Breeder (The Ephemeral: Book 1)

Chapter 4

I threw all my weight into the blow.

Again and again, I struck the barn's wooden pillar, the edges of my knife leaving small yellow nicks in the surface. Down and diagonal, across the breast. Tip pointed at the imaginary aggressor.

My life felt like, in many ways, an Ancient's ball game. I was a possession constantly passed between players, blocked from my goals. And if I happened to fly out of bounds, someone launched me back into the game, refusing to heed my protests. All I wanted was to stretch my legs and run far, far away from here and this suffocating fog, but I was stuck in a game with rules I couldn't change. Ensnared by the roots of this ranch.

It was unfair, and I knew my father had said life wasn't fair. But if life isn't fair, shouldn't we change it?

Why wasn't it that easy?

Exhausted and sweaty, I sank to the floor. Richard ambled up to me and dropped his chin on my thigh, his black ears folded back against his head.   He dug his wet nose into my leg, and with a quiet snicker, I shoved the tickling device away.

My two closest friends were an old psychic and an ill-behaved mutt, which I suppose summed up my social skills pretty well. But they were good friends—true friends—and if Nova and Richard were all I had in this world, then that was perfectly fine with me. 

Besides. The more people I welcomed into my life, the more people I would lose.

My gaze dropped to the weathered knife in my hand, perhaps my oldest friend of all. It bore a steel, stout blade; a bronze guard and pommel; and a wooden belly eaten away by years of practice and exposure to the elements. Chipped by carelessness and stained with the blood of inexperience.

I slipped off my glove to stroke the spine, and a young Tom appeared behind my eyelids, haloed in sepia light.  He was focused, working intently to craft and forge the blade, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, his dark curls dangling over his forehead.  In the next scene, he passed the weapon over to me, and my young, hazel eyes widened as I observed his workmanship. We sparred playfully at first, and then as competitively as a seven year age difference would allow.

His voice reached out of the soundless frames to pat me on the shoulder.

"Don't give your lunge away.  Surprise me.  Be quick."

"That's it.  Good job."

"Easy! I'd like to walk away in one piece here."

In one memory, we sat on the roof of the barn together, watching the smoky sky.

"Tomorrow's the big day."

He was only seventeen then, and the resemblance between us now was uncanny.  He too had inherited our mother's dark hair, olive skin, and high cheekbones.  Even her deep-set almond eyes, always lit with mirth.  But he'd also acquired our father's jawline, nose, and crooked smile, and the combined traits gave him a kind of natural charisma.  A genetic gravity.

"What am I supposed to do when you're gone?" My voice was brittle.  I was holding the knife in my hands, so the perspective was a worm's viewpoint, staring up at us from a warped angle.

"You're gonna work hard at school and question everything. You'll help Dad with the ranch, even when he pisses you off.  And most importantly, you're gonna keep practicing with that knife of yours, playing pranks on the Council, and beating up all the boys in town." I giggled, and he knocked his head against mine. "You be good for me, Al.  I'll write when I can."

"Promise," I said. "Promise you'll write. On the stars." 

His eyes softened.             

Before bed every night, Tom always spoke of life before the darkness, back when the sun shone brightly on our faces and brilliant orbs of fire floated in the night sky.   He spoke of travelers who used the stars as guiding lights.  He told me fables of men breaching the clouds and smoke to the world above, men who kissed the surface of the moon. I drank every word, captivated by a world I couldn't remember.