Take Me Tomorrow

Chapter One: Don't Come Back

"Argos!" 

I yelled at my elkhound-husky mix as I sprinted across the familiar ground. Dangling thorns tore at my clothes − a pair of grass-stained jeans and a worn gray sweater. The August heat made it too hot to wear fall clothes, but the durable cloth received most of the forest's abuse as I dashed through the trees.

My dad's land − the small patch of woods behind our house − was my home. Among the acres hid a long river, patches of old trees, remnants of a hiking trail, and a creek bed that curled throughout the land. I was in charge of checking on the land when my dad was out of the Topeka Region, which was more often than not, and I had learned where everything was when I was a child.

Spring was the best season − when everything smelled of moss, alive and wet. But it was August. The muggy air sucked all the life out of the plants, leaving them dry, disheveled, and dead. Today, the forest smelled of burnt grass and dried mud. Among the pivots, the creek bed, and the broken logs, I followed the trail, and my dependable dog ran in front of me. He explored the ground as if it were new every time.

Argos' coarse, black coat bobbed through the oak trees, encouraging our twilight run. As the sun lowered in the sky, the forest swayed, barely cooling the summer air, and I relaxed, trying to breathe easier.

"Come on, boy," I shouted, throwing a steel blade into a tree.

The trunk's bark split as Argos' woof echoed around me. He barked every time I hit my target, and I laughed as I pulled a heavier blade out before continuing my sprint.

Slash. Stab. Shoot.

My father's three ways to use a knife repeated like a mantra as I assessed which tree to practice my aim on next.

Release the blade horizontally when you throw it.

The rotting wood split on impact, and I leapt up, cheering for Argos to congratulate me with a bark, but he didn't. He was silent. I dug my heels into the ground.

Coming to a complete stop, I held my breath, trying to keep myself from gasping and making a single noise. Everything around me became louder. Wind rushed through the shriveled leaves, small animals scurried through the nearby brush,  and my heart thundered with the sudden gust of oxygen. The low growl of my dog was louder than any bark he expelled, and I reached up to grab my last knife. Argos continued to growl as I slinked forward through the weeds, clutching the grip and listening.

Plants scratched at my heated face, but my entire body became still, practiced, controlled. From the brush, I watched as Argos lowered to the ground, his back fur rising, his canines bared. His keen brown eyes locked on his prey: a tall boy with broad shoulders and frayed blond hair that hung in his eyes. A streak of dried mud caked his left cheek, his black clothes in tatters. He could've been living in the forest for days, but he didn't seem bothered by his disheveled appearance. He seemed comfortable with it, like the forest had grown into him, and he definitely wasn't afraid to attack my dog in order to survive. As Argos shifted forward, ready to tackle the stranger, the boy bent his knees and raised his hands, prepared to take him on.

"Down!" I shouted, hurdling out of the trees just in time. My dog lunged, only to dig his paws into the dirt. He obeyed. But in saving him I had exposed myself.

Thunder rolled across the clouds as the intruder's eyes locked onto mine. His chapped lips parted as if he was going to speak, but Argos barked a warning, and the boy stepped back. Even then, his gaze remained on me, his stare as green as the forest.

"Heel," I commanded, and Argos walked to my side before sitting down.

The boy's eyebrows rose, a light dancing in his eyes. "Oh, good. The demon has an owner." His voice was rough, as if he hadn't spoken in days and, though his tone was sarcastically carefree, his stare intensified, shadowed by the approaching storm. I recognized the stillness of his expression as a predatory look, the type of expression an animal has when preparing an attack.