the building to try and prevent getting wet. But he needn't have bothered. Within seconds of stepping out he was soaked. It was like someone had picked up a bucket and dumped it on him. The rain was coming down in sheets.
Hanging his head to try and keep as much rain out of his eyes as possible, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and continued north.
He needed to find his people again. But before he could find the rest, she needed to be on board.
How different his world would be now if they’d only gotten their crap together the first time. If they’d worked as a unit instead of against each other. At first they had, but arrogance had taken them all in the end. They’d grown too cocky, too confident and sure that their way was the only right way.
God, they'd been so wrong.
In the end everything they'd loved, everything they'd known had disappeared. Hunter's world was no more. Dragden had won. He’d had a choice to make. Stay and die with the rest of them, or leave. Come back and do it over again.
He'd made his choice. Wrong or right, didn't matter anymore. All that did was fixing it. This time they had to get it right. Especially because the window of time they had to do it in was so narrow. Though Dragden liked to believe himself a God, he wasn’t. Once every fifty years his body betrayed him, forcing him into a coma that lasted anywhere from two weeks to two months. He was readying to enter his god sleep within a week, which made him vulnerable and unable to leave his crypt for any period of time. The time was now or never.
A semi-truck barreled down the road, its tires kicking up water and pelting him. The cold rank water felt like needles on his exposed skin, making him to gnash his teeth in response.
The newscast had helped fix the point in time he was in and he knew he skated a very fine line between victory and disaster. He had to find her now.
Hunter withdrew the beacon, a feather, from his pocket the length of his open hand, roughly nine inches.
The feather was unlike any that could be found anywhere, long and strong and incredibly flexible. A red so deep it almost seemed dipped in blood. He squeezed it. It was warm, heating his palm like a tiny flame and guiding him toward her.
Another time, another lifetime ago she’d shared with him the magical properties of the feathers. How she could be tracked, traced to within a yard, if someone knew the proper incantations. She’d never told others, considering it a great weakness easily exploited. He hadn’t been sure why he’d felt the obsessive need to get his hands on one, but one night he’d stolen it. If it worked, if he found her, if she’d told him truth that night long ago, they might still have a chance at redemption.
He wondered what she’d look like. What her life was like now. Who was she this time?
He was close. The feather was starting to sizzle into his flesh. Within an hour he stood before a large granite sign on a well-manicured lawn that read: Fairfield Hills .
“Damn,” he mumbled low as the feather finally turned to black ash and floated away on a stiff breeze. Not good. Volatile as she was, a place like this could potentially cause her to be catastrophically damaged.
He stared at the sign with unseeing eyes, debating within himself whether he should take that next step to her, to an uncertain future. All he had to do was think of the sightless eyes, the land charred beyond recognition and he knew he had no choice. If there were another way, another time, but there were no more feathers. There were no more options.
“Fairfield Hills,” he muttered with ironic disgust. Why was it that the worst places always felt they had to name themselves something benign and cheery? Why not just call it what it was. Youth home for the mentally insane.
Chapter 3: Will the real Sable Ray please stand up?
"Patient 152," the woman's voice was cold, detached. She thrust a paper cup covered in smiling faces into Sable Ray's hands. Ten
Hanging his head to try and keep as much rain out of his eyes as possible, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and continued north.
He needed to find his people again. But before he could find the rest, she needed to be on board.
How different his world would be now if they’d only gotten their crap together the first time. If they’d worked as a unit instead of against each other. At first they had, but arrogance had taken them all in the end. They’d grown too cocky, too confident and sure that their way was the only right way.
God, they'd been so wrong.
In the end everything they'd loved, everything they'd known had disappeared. Hunter's world was no more. Dragden had won. He’d had a choice to make. Stay and die with the rest of them, or leave. Come back and do it over again.
He'd made his choice. Wrong or right, didn't matter anymore. All that did was fixing it. This time they had to get it right. Especially because the window of time they had to do it in was so narrow. Though Dragden liked to believe himself a God, he wasn’t. Once every fifty years his body betrayed him, forcing him into a coma that lasted anywhere from two weeks to two months. He was readying to enter his god sleep within a week, which made him vulnerable and unable to leave his crypt for any period of time. The time was now or never.
A semi-truck barreled down the road, its tires kicking up water and pelting him. The cold rank water felt like needles on his exposed skin, making him to gnash his teeth in response.
The newscast had helped fix the point in time he was in and he knew he skated a very fine line between victory and disaster. He had to find her now.
Hunter withdrew the beacon, a feather, from his pocket the length of his open hand, roughly nine inches.
The feather was unlike any that could be found anywhere, long and strong and incredibly flexible. A red so deep it almost seemed dipped in blood. He squeezed it. It was warm, heating his palm like a tiny flame and guiding him toward her.
Another time, another lifetime ago she’d shared with him the magical properties of the feathers. How she could be tracked, traced to within a yard, if someone knew the proper incantations. She’d never told others, considering it a great weakness easily exploited. He hadn’t been sure why he’d felt the obsessive need to get his hands on one, but one night he’d stolen it. If it worked, if he found her, if she’d told him truth that night long ago, they might still have a chance at redemption.
He wondered what she’d look like. What her life was like now. Who was she this time?
He was close. The feather was starting to sizzle into his flesh. Within an hour he stood before a large granite sign on a well-manicured lawn that read: Fairfield Hills .
“Damn,” he mumbled low as the feather finally turned to black ash and floated away on a stiff breeze. Not good. Volatile as she was, a place like this could potentially cause her to be catastrophically damaged.
He stared at the sign with unseeing eyes, debating within himself whether he should take that next step to her, to an uncertain future. All he had to do was think of the sightless eyes, the land charred beyond recognition and he knew he had no choice. If there were another way, another time, but there were no more feathers. There were no more options.
“Fairfield Hills,” he muttered with ironic disgust. Why was it that the worst places always felt they had to name themselves something benign and cheery? Why not just call it what it was. Youth home for the mentally insane.
Chapter 3: Will the real Sable Ray please stand up?
"Patient 152," the woman's voice was cold, detached. She thrust a paper cup covered in smiling faces into Sable Ray's hands. Ten
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