forest floor like yellowed teeth. They reached to the treetops. At their center was a pool. The dog padded between the two closest stones, and Kahlil followed it into the water.
The inner faces of the stones shone as if they had been polished. Clear reflections rolled and broke across the water’s surface as Kahlil waded to the deep center where the dog waited. The water lapped around his waist. Beside him, the dog paddled, holding its head above the surface. Sluggish ribbons of blood floated out from its fur.
“Hurrys up, or yous gonna have a drown puppy whens yous gets there.”
Finally, he drew his sword. It was heavy and plain. Only the single black image of an eye marked the pommel. Kahlil threw his weight onto his left arm and drove the blade down through the water and into the earth below him.
“Here is your son, holding his key. Open these doors before me.” He turned the sword in a half circle, twisting it like a key in a lock. The weight of water and silt flowed against it. Then, suddenly, it sank straight down into the waters.
Kahlil clenched his eyes shut. The Prayerscars over his eyes seared white-hot lines into his darkness. He pushed the air out of his lungs and dived down into the waters after the sword.
He sank fast and farther than the pool should have reached. His lungs burned as suffocating pressure closed around him. He felt no up or down, no sense of forward or back. Lost in the crushing light, Kahlil concentrated on that single thread that guided him, even across worlds. He felt muscle and bone and a heartbeat stronger than his own—and it drew him like filament landing a fish.
Blurred images of walls and stairs, pipes and electrical wires whipped past him. Then, suddenly, he broke the surface. He opened his eyes, and for a moment, he floated there, his face and chest rising up until he found himself lying on a wooden floor, gazing up at the familiar ceiling overhead. His sword jutted out at an angle from the bare light fixture in the ceiling. Cracks radiated out from where the blade had driven in.
Later today, he should pry his sword free and buy some spackle.
The dog stepped over him and jumped onto his narrow army cot.
Kahlil pulled himself up and flopped onto his side. His shoulder hurt, but in a numb way, as if his body was too tired to process the pain any longer.
He just lay there.
From the floor below, the sounds and smells of mid-morning began to penetrate his senses. The strong aroma of coffee drifted up to mix with the scent of wet dog that filled his room. A radio fuzzed through snippets of gospel, serious news voices, and flares of rock music. At last, the dial settled on an overly-excited sports announcer. Some team somewhere had won something. A minute later, the radio went off abruptly. Bad news, he supposed.
Kahlil caught the sound of footsteps pacing the kitchen. He easily pictured John, striding through the room, his strong frame almost too tall for the ceiling fan, the breeze from its overhead blades tousling his disorderly blonde hair. Then Kyle remembered him wearing only a white towel, glancing back over his tan, muscular shoulder and catching Kyle’s guilty gaze.
What a dangerous and foolish chance that had been, and yet it had seemed impossible to resist.
He wondered how much time had passed since then. Even with the key, he couldn’t perfectly control the Great Gate. Between the two worlds, hours, days, weeks, even years slipped by.
The distinct sound of papers flopping into the yellow trashcan below the sink reassured him that he’d returned to the same home he’d left. That would be John sorting through the mail. Kahlil wondered if anything had come for himself and then smirked at the ridiculousness of that thought. Nothing would ever come for him, not until it was time to end the world.
Chapter Three
“Don’t.”
John stared at the letter for several moments. He held it up to the light, hoping that there might be something more written on the
The inner faces of the stones shone as if they had been polished. Clear reflections rolled and broke across the water’s surface as Kahlil waded to the deep center where the dog waited. The water lapped around his waist. Beside him, the dog paddled, holding its head above the surface. Sluggish ribbons of blood floated out from its fur.
“Hurrys up, or yous gonna have a drown puppy whens yous gets there.”
Finally, he drew his sword. It was heavy and plain. Only the single black image of an eye marked the pommel. Kahlil threw his weight onto his left arm and drove the blade down through the water and into the earth below him.
“Here is your son, holding his key. Open these doors before me.” He turned the sword in a half circle, twisting it like a key in a lock. The weight of water and silt flowed against it. Then, suddenly, it sank straight down into the waters.
Kahlil clenched his eyes shut. The Prayerscars over his eyes seared white-hot lines into his darkness. He pushed the air out of his lungs and dived down into the waters after the sword.
He sank fast and farther than the pool should have reached. His lungs burned as suffocating pressure closed around him. He felt no up or down, no sense of forward or back. Lost in the crushing light, Kahlil concentrated on that single thread that guided him, even across worlds. He felt muscle and bone and a heartbeat stronger than his own—and it drew him like filament landing a fish.
Blurred images of walls and stairs, pipes and electrical wires whipped past him. Then, suddenly, he broke the surface. He opened his eyes, and for a moment, he floated there, his face and chest rising up until he found himself lying on a wooden floor, gazing up at the familiar ceiling overhead. His sword jutted out at an angle from the bare light fixture in the ceiling. Cracks radiated out from where the blade had driven in.
Later today, he should pry his sword free and buy some spackle.
The dog stepped over him and jumped onto his narrow army cot.
Kahlil pulled himself up and flopped onto his side. His shoulder hurt, but in a numb way, as if his body was too tired to process the pain any longer.
He just lay there.
From the floor below, the sounds and smells of mid-morning began to penetrate his senses. The strong aroma of coffee drifted up to mix with the scent of wet dog that filled his room. A radio fuzzed through snippets of gospel, serious news voices, and flares of rock music. At last, the dial settled on an overly-excited sports announcer. Some team somewhere had won something. A minute later, the radio went off abruptly. Bad news, he supposed.
Kahlil caught the sound of footsteps pacing the kitchen. He easily pictured John, striding through the room, his strong frame almost too tall for the ceiling fan, the breeze from its overhead blades tousling his disorderly blonde hair. Then Kyle remembered him wearing only a white towel, glancing back over his tan, muscular shoulder and catching Kyle’s guilty gaze.
What a dangerous and foolish chance that had been, and yet it had seemed impossible to resist.
He wondered how much time had passed since then. Even with the key, he couldn’t perfectly control the Great Gate. Between the two worlds, hours, days, weeks, even years slipped by.
The distinct sound of papers flopping into the yellow trashcan below the sink reassured him that he’d returned to the same home he’d left. That would be John sorting through the mail. Kahlil wondered if anything had come for himself and then smirked at the ridiculousness of that thought. Nothing would ever come for him, not until it was time to end the world.
Chapter Three
“Don’t.”
John stared at the letter for several moments. He held it up to the light, hoping that there might be something more written on the
Similar Books
On a Clear Day
Anne Doughty
3 Can You Picture This?
Jerilyn Dufresne
SHIAM Conspiracy- Book 1
Joseph Heck
Silent Fall
Barbara Freethy
The Eye of the Abyss
Marshall Browne
The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff
Lane Heymont
Heather
Charles Arnold
Figure of Hate
Bernard Knight
Fearlings Two (The Fearlings Series Book 2)
Michael Edward
