

Brenna smirked.

I’ve decided that that social worker of yours is having you trained for combat as, like, a lethal weapon or something, she said.

"Mr. Peregrine. You think Mr. Peregrine is training me for combat. Oh, this I gotta hear!" Myriah looked even more amused.

Since she’d been placed in her first foster home at twelve, Myriah’s social worker had been her greatest friend and only constant. No matter who came or went in her life, the gentle old man had always been there for her. During her troubling teenage years, as she worked through her grief and anger, he’d comforted her and encouraged her, helping her through it the best he could, being the fatherly figure she’d so desperately needed.

An older man, likely in his late fifties or early sixties, Peregrine had short, graying light brown hair and pale green eyes—multiple shades darker than Myriah’s—in a thin, wrinkled face. It was actually his eyes that first intrigued the redhead, drawing her unconsciously to him. The other thing about Peregrine that made Myriah like him so much was his calm, quiet disposition.

Someone could be screaming at him at the top of her lungs, purple in the face and furious to the core, and the man would just stare at her thoughtfully, nodding every once in a while to indicate that he was listening. Then, he would give his answer calmly and rationally, as if the complaint or insult had been given in a logical, reasonable manner. His attitude could make the most irrational person compose himself and return to reason, a characteristic the hot-headed, often irrational young woman envied him for.

Come on. It’s not that hard to believe, what with the hobbies he chose for you: fencing, martial arts, archery— Brenna said.

"I chose those hobbies, you know. He didn’t make me do them."

Yes, but I’ve seen how much influence he holds over you.

Myriah rolled her eyes.

Oh, please. You make me sound like a marionette he simply holds the strings to. Mr. Peregrine just knows what I like, what will take my mind off – certain things – and suggests them to me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous, she said, a teasing smirk on her face.

Brenna shook her head, playing with the ends of her long, curly, deep brown hair peeking out of her hoody.

Yeah, because I totally want my own social worker, she said.

Myriah’s smile faltered. She knew from the look on Brenna’s face that her friend hadn’t meant this the way it had come out, but the damage had been done.

I’d much rather have a family instead, thanks, she said quietly.

Brenna winced.

Ray and Claire are good to you, aren’t they? They were Myriah’s foster parents.

The redhead shrugged.

Well, yeah, but it’s not the same thing. They only got into foster care to get rid of the ‘empty nest’ feeling after their oldest got married. They don’t actually want to raise another kid.

You’re hardly a kid, Ri. Almost an adult, in fact. And we both know they care a great deal for you!

"I know. It’s just, sometime I wish I were you. Everyone loves you. I mean, look at you, Myriah said, allowing herself a bit of self-pity as she eyed her friend jealously. Along with her perfect brunette locks that never seemed to frizz or fall out of place no matter the weather and her large, creamy brown eyes, Brenna had long slender fingers on a dainty feminine hand, a small button nose, and beautifully full, naturally red lips. Her eyelashes were long and thick, her eyebrows thin and perfectly arched. She had high cheekbones in her angular face that spoke to her Native American heritage, and she was tall, 5’9, with a thin yet curvy figure. Even her skin, which was a creamy tan, was flawless and unblemished by a single freckle or scar. In a word, Brenna was perfect—exotic and perfect.

Don’t give me that! I hate when you look down on yourself. Everyone loves you too, and you’re beautiful! Just ask all those boys at school that can’t keep their eyes off you, Brenna said with a wink.

Myriah gave her a half smile, grateful. Yes, she’d been fishing for the compliment, but every once in a while, it was good to hear. And Brenna always delivered when prompted.

We’re off topic. You were saying about my ‘combat training’— Myriah said.

Brenna visibly relaxed, grateful for the subject change.

"Well seriously, Ri, of all your hobbies and activities, are there any that don’t involve violence of some kind?" she asked as the two walked into the Local Hop, a favorite hangout of young people throughout the city. It was set up like a fifties diner, complete with rollerblading wait staff in fifties garb, black and white checkered tile covering the floor, and black and white checkered booths trimmed in red. Barstools lined the counter, and the waiters and waitress rushed back and forth delivering orders. Warm air and fifties music blasted through the place as the friends pulled off their jackets, tying them around their waists for safe keeping.

Horseback riding isn’t violent! And neither is rock-climbing or hiking. Archery isn’t really violent, either. I mean, we’re not shooting at anything living, Myriah said as the two joined the line of people waiting to order their hot fudge sundaes or slices of freshly-baked pie or for the truly brave in this frigid weather, homemade milkshakes. Those who came in only for dessert could place their order at the counter instead of waiting for a waiter or waitress. It cut back on a lot of the rush as well.

"Yet. You’re not shooting at anything living yet. As for the other three, those all build up your strength and endurance so you’ll be better able to fight once the time comes," Brenna said.

Myriah laughed.

Fine. Think however you like, but I imagine you’ll be really grateful for all this training when Genghis Khan finds a time machine and comes to the present in an attempt to take over the world, starting with lil’ ole Macclenny, Florida, she joked as the cashier handed them their shakes without waiting for their order, evidence they came here much too often. As the friends headed towards their usual table in the back, an arm stuck out in the aisle stopped them.

Well, if it isn’t the two musketeers! Did you two just come back from fighting off evil and saving the world?

It took Myriah only a moment to recognize the speaker, a young man in a letterman jacket from the high school, as one of Brenna’s many ex-boyfriends and the star quarterback for their high school’s football team. Brenna rolled her eyes at him but just turned to Myriah.

You see? Even Ryan Fitzgerald, brainless athlete and all-around idiot, thinks you’re being trained for combat, she said, elbowing her friend in the side good-naturedly.

Myriah grinned and shook her head. She was not about to get in the middle of yet another battle of wits between Brenna and one of her former beaus. As the two began to bicker, a strange and uncomfortable feeling began in the pit of Myriah’s stomach. It wasn’t the ache of nausea that comes with a normal stomach ache or even the sharp pain from a cramped muscle. It was more like a flip, like when you go over a hill too fast or down a long drop on a rollercoaster.

Suddenly, Brenna grabbed her arm.

Ugh! Come on, Ri. Let’s go, she said, apparently finished arguing with the football player. She tugged Myriah towards their table, but the redhead didn’t move. The uncomfortable feeling in her stomach was only growing, and she flinched, pressing a hand over it.

Brenna frowned as she realized just how pale her friend was.

You okay? she asked.

Myriah was about to explain that she just didn’t feel well, that maybe they should skip the shakes and head home, when the pain abruptly intensified, doubling her over, the milkshake she’d just been clutching plummeting to the ground.

Myriah!

She could hear Brenna calling her, but it sounded distant and hollow, as though it was coming through a long tunnel. Eyes tearing from the pain, she looked up for a moment at Brenna, eyes going wide as the brunette’s panicked face faded only to be replaced by swirling blue balls of light, no larger than her pinky nail. The lights danced around her as the pain thankfully faded, and she felt herself being lifted up and carried for a time. Then she was falling, but a controlled falling that left her without fear, like falling in a dream.

Myriah landed softly on a grassy field she was sure she’d never seen before. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and death, the red moon mostly blocked by billowing clouds. A city was barely visible in the distance to her right, the lights of torches in the streets blinking in the breeze, and nearest her on the left was a dense forest. A few feet in front of her crouched a figure in the tall grass, face hidden beneath the silver hood of a long cloak. It was clasped over a white blouse and slacks.

H-hello? Myriah called.

The figure, a young woman, stood and approached Myriah almost hesitantly at first before quickening her pace. She angled herself a bit as she walked and the redhead was able to make out a long, sharp sword—not a foil, mind you, but an actual sword—clutched in her right hand. When Myriah took a nervous step back, the stranger was on her in an instant, sword tip pressed against her throat.

Myriah swallowed hard as she felt the blade lightly prick her skin, a slight trickle of blood sliding down her neck. She didn’t dare speak again, barely dared to breathe, as the stranger sized her up. The red moon slid out from behind the clouds just then, illuminating them both in its ominous glow, and the stranger tilted her head a bit. Then, she lowered the sharp weapon from Myriah’s neck and quickly sheathed it.

My apologies. I thought you were something else, the stranger said.

Myriah frowned at that. Something else? What was that supposed to mean?

The stranger turned and walked over to a small tree stump near the edge of the forest and reached beneath it into a hole in the ground, pulling out another sword. It was beautiful, the hilt a light silver, almost white, inlaid with strange, swirling designs in gold. The sheath was made of dark leather with various creatures and strange letters carved into it.

The mysterious stranger brought the sword over and held it out to Myriah so that the hilt lay in one hand and the flat of the sheath in the other.

My ancestors have been protecting this sword for generations, awaiting the one who is to claim it—the one with the red hair of the strigoi and ghostly eyes, she said.

Myriah’s brow furrowed.

"Strigoi? What– I don’t know what that means. And why would you be protecting a sword for me? Who are you anyway?"

My name is Saori, and I am a friend, an ally. That’s all you can know for now. Please, take the sword. I am told you will have great need of it to complete your quest.

Myriah slowly reached out and closed her hand on the hilt, sliding her left hand next to Saori’s on the sheath. Although it was heavier than her fencing foil, the sword was lighter than she’d expected. Drawing it free of the sheath, she examined the blade with admiration. It was flawless steel, the edges sharp enough to slice her finger when she brushed over it despite its apparent underground storage and disuse. Interspaced equally down the blade were five diamonds in different colors—red, clear, blue, green, and yellow from hilt to tip—with a hole for the missing sixth nearest the tip.

Suddenly, a cry sounded from the direction of the distant city, bringing Saori’s head up.

I have to go, she said, drawing her sword once again.

Wait! What am I supposed to do with this? Myriah asked as the pain started up in her stomach once again, bringing tears to her eyes that blurred her vision. As the blue lights began to swirl around her once more, a strong wind kicked up, throwing back Saori’s hood and whipping her long black hair about her face and into her deep blue eyes.

Elyona be with you, Saori called, glancing back once before rushing towards the city.

Then, once again, Myriah felt herself floating within the blue lights, sword clutched tightly in her hand. Despite how light it had felt when she’d first held it, within this strange, formless world the sword grew heavier, and she felt it slipping from her fingers. No matter how she tried to adjust her grip or bring her other hand around to help hold the weapon, her muscles wouldn’t obey her. She couldn’t move, and soon, the beautiful sword slid from her fingers and disappeared. Before she could worry much about it, she felt a pull on her stomach and in an instant, she was falling again, much faster than she had been before she’d landed in front of Saori.

CHAPTER 2

M yriah groaned as awareness came back to her, her body aching with every pulse of her heart, the sweltering sun beating down on her steadily intensifying the horrible twinge in her head. Before opening her eyes, she tried to feel for any injury she might have sustained, wiggling every finger and toe before shifting her arms and legs, a trick she learned from